As Advent inched towards Christmas this year I found myself keenly aware of the loss all around and within me: dear friends whose parents passed in 2023, the on-going war between Israel and Hamas and the incomprehensible innocent deaths that Israel has caused in Gaza, the as yet unstoppable pain my sweetheart still endures, the seemingly never ending slaughter in Ukraine, financial challenges, political polarization, Mother Earth on fire, the ugly realization that my once prosperous and modestly egalitarian country looks more and more like a failed nation that stuffs the wealthy while punishing everyone else, the epidemic of anti-Semitism and anti-Muslim violence, my own aging aches and pains, the avalanche of death that consumed musicians I've long cherished (including Denny Laine, Jimmy Buffett, Robbie Robertson, Sinead O'Connor, Randy Meisner, Tony Bennett, Astrud Gilberto, George Winston, Cynthia Weil, Bill Lee, Tina Turner, Gordon Lightfoot, Tim Bachman, Harry Belafonte, Ahmad Jamal, Jim Gordon, Gary Rosington, David Lynley, Wayne Shorter, Huey "Piano" Smith, Burt Bacharach, Tom Verlaine, Barrett Strong, David Crosby, Robbie Bachman, and Jeff Beck), and the overwhelming sense that what's broken politically/economically/and spiritually can't be fixed until it's fully broken. That's a TON of loss born of time, reality, dysfunction, fear, greed, and inevitability.
Simultaneously, beauty and compassion saturates our lives, too. We can't always see or feel this given our own wounds and/or grief, but that doesn't stop the light from shinning in the darkness. Artist, Nick Cave, put it like this:
I am awed at the audacity of the world to continue to be beautiful and good even in times of deep suffering and grief. Some are furious with me for celebrating the systematically gorgeous aspects of life given all the brokenness and wounds – how dare you some ask – but look: life goes on. The sun still rises, the birds still sit in the trees and all the rest of it. Yes, people are suffering deeply – and the temptation is to either ignore this or cling to the absence of beauty that becomes like a hardening of the soul - so I rejoice in searching out the beauty even in the destruction.
This paradox kept creeping into my consciousness this season - the joy and the sorrow - both at once. When our Brooklyn family arrived at worship on Christmas Eve, the Sanctuary was packed. It was the children's pageant with over 50 little ones sharing a tableaux of the birth of Jesus so five hundred of us were on hand to sing our favorite carols accompanied by organ, choir, and brass. The descants were ecstatic and I found myself weeping during verse three of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" as the descants and brass just ripped away my defenses:
Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings, risen with healing in his wings.
Mild he lays his glory by, born that we no more may die,
born to raise us from the earth, born to give us second birth.
Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn King.
I had the same sense of being overwhelmed by grace as we feasted in Brooklyn over Christmas: we laughed and savored incredible food prepared by our son-in-law. And after the first course of paper thin fried eggplant and freshly baked focaccia, our 10 year old grandson proclaimed with surprising delight: "Let's all give a cheer for my dad the incredible chef!" The stunned and graciously humble look on his poppa's face was an unexpected blessing. The adult conversations after our morning gift-giving was centered on our concerns about aging and death, the state of our politics, and everything in-between. And just when despair was about to creep into the conversation... it was time for "Mary Poppins" and the joy returned. There were aching backs and full stomachs, tons of laughter mixed with a few tears, sweet and sensitive gifts next to Big Mouth Billy Bass singing "Take Me to the River" (the surprise hit of the feast day.)
Driving home, we listened to NPR's "All Songs Considered" and the paradox continued. It was an episode devoted to the songs that touched our hearts - and it was a tear jerker combing profound loss with gentle solace. The mood in the Sideline Saloon was a bit subdued last night, too before we got things hopping and then the joy was overwhelming. And while going to pick up Lucie from the kennel this morning, what did I see but our once glorious pumpkins caving in on themselves. They had performed their job of bringing bounty and beauty to us since the beginning of October; and now they were done and tossed upon the garden to nourish the squirrels and chipmunks. The circle of life in action, yes?
Carrie Newcomer captured this both/and wisdom last week in her substack column - a message the Christmas Eve preacher echoed - in a call to keep searching for the light in the darkness. Newcomer wrote:
I remember a conversation with two pastors serving two different congregations in Denver. Christmas is a very busy season for pastors, usually non-stop from Advent all the way through to the new year. They described how every year, when they both finished their respective Christmas Eve midnight services, they went to a favorite local restaurant/bar located near their home. When the bar closed at 2am they would hold Christmas Eve service for anyone still in the bar. The owner and these two wonderful women would put a cloth on the pool table and light candles. They would hold hands around the table, tell a story of weary travelers on a weary night far from home, they would sing a few songs and say a prayer of blessing. I asked them both why they decided to do this each year, when they were probably totally exhausted from all the responsibilities of the season. Instead of giving me an answer, they asked me a question, “Who needs a little hope and care more than the folks who are alone and closing down a bar on Christmas eve?”
They went on to tell me of how last Christmas Eve there had been a somewhat intimidating looking young man seated at the end of the counter covered in tattoos and piercings. He ended up staying after hours and stood in the circle with the other Christmas Eve refugees. After the gathering ended with a quiet Silent Night, the young man turned to one of the pastors and with soft eyes said, “you know, my mom would have loved this.” Most nativity crèches feature an immaculate barn, with a doting father with a well trimmed hipster beard, a beautiful woman dressed impeccably in blue. Outside, happy shepherds are looking up at the North Star and a gossamer angel oversees the arrival of three very wealthy travelers on camels. The baby is never cold or shivering in the open barn or shed, but laying quietly on the softest looking blanket.
But the story actually takes place in a country under the control of a Roman military superpower. The “perfect” parents were most likely quite young and newly married, but the new bride was already nine months pregnant. You can do the math - as the gossips in their little rural town probably did. So close to her due date, there’s no way they wanted to go on this trip. But the powers that be decided taxes are taxes, people had to be counted, and so they were forced to travel to a place where they had no friends or family. People just had to take time off, which was especially hard for those living pay check to pay check. The roads would have been full of migrants, refugees and travelers, all the hotels were full and expensive. When they reached the little town where they would be counted, they had to have been tired and dusty, the young woman was probably very uncomfortable, her bones must have ached, her feet swollen and balance off. Just when things seemed pretty darn hard, it would turn out that all hotels, hostels, motels and air b&bs were booked up. There was not a single room available in town and they only had a donkey, and so no car to sleep in. They were homeless for the night and that would have been then the labor pains started. Then the first miracle arrived in an act of kindness.
Simple acts of kindness ARE miracles. So is holding reality tenderly in all its paradoxical pain and beauty. May the unfolding 12 days of Christmas afford you the chance to hold it all together with humble tenderness.
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