Longest Night

Tonight we gather here in this place of refuge, for we are lost, we are lonely, we are afraid.

Tonight we gather, daring to wonder if God has indeed come in Jesus, discerning the rejection we have known, intimate with our failed relationships, holding our heartache in hands of tenderness.

Tonight we gather with neighbors and strangers, a family made one by our brokenness, coming with our hearts full of hope and our pockets filled with doubts.

Tonight we gather just as we are, for God has promised to meet us here and to welcome us for who we are.

The candles on our Advent wreath represent our never-ending need for God's love, hope, joy, and peace.

Tonight we reconsider each of those candles contemplatively.

With our first candle, we remember those we have loved and those we have lost.

May God's eternal love surround them.

With our second candle, we remember that loss brings pain.

Only God can begin to redeem.

Refresh, restore, renew us, O God, and lead us into your future.

With our third candle, we remember with gratitude those who reach out to those who experience the darkness of the world and the pain of loss.

Let us remember the ones who show the way and bring life.

And with our fourth candle, we remember the flicker of our faith and the gift of hope which the incarnation offers us.

Weeping lasts through the night, but joy comes in the morning.

God of compassion, hear our prayer in this Advent season for ourselves and for our families who live with the painful memories and realities of loss.

In this season, when anticipation so often becomes anxiety, we seek your comfort, Holy Spirit.

All around us are reminders of the joy that our world and culture tell us we are supposed to be feeling.

You know our hearts, Lord, and you understand.

Give us the strength to grieve as we must.

Help us to receive your healing in the midst of a pain our culture does not want to hear right now.

Lighten our burden.

Give us rest.

Amen.

I don't know if you know this hymn by Fanny Crosby.

My first job in seminary was as a chaplain in a drug rehab facility, mostly for homeless black crack addicts in Atlanta.

And in chapel, five of our residents would sing the song with so much conviction.

These were men who had been passed over.

And the call is passed me not, O gentle Savior.

While on others you are calling, hear my humble cry.

So I invite you to sing or listen as you feel comfortable, or even just plug your ears.

The woman was so distraught by what had taken place that she carefully wrapped the infant's body in cloth and went in search of someone who would be able to resuscitate her.

She traveled far and wide to see doctors, magicians, and wisdom teachers, but none could offer any help.

However, during her search, she heard rumors of a holy man who lived high up in the mountains, a man who possessed great powers.

So she went in search of this great saint, eventually locating his small dwelling in an isolated patch of land high above the city.

Upon meeting him, she related her story through tears.

After she'd finished, the old man thought for a moment and then spoke with compassion, saying, I can help you, but in order for me to do the appropriate spell, you will first need to bring me a handful of mustard seeds from the home of someone who has not suffered the pain of loss.

The woman immediately left that place and traveled throughout the city in search of a home that had not been overshadowed by this pain.

However, she could not find a single place.

But as she heard the stories of others' suffering, she slowly began to come to terms with her own until one day she was able to give her beloved child a proper burial.

Or perhaps a dream, so that it can represent this light outside of your body.

In the day of my trouble, I sought the Lord.

My hands were stretched out by night and did not tire.

I refuse to be comforted.

I think of God, I am restless.

I ponder and my spirit faints.

You will not let my eyelids close.

I am troubled and I cannot speak.

I consider the days of old.

I remember the years long past.

I commune with my heart in the night.

I ponder and search my mind.

Will the Lord cast me off forever?

Will you no more show your favor?

Has your loving kindness come to an end forever?

Has your promise failed forevermore?

Has God forgotten to be gracious?

Have you in your anger withheld your compassion?

And I said, My grief is this the right hand of the Most High has lost its power.

I will remember the works of the Lord, and call to mind your wonders of old time.

I will meditate on all your acts, and ponder your mighty deeds.

Your way, O God, is holy.

Who is so great a God as our God?

You are the God who works wonders.

You have declared your power among the people.

By your strength you have redeemed your children.

The children of Jacob, Leah, and Rachel.

There's a bowl of salt water in front of the candles, and during this next hymn, be still my soul.

You're invited, if you wish, to taste God's tears shed with you in your own longest night.

If you'd like anointing with oil and a healing prayer.

You trust God, don't you?

Trust me.

There is plenty of room for you in my Father's house.

If that weren't so, but I've told you that I'm on my way to get a room ready for you.

