The Longest Night, The Longest Day

I served for twelve years as a parish minister, and one of my favorite services was The Service of the Longest Night. We usually held it between December 20th and December 23rd, marking the Winter Solstice, when the day is short and the night is long. It was a service to acknowledge the pain that can accompany the holidays, and to lift up the hope of God's light, shining in the darkness. The service involved candle lighting and readings, songs and silence, and usually ended with hugs and tears. For those who are mourning or alone or just rudderless, The Service of the Longest Night was a reminder that God's light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Here, in Zambia, we are in the middle of summer. It is really, really hot, and we are approaching the longest day, instead of the longest night. And yet, for some reason, I keep returning to that service, to that chapel, to the little tea lights glowing across the altar, representing both hope and pain, loss and gratitude, sorrow and strength.

Sometimes, the longest night happens when there is gray slush everywhere, and the chill is so strong your back aches. But sometimes it happens when the sun is brutal and you have to carry the water, carry the charcoal, carry the babies, carry the burden of wondering where the food will come from today, and tomorrow, and you just won't think beyond that.

In Advent, we are waiting. Waiting for hope and joy and wonder. Waiting for something spectacular: God's love made flesh. But, in the words of my friend, Rev. Alice Townley, some of us "are numb by waiting too long in the cold night."

Ann Weems, who lost her 21 year old son, writes this poem,

"In the godforsaken, obscene quicksand of life, 

there is a deafening alleluia
rising from the souls of those who weep,
and of those who weep with those who weep.
If you watch, you will see
the hand of God
putting the stars back in their skies
one by one
Yesterday's Pain
Some of us walk in Advent
tethered to our unresolved yesterdays
the pain still stabbing
the hurt still throbbing.
It's not that we don't know better;
it's just that we can't stand up anymore by ourselves.
On the way of Bethlehem, will you give us a hand?"

It helps me to remember that the story of the first Christmas is a story about life in the real world. Mary discovers she is pregnant. Joseph plans to break the engagement. She will be alone and shunned. He feels betrayed. The angel comes; but still, this is no easy time for the family. Their country is under Roman occupation and the rulers are known for cruelty. These are not ideal conditions for bringing a child into the world, especially a poor child, especially a child conceived before a marriage.

The baby comes, and in the midst of Mary and Joseph's joy over the safe birth of Jesus, a new crisis looms. King Herod orders the death of all children under two and so they have to flee as refugees to Egypt. Children are killed, women are wailing, the world is turning upside down with violence and loss and pain. Unimaginable horror. This, too, is part of the Christmas story.

But Jesus grows up, and God-with-us remains, through unspeakable acts of cruelty, and through the everyday sorrows of human life. God-with-us remains, even when the cross comes, even when the nails come, even when the mother watches her son take his last breath. God-with-us remains. Even if we are numb from waiting, even if we are sick from sorrow, even if our eyes are too puffy to open, and we just can't see that tiny flame of hope.

And so, whether you are approaching the longest night or the longest day, whether you are full of joy, or struggling with sorrow, I want to share one more poem in honor of those who trudge through Advent, putting one foot in front of the other, hoping that God-with-us will help ease the pain, praying that God-with-us will bring some peace, waiting for God-with-us to carry the burden for awhile. May it be so.

The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again

Ellen Bass, Prayers for a Thousand Years