The song on my car radio proclaims, “it’s the most wonderful time of the year!” In my experience, it is not. Yes, the holidays and days leading up to Christmas can be fun – there are many events, programs, gifts, and parties to attend. It is also a stressful time to figure out how to plan for all the events, programs, parties, gifts, etc. This season of Advent is also a time when we particularly miss those who are no longer in this world with us; when we long to see those friends and families who are dear, but we see no longer.
If you are feeling a little blue this Advent, you are not alone. The following is a section of the homily I preached for Derek Bodford’s burial service. A number of folks have asked for a copy of it, so maybe you will find it helpful as well. Perhaps this Advent you need to invite grief in for a little while before we move to the joy of Christmas.
In her book, Big Magic, which is about the creative process and writing in particular, Elizabeth Gilbert talks about coming to terms with her fear that emerges when she writes. She writes about how over the years she has learned that pretending fear isn’t there when she sits down to put words on the page doesn’t work. So now she has a little conversation with fear before she starts to write. She tells fear very plainly that fear is welcome to sit in the back seat and come along but is not allowed to drive. And in no circumstances is fear allowed to play with the radio. But yet fear is allowed to be present, isn’t pushed away, and isn’t ignored.
I think that something similar can be said about grief, especially grief that is sudden and unexpected. Much as we are loath to do it, at times like this we might consider inviting grief in. It might be too much to ask to welcome grief, but at least consider opening the door, welcoming grief to sit down for a while, allowing her to be present.
See, grief is going to show up whether we invite her in or not. And if we don’t open the door, grief will find a way to slowly slither up through the gap between the door and floor, to snake her way through the drafty cracks in the windowsill, hide behind the knickknacks, and while your back is turned, grief will take over the room, and bring her friends, shame and regret, along for the ride.
But I believe that when we open the door to grief, right behind is our friend Jesus, who doesn’t just tag along, but enters fully in his own right, bringing with him his comfort, his freedom, and his peace.
Grief is going to rearrange the furniture, whether you invite her in or not. But while the room is being reimagined, Jesus is there too, to remind regret and shame that they can move an ottoman or a figurine, but then they need to go.
Anger might show up too, hiding in the corner, sometimes pretending to be something else. So we can let anger come in as well and we can let anger kick some things around a bit because Jesus isn’t going to let anger burn the house down, so we need not be afraid of anger.
Jesus helps us to look at the room after grief is finished and says, okay, it’s not what we wanted, but we can work with this. Grief is going to rearrange the furniture, but before she gets too Joanna Gaines on us, Jesus stations comfort, freedom, and peace around the room, before she can start knocking down walls and putting up unnecessary clocks everywhere. The comfort, freedom, and peace of Jesus allows grief to do her work, and then to fade a bit.
Grief doesn’t ever leave completely, but eventually, with Jesus’ help, we can allow grief to be tucked away, rather like that old crystal vase that belonged to your grandmother – a little heavy, a little clunky, but yet, necessary to pull out from time to time, not too long, but to fill with beautiful flowers on occasion, to remind us that grief leads to new life, a new way of being. The burial preface in the Prayer Book says, “for to your faithful people, O Lord, life is changed, not ended…”
This Advent, may you feel the comfort, freedom, and peace of Jesus.