The Season Among Seasons
Luke 21:25-26
25 ‘There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. 26People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. 27Then they will see “the Son of Man coming in a cloud” with power and great glory. 28Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near. 29 Then he told them a parable: ‘Look at the fig tree and all the trees;30as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. 31So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. 32Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place.33Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.
34 ‘Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day does not catch you unexpectedly, 35like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. 36Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.’
It is so hard to believe it’s been 5 years this week. I remember everything from that December 7th Friday night—I wasn’t feeling very well, so I got home from our annual Montreat meeting and Dead Day brunch, pulled my hair into a ponytail and put on some big, comfy sweats and slippers. I turned off my lights and turned on the ones from my Christmas tree, sat down on my red couch with some chicken soup, covered up in a warm blanket, and turned on my favorite show, “Friday Night Lights.” About halfway through the show, my cell phone rang. I’m not sure that I would’ve answered it for just anyone, but my screen read that my friend Ruth was calling, so I said, “Hey, lady! What’s up?” But it wasn’t her. It was a male voice, the minister of First Church in Athens, a voice calling with the worst news imaginable, saying something that I never wanted to hear, something that pray I never hear again. “Ruth wanted me to call you and tell you that Drew committed suicide tonight.” I heard the words, but didn’t quite understand them. What? What? It had to be a dream, right?
My friend Drew, our friend Drew, one of our former students, a sweet, kind, shy, generous young man, a new husband to Ruth for only 3 weeks, my Auburn fan partner in crime, someone who loved this church so much, one of the students on the search committee that called me to this church, a child of God with so much potential to do good in this crazy world, had taken his life. I heard the words that he was gone, called Frank to tell him and drove to Lisa’s house to tell her, and the three of us drove to the church--still in utter disbelief--to tell our students. I heard the words, said them even, but they were so unbelievable and unfathomable that I couldn’t wrap my head around them. I so wanted it to be a dream, to wake up a few days later and discover that none of it had happened. But it wasn’t. Somehow, I made it through—we all made it through—the next few days. When I read Scripture at his funeral, the same passage I had read just three weeks earlier at Ruth and Drew’s wedding, I had to hold on to the sides of the pulpit, praying that my knees wouldn’t buckle under me as I saw the casket in front of me. Drew’s death sent ripples through the lives of the ones who loved him so, still love him so. You know, I don’t really remember much from that Advent and Christmas season because I tried to block it out just so I could breathe, but I do know that this season has been tough ever since.
Maybe it’s the geeky preacher’s kid in me, but I have always loved the Advent and Christmas season. Ever since I was a little girl, it has been a season of wonder as I watched Christmas lights, a season of joy as I played with the manger scene my grandmother made, the one that she gave to me when I was ordained. It has always been a season of happiness as I bought and made gifts for friends, a season of joy as I sang carols and listened to Scripture. But since that night 5 years ago, I have struggled with the season. It has since been a season of wondering what could have been, what should have been—a season of struggle, of melancholy, of sadness.
All of us in this room are in different seasons of life as we gather today. For some of us, this is indeed a season of sadness, of mourning. There has been a lot of loss among so many of us in this room over the past year. I look into your faces and know that many of you are mourning the loss of the father or mother who gave you life; mourning the loss of a grandparent who kissed you until you smothered; mourning the loss of a partner who stood by your side in the best and toughest of times; mourning the loss of a friend gone too early.
For many of us, this is a season of joy—the joy of waiting for loved ones to come or planning a trip to go and be with them; the joy of watching the children in your lives as they light up when they see Christmas lights or sit in Santa’s lap or sings precious songs; the joy of cooking and baking to fill up our loved ones; the joy of giving something wonderful to those we love the most in this world.
This is a season of loneliness for many of us in this room, whether it is the loneliness of spending that first holiday missing a loved one; the loneliness of having a family far away; the loneliness of receiving an invitation to a party that includes a guest, but knowing that you don’t have a guest to bring; the loneliness of never receiving an invitation at all.
We are in a season of busyness—the busyness of finishing up tests and papers and finals; the busyness of reading them and turning grades in. This season of busyness comes in the form of rushing around and buying and baking and cleaning and decorating; in the form of Christmas programs and caroling and packing and wrapping.
And for all of us, for our church family, this is certainly a season of worry, of anxiety, of the uncertainty that comes with transition. As Frank and Carole retire from their calling of ministry to their calling as wonderful, doting, and loving grandparents, we wait, we wonder, we worry. We are in a season of anxiety—anxious to know what is coming next, anxious about the work we will have to do together, anxious and excited to see how the Spirit will work within us, anxious and excited to know who God is calling us to be, who God is calling to be with us next.
We have all come into this room, this sanctuary today, finding ourselves in the midst of one of these seasons, if not several or even all of them, if not more. But things are different, things new today as we gather. There are beautiful wreaths on the doors and a Chrismon tree with gorgeous ornaments and colors and lights. The windows are adorned with greenery and hurricane lights and pictures that tell the story. The paraments are bright with the color purple, the poinsettias a bright red, and we have a new wreath full of candles to light our way. And the table has been set for each of us at the foot of the cross.
The season of Advent is here, friends. It is the season among all of the other seasons, the season that bursts into the seasons of our lives whether we are ready for it or not, whether we have been yearning desperately for it to get here. The Advent season bursts into our seasons of busyness and loneliness, our seasons of hope and anxiety, our seasons of joy and sadness. This Advent season bursts into the other seasons of our lives and says to us, “’Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly…’”
The Advent season bursts into the other seasons of our lives that are weighing us down. It bursts in to bring us great news, news of hope, news of light. It bursts into the others seasons of our lives to share the greatest news that a little child is being born again into our midst. The Advent season bursts in as we sing a prayer: “Come, Thou long expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free; from our fears and sins release us, let us find out rest in Thee. Israel’s strength and consolation, hope of all the earth Thou art. Dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.”
I love that we have begun this day by just lighting one candle, that we will light a new one each time we gather during this Advent season. The light will build and grow each week as we celebrate the coming of a little babe, our Christ, our Redeemer--the coming of light, hope, joy, and peace into our world. The light that Christ brings is so much better, so much brighter than the brightest Christmas lights we could ever see. The light of this season of Christ will continue to grow as we wait, as we yearn, as we wonder.
The light helps us know the story. It reflects what this season is all about, this Advent season that bursts into our midst, into our seasons of happiness and busyness, or anxiety and wonder, of joy and sorrow, to help us know and help us share the best news of all—that Jesus is breaking in, that he is shining his light so brightly for all of us, that he is being born into our world once again to be with us, to teach us, to heal us, to save us. Thanks be to God.