And if I'm on my way to get your room ready, I'll come back and get you so you can live where I live.

And you already know the road I'm taking.

I will talk to the Father, and God will provide you another friend, so that you will always have someone with you.

This friend is the spirit of truth.

The godless world can't take the spirit in because it doesn't have eyes to see the spirit, doesn't know what to look for.

But you know the spirit already because the spirit has been staying with you.

And will even be in you.

I will not leave you orphaned.

I'm coming back.

In just a little while, the world will no longer see me, but you're going to see me because I'm alive and you're about to come alive.

At that moment, you will know absolutely that I'm in my Father, and you're in me, and I'm in you.

I'm telling you these things while I'm still living with you.

The friend, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send at my request, will make everything plain to you.

The Spirit will remind you of all the things I have told you.

I'm leaving you well and whole.

That's my parting gift to you.

Peace.

I don't leave you the way you're used to being left, feeling abandoned, bereft.

So don't be upset.

Don't be distraught.

The gospel of the Lord.

Praise to you, Lord Christ.

Please be seated.

I don't know that I have a lot of wisdom to share.

I wish I could weave the magic.

It would take away the reason to be here, except I think the gospel says it clearly.

In God's house there are many rooms.

In my house, there's about three rooms.

There's happy, there's sad, and there's angry.

There's about three rooms.

And this time of year, there's about one room I'm used to out there, which is cheerful.

But in God's house, there are many rooms.

That's probably not a revelation.

My father died this year.

And I didn't lose my dad, he died.

There were parts of my dad I wish I could lose.

There are memories that are hard.

And there are many rooms in God's house.

There are rooms for those hard moments.

And there is room.

Not just for the good memories, but for the joyful ones.

For the ones who have made me who I am.

Which, if I nourish with grace in the right place, I'm able to look myself in the mirror and be grateful for who God has made me through thick and thin, through grief and heart and joy and love.

And this, I think, is part of the story that we miss on Christmas.

We don't know if Mary had postpartum depression.

A lot of women do.

We don't know if Joseph lived the rest of his life doubting whether Mary's version of the story was the right one.

And this is a time when we're able to say authentically, at God's house there are many rooms.

And God certainly is able to make room for our grief, for our disappointment, for our anger, for our rage, as much as for our joy and celebration.

I wish the Lord Jesus had been born with a wand that could wave away all of these things.

I wish sometimes the story, Jesus was not called God with us, but God for us, or God fixing us.

But this is part of the truth that God has chosen to make room inside of God's self.

For every feeling that we have, for every fear and insecurity and loss and grief, God has made room and God's self for those.

And so that in our moments of grief or fear or anxiety, we are not alone, we are with God.

And the Spirit is here to remind us.

And we're here together, whether we know one another in the room or not, that we share these rooms together.

We share these rooms not only in our own life, but inside of God.

We all get that.

And Dr.

Seuss once said, don't be sad it's over, be grateful that it happened.

There are moments in life where I can be grateful that it's over and sad that it happened.

God has these rooms.

And we're invited, I think, to live into the room that God has made for us and for one another.

To a story in which a woman is pregnant out of wedlock.

And God made room for that.

We make room for that story in six days.

We act it out with our kids.

It's delightfully cute.

None of us want our kids in that story.

And there is room in God for that story, which means there is room in God for us.

So our faith reminds us that even in our longest night, we are not alone.

We are not broken.

God is in all of our pieces.

And we have this invitation, knowing these things to be true, to join God in being with one another.

And making room for those parts of ourselves that we seem to have no room for.

This is what God has done.

Made room for grief, made room for anger, for loss and frustration.

And we're invited to join God in making room for one another and for ourselves.

And that's going to take some energy.

Which is why I'm going to offer you nourishment from God's table lit with the lights that are on your heart in just a few moments.

And so I invite you to join me in a different creed.

A creed for our longest night.

So whether you feel most comfortable sitting or standing or kneeling or even laying down, I invite you to join me in this creed.

So come now, child of Bethlehem, to strengthen us in these days.

May we feel your presence in a way we have never known, not just as one born in a stable long ago and far away, but as one born in our hearts, in our hopes, in our spirits, in our weakness.

You have promised to go before us into our brokenness, into hospital rooms, into empty houses, into graveyards, into our future held by our God.

And you are here even now waiting for each of us to serve us, to hold us, to comfort us, to live in us now and forever.

