A Blue Christmas Sermon

A Blue Christmas Sermon

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas

December 22, 2015; 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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Each year we gather here in the penumbra of Christmas, and we read an Easter story, the story of Thomas, one of Jesus' closest friends, one of the twelve. Thomas' feast day is December 21, always on or adjacent to the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year.

Thomas was the one who didn't share the Easter cheer. He was not with the others when the resurrected Jesus appeared to them. When the others ran to Thomas with their glad cry, "We have seen the Lord!" Thomas just couldn't go there emotionally. All he could see in his sleepless mind were the raw images of two days before -- the marks of the nails and the spear in the side of his beloved. The corpse. He needed something that real to heal the real grief that overwhelmed him so.

It says something powerful about Thomas that he was with the others the following Sunday. He: broken and grief stricken. The others: buzzing about resurrection. Thomas stayed in community, even when he felt isolated, different – a non-believer. And it says something about the early church that he was welcome and embraced there, with all his doubts and darkness. That's the quality of community that is at the heart of the church at its best.

It seems such an appropriate story to tell on this night when we gather in the darkness, honoring our losses, our hurts and fears, our pains and doubts – placing these tender feelings and memories into a holy container prior to entering the celebration of the coming of the Light from Light. We read that Jesus honored the grief and doubt of his friend Thomas, visiting Thomas within his community with a presence that allowed Thomas also to be a witness of the light of resurrection, life out of death.

Each year I bring tender memories to this place. I bring my own grief and frustration and doubt. I also bring my sense of being part of the whole. I have the privilege of sharing losses with some of you. I cannot know your pain from within you, but sometimes I know some of what you carry. We bring our burdens to this service, like holy packages, offerings to the God who knows and shares our human heartache. We face our reality with the brave authenticity of Thomas, who knew what he had seen and was not assuaged by happy platitudes, no matter how true they might seem. We touch one another in solidarity and prayer. And we light a candle in the darkness, a sacrament of the Word that "the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it." (John 1:5)

There was someone at last year's Blue Christmas service whose loss I recognized. It was a recent, profound loss that changed the deepest relationships in her life. I ached for her. I prayed for her as we all prayed together.

That night she went home after this service and wrote an email to some friends. She copied it to me the next morning. She's given me permission to share it with you:

Went to the "Blue Christmas" service at our church tonight. Today is St. Thomas Day (of Doubting fame), which made for very appropriate readings, full of uncertainty and broken pieces.

There were less than thirty people there -- a very small number for this congregation -- and the feeling of sorrow, of illness, of pain, of grief, of devastation was thick in the air. Remember, we are Episcopalians; we no more cry in public than we dance in the streets.

So all these awful feelings were wrapped in so tight, but couldn't help seeping through our cracked places.  But it was dark, and quiet, and most of us were so tired we just didn't give a damn any more.

I saw one woman with a head scarf that hinted at chemotherapy. Many worshippers had difficulty kneeling, or standing, mostly older folks, although some horribly young.  Too many sat alone; the two women in front of me, maybe sisters, maybe friends, maybe partners, clutched each other's hands tightly through the service.

It was very low-key.  We normally don't sing or pray very loudly anyhow, but tonight we mumbled and whispered.  One woman broke down into heartbroken, gasping sobs, and lurched for one of the priests as she went up to the altar rail.  We all turned politely aside, but she was past caring, past any shame, as they hugged and wept.

There was no need for a collection plate. Everyone brought sorrow, and weariness, and grief, and loneliness, and anger, and hopelessness, all bundled up to the altar, made holy just by the freedom to admit it. In the face of all that raw pain, I was ashamed at first that my offering was so small and shabby.  But I thought of my children and yes, the dog, and brought their sadness and bewilderment. I thought of my friend whose son was murdered, and whose daughter has been diagnosed with epilepsy; and of another friend who has not spoken to her grown son for five years; and another who struggles with crippling arthritis while caring for her mother with dementia; and I brought the age and helplessness and fear and exhaustion they have honored me by sharing.

I thought of my friends on this email list, who endure ailments and terrors and disappointments and failures -- sometimes bravely in silence, sometime even more bravely making themselves vulnerable through telling -- and offered my sadness and anger on their behalf, and my astonishment at the privilege of knowing them.

I thought that the Host of such a feast -- even if entirely a projection of our own wishes and hopes -- could not possibly behold these offerings without tears, nor resist reaching out hands to accept and embrace and bless.

And on the way out I lit a candle for you, each of you, all of you.

And the flame did not go out.

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The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church is to explore and celebrate

God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

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