“A Hole in the Tapestry of Our Lives”

Matthew 2:18

Homily for the 2006 Longest Night Service

Tonight’s reading from Isaiah is quite commonly read and heard during Advent and Christmas. It is a message of hope and salvation: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.” These are familiar words, but our focus this time of year is usually on the light shining in the darkness and not the darkness itself. The text comes from a very dark time in Judah’s history, a time when the nation was cowering under the dark and brutal shadow of the Assyrian Empire.

Tonight’s verse from Matthew is one most of us try to avoid. Matthew’s quote from Lamentations is used to underscore the horrible pain and grief following Herod’s slaughter of the innocents. The verse was originally spoken by Jeremiah as a response to Judah’s utter destruction by the Babylonian Empire, a destruction that led to the long exile of her people in Babylon. The darkness that had threatened the nation almost two centuries before had become more than a threat. It had become a brutal reality.

We live in a culture that doesn’t want to hear about darkness and defeat. Ours is a society in which people will do almost anything to numb the pain of grief and sadness. If all else fails, many simply act as if such feelings don’t exist this time of year. Even in the church we sometimes get overly caught up in “Joy to the World,” while neglecting the darker realities that have always been and always will be a part of life: death, loss, and destruction; the evils inflicted on the innocent in the name of maintaining power and position; the shadows of war and violence; disease and disasters, both natural and financial.

But on this night, this night when candles will be lighted against the backdrop of darkness, we have come here to confront the darkness. First, though, we have to confess that it is real. And it is. We all know the pain of loss. We have all spent time with grief and sadness. People we love die or leave us. Relationships we have entered into until death do us part are damaged and destroyed by human sinfulness. Careers get derailed. Wars and rumors of wars are constantly on the horizon. There are places of darkness in our world and in our lives into which light has not yet shined. There are occasions of non-consolable weeping, wailing, and lamentation.

On Thanksgiving Day 1984 I was living near Cincinnati. That morning I picked up the phone to call my sister in Virginia. Half way through her number I remembered that she had passed away that October. It finally dawned on me that she was gone. There would be no more Thanksgiving Day, or any other day, phone calls. My sister, who was also my friend and confidant, had died. The feisty little girl, who at the age of two had come to the rescue of her big brother by whomping his tormentor with her little pocketbook, would never again have my back.

After I had shared all that and a whole lot more with a ministerial colleague, my friend shared an expression with me I have never forgotten. She said that losing a good friend or loved one rips a major hole in the tapestry of one’s life. And she was so right. My life to that point was pretty much a smooth flowing tapestry. There were the usual flaws that afflict everybody’s life, but until then there had been no major tears. Other major rips and tears would follow, but for the first time in my life I knew what it was to lose someone I dearly loved. Although that particular hole in what is the tapestry of my life has been mended, there remains to this day a painfully noticeable change in my life’s pattern. The hurt has never fully gone away.

This side of heaven it never will. And every Advent season and every Christmas season have a way of reminding me of that dark, dark time in my life, that time when I could not be consoled, especially by all those well-intended platitudes that are always directed toward those who are grieving. Yes, she has gone to a better place, but she’s still gone. Yes, she has been set free from the cancer that was destroying her, but the horrible memories I have of her suffering in the final days of her life have not been lifted from my mind and heart. Yes, I’ll be with her in heaven, but that doesn’t fill the empty place at our family’s Christmas dinner table.

As a Christian and the pastor of this church this is very much a season of joy and celebration. There is much for which I am thankful: a mother who is still vital and healthy in her seventies, a bright, wonderful, and successful daughter, a great son-in-law, two beautiful grandchildren, and the world’s best wife. Still I miss my sister, father, and other loved ones who have passed on. The scars from failed ventures and failed relationships in the past are still perceivable. Estrangement from my once-upon-a-time best friend is even now unraveling another part of life’s tapestry.

I fully affirm that the light of Christ shines in the darkness, and the darkness has yet to put it out. But the darkness still exists, in my life and in yours – else you wouldn’t be here. Let’s claim our darkness, and not deny it. Let’s feel whatever grief or sadness we need to feel, and not sublimate it. Then as we light our candles let us open ourselves up to the healing light of Christ. If it’s time for good-byes, let’s say them. If there are old hurts that need to be forgiven, let’s forgive them. If there are happy memories that need to be reclaimed, let’s reclaim then.

We are people who walk in darkness. Upon us the light of God has shined in the person of Jesus Christ. In him the very consolation of God has been made available to us. This is not a cheap consolation that mindlessly tells us “don’t worry, be happy.” It is the consolation that can only come from One who has walked among us and experienced our pain, the consolation from One who has faced and ultimately defeated the very darkness of hell. Surely, in the words of Isaiah, he has borne our grief. Amen.