Amen.

But deep within us we carry our pain.

Our grief walks with us every step we take.

Loneliness is a shawl we drape over our shoulders on empty nights.

So in this time, when every night stretches into eternity, we come to you, bringing our gifts, not gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but the grief that is the empty space in the closet filled with memories, the loss that is the sore which never heals, the bitterness that tastes like two-day old coffee.

We have come from different backgrounds, from different families, from other faith traditions, but we have all lived in the far country of despair, wandered the land the land of shame, built our lives in those neighborhoods peopled by empty dreams.

We have stood on the side of every room we have gone into, hoping against hope that someone would ask us to dance, but find the wall is our only friend.

In a season when so many people don't have enough hours in a day to get their lists checked off, their cards mailed, their presents wrapped, we have all the time in the world.

To remember the loss that has stolen the joy of the season, to grieve over a job, a dream, a loved one we have lost, to sit in the shadows of our homes, too weary to turn on the lights, to wander the streets lit by decorations on all the houses, but not by the light of the world.

Our fear of the future, our remembrance of the past, our pain which is difficult to bear and harder to release, our emptiness which cannot be filled with platitudes, our hands which cannot hold the ones we wish to embrace, all make this a season of long nights.

So be with us in our loneliness, in our longing, in our loss, in our lives.

In Jesus' name we pray.

Amen.

Lift up your hearts.

Let us give thanks unto the Lord our God.

When there was only chaos, you whispered of your hopes, God of every moment.

Light shattered the shadows, water raced down the valleys, creatures beyond imagination grazed in the abundant fields.

You created all which is beautiful for those shaped in your image.

But moments became our companion.

Grief wrapped its arms around us, fear sang its carols to us, and our dreams turned to nightmares.

So that we would know you are with us in these moments, these days, these lives, you became one of us, Jesus walking among us, reminding us of your promises to us not only in the songs of the angels, but in the quiet whispers of hope which are lullaby to us in the night.

You are not only holy God of hope, you know the pain we have felt, you have mingled your tears with ours, you have wept at the graveside of a loved one.

The until the chorus told of your glory and wonder, yet Jesus came to let us know of your compassion.

He could have remained safe in the cradle of grace, but became as poor as we often feel.

He could have clothed himself in holiness, but knew the humility of wondering where his next meal might come from, whether or not he had a place to sleep at night.

He could have trampled death and sin into the dust, but let them have their way with him so that we might find the path to life that is whole and complete, where promises are fulfilled, where hope is the dead, where we can rest our wearied souls.

We believe we will find acceptance because Jesus was rejected.

We trust we know new life because Jesus experienced our death.

We look to that day when all weeping is done, when pain and loss is behind us, and we are welcomed into that kingdom called eternity.

At the beginning of his unlongest night, our Lord took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to his friends and even his betrayers, saying, Take, eat.

This bread is my body.

Whenever you eat bread, remember me.

At the end of his last meal, he took the cup of wine, blessed it, and shared it with his friends and even his betrayer, saying, Drink this, all of you.

This wine is my blood poured out for you all.

Whenever you drink wine, remember me.

The angelic chorus told of your glory and wonder, has your spirit moved upon the waters of creation, filling them with life beyond imagination.

May it move upon the gifts of this table and make them nourishment for our longest night.

And now as our Savior has taught us, we are bold to pray, our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever and ever.

Amen.

Christ our Passover grieved with us.

Therefore, let us keep the feast.

The presence of God in the people of God.

Feed on God in your hearts with faith, and know you are never alone.

I'm going to invite you to come to the rail distanced if you'd like to receive.

I'm going to come with bread first and ask you to wait, and I'll come back with the light.

Let's pray together.

Eternal God, for whom we wait, you have fed us with the bread of eternal life.

Keep us ever watchful, that we may be ready to stand beside the Son of Man, Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

In your silence may the word dwell in your heart.

In your brokenness may the bread of life heal you.

In your pain, may the one who can heal you touch your soul.

In your longest night may you find Christ truly present with you.

Amen.

The task is ended.

Go in pieces.

Our faith has been rear-ended, and something might be mended that we didn't know was torn.

And we are fire, bright, burning fire, turning from the higher places from which we fell, emptying ourselves into the hell in which we'll find our loving and beloved, brother, mother, sister, father, friend.

So, friends, the task is ended.

Go in pieces to see and feel your world.