A Blue Christmas Sermon

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
Monday, December 21, 2009; The Feast of St. Thomas
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(John 20:24-29) – Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with the other disciples when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord." But he said to them, "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe."

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe." Thomas answered him, "My Lord and my God!" Jesus said to him, "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."
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Some of you may remember when my seminary classmate Barbara Crafton came to St. Paul's to do an Advent Quiet Day for us as a Tippy McMichael lecturer. I got the idea for writing regular email meditations from her popular "eMo's" as she calls them.

Barbara lives in New Jersey with her husband Richard Quaintance, nicknamed "Q", and with lots of cats, birds and flowers. She wrote yesterday following the big snowstorm that blanketed much of the northeast.

Here's what she said:
It was looking like snow yesterday, all right, and it was sounding like it on the radio, so we weren't surprised when it started coming down, nor when it got deeper and deeper every time we got up at night and looked out the window. This morning it was lovely, a thick frosting of white on every branch, the bamboo out back bent down to the ground under the weight of it.

What about church? The choir has been rehearing Advent Lessons and Carols for weeks, and Q and I were both to read. Would anybody but singers and readers attend? Well, if not, then not -- we would just have to sing and read to each other. But a small band of hardy souls filtered in. Most parishioners with children were coming for the pageant later today anyway, when surely the roads would have cleaned up a bit. And the simple service of ancient words and beautiful singing did what it always does, sweetly slowed our spirits so that we could feel our hope focus on the joy soon to come upon us again. Every year, the same: the infant Christ, every time. As long as I live, and no matter what happens, he will never weary me.

This year, a terrible sadness in the little church: a baby girl was stillborn on Friday. Her older sister and brother were in the pageant today, and there was the heartbroken father, come from the hospital to watch them. Oh, yes, life must go on. The other children need what they need, deserve all the love and regard they can get. This great sorrow doesn't change their sweetness, or alter the absoluteness of the claim they have on their parents. But he sat and watched as an angel gave Mary her baby. At least the Baby Jesus got a chance to grow to childhood, and then to adulthood. His little girl won't do that. He left with the children as soon as the pageant was over, out into the snow, their voices like flutes: When is Mommy coming home? And his still, silent little one on his mind as they walk, the cut-off little life that was not to be, so sudden, so wrong, so full of nothing but nevers. Never to be in a Christmas pageant. Never to see snow. Never to hold a little hand and walk out into it in wonder. Never. Nothing but nevers.

This very loss was mine, too, years ago. Just at this time of year, too: Christmas Eve, it was. People who have known it can help each other through it, if only because we know that nothing makes it go away and so we don't try to do that. Sometimes people try to spare us -- they don't mention it, try not to talk about babies to us, afraid it will "remind" us. But go ahead: remind us. It's not as if it's slipped our minds.

Such a terrible time of year for such a thing to happen, many people told me at the time. Oh, I don't know about that. This is a time of year when people are kind, when hope is in the air, a time when we are not afraid to love. This is a time of year when the past is hallowed in our imaginations, and we think with love of all those who loved us, all those whom we have loved. And this is the time of Mary, who loves her son as we love ours, even now, after all these years. Take care of my little one, I have said to her many times, until I get there myself. A foolish thought, I suppose, but who cares? This is a time of year when it's okay to be foolish, okay to cry, when it's not especially conspicuous to be a little blue. Oddly, this is a time of year when the dead seem very near us, and comfortingly so.

It will not always be this bad. It is now, but it will change as time goes on. You'll never forget -- why would you want to forget? -- but the loss will become part of your life and your life will become possible again. Not the same, but possible. And it will also be joyful again, later on, as absurd as that claim seems in the days immediately following such an unthinkable loss. I do not say all these things to the stricken mother and father, not all at once. There will be plenty of time for talk as time goes on. (1)
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This is the first Christmas for my family since the death of Kathy's father earlier this year. He was the patriarch, and the glue for that half of our family. Our son Gray is named for him. We're trying to change all of our holiday traditions now as we figure out new ways to connect without his home, without his presence. He feels so absent. It's hard. But when we serve some pulled-pork shoulder like he always did, and turn on some football on the TV, we'll feel his presence and his absence. And we'll use a recipe that was a favorite of Kathy's mom, Claire, whose been gone from us for so long. This is a time of year when the past is hallowed in our imaginations, and we think with love of all those who loved us, all those whom we have loved. Our tables becomes communion tables with food passed down to us from the souls of several generations.

Life is hard. It is also beautiful. Chuck preached compellingly Sunday of the earthiness of that first Christmas, Mary with her awkward pregnancy, and the child Jesus with his untimely birth among the livestock.

Today is the darkest day of the year, the winter solstice. We tell the story of St. Thomas today, the apostle who missed Easter, who was out of step with the others' joy. He was grieving when they were partying. But Jesus came to him. Late, it seems, but truly. And he knew it was really Jesus by the presence of the wounds, the marks in his hand and side. It was still true that Jesus had died. The facts of the past are never changed. The wounds are still there, but now they don't haunt so much. They were given new meaning. Hope was resurrected in Thomas. "My God," he whispered.

We bring our wounds, our losses, our disappointments, our worries, our doubts, our hurts to this holy place tonight. We whisper, "My God," and ask for help. God honors our grief. God hears our hearts. The wounded healer reaches out his marked hands to us, and invites us to continue our life in hope.

Oh, yes, life must go on. There are other children of God who need what they need, and who deserve all the love and regard they can get. We are all children of God who need and deserve all the love and regard we can get, especially in the face of our deep losses. You'll never forget -- why would you want to forget? -- but the loss will become part of your life and your life will become possible again. Not the same, but possible. And it will also be joyful again. In this holy place, may we receive like children the gift of God's infinite, healing love. And may we look toward the future with hope.
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(1) Barbara Crafton, The Almost Daily eMo from Geranium Farm.org, Sunday, December 20, 2009
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