Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, December 10, 2023.
I was away for a couple of days this week at my study group. There are eight of us parish ministers, and twice a year we get away to discuss books and articles on a particular topic. We have worship each day, we eat our meals together, we write and share reflection papers.
We talk a lot—about our lives, and our ministries, the joys and the frustrations. And it’s good. On the first day, one of us was sharing about her challenges these days, it was a lot—and then she stopped herself, rolled her eyes. laughed and said, “And it’s Advent!” Which became a refrain for our gathering, shorthand for “It’s this season when we are supposed to move slowly, and breathe deeply, and open ourselves up to the mystery, and not worry so much!”
So today I want to ask you the question from Jan Richardson that’s at the top of the order of service: “How will we move through these days in a way that allows us to receive the gift that comes looking for us, that asks only that we open our hands, our eyes, our heart to the Love that knows our name?”
So when you find yourself getting wound up, or feeling tired or overwhelmed, and this happens to all of us, you could try this—roll your eyes, shrug your shoulders, smile and say, “And it’s Advent!” This season that invites us to be in the darkness, waiting and watching, even singing. This season which asks us to look beyond what’s on the surface—our own struggles, the the troubles of the world, as real as these things are—and remember that’s not the whole story; there is more.
There is still human goodness, this is still a beautiful world, full of wonder and mystery beyond our understanding, there is still grace, that inexplicable goodness and peace that can come when we least expect it.
This is my simple message and hope for you today, and in this season—that you will be aware of and attuned to this goodness, and this grace. Especially when times are hard; that you won’t forget to look for this beauty and this mystery, which is all around us. This is the message of Advent, that there’s more going on than might appear. That in the shadows there are blessings, that it’s in the dark is when we are better able to sense the light.
I was talking with someone a couple of days ago who is struggling, and she said, “I wish I believed in God; I would have someone or something to pray to.” There was a silence between us, and I tried to say something encouraging, and she laughed and said, “I guess I could try praying to that God I don't believe in.” We talked about how sharing your troubles does help; that it’s good to have a practice, something embodied, that takes you into your body, and closer to the realm of mystery, where there aren’t clear answers, but where you can have a sense of belonging, of healing, of wholeness.
I love that in this tradition we don’t think there’s one way, we don’t all have the same theology or practices. At our best we are enriched by our differences. I do hope you have something to lean on, and commune with, that grounds you and helps you, especially when things are hard. It could be the human spirit, it could be the collective heart of this blue green earth, our island home. It could be the wisdom of the ancestors. It could be the Love which will not let us go, which is how I imagine God. I hope and trust this is a community that holds you and helps you on the way that is your spiritual journey.
Sherri Mitchell is an Indigenous attorney, activist, and author from the Penobscot Nation; she wrote a book called Sacred Instructions; Indigenous Wisdom for Living Spirit-Based Change. She says to move into a better future, to begin to set things right, we need to reach for deeper and more life-giving origin stories than our current stories of capitalism, colonialism, and patriarchy. How do we make this kind of realignment, she asks? Her answer sounds like Advent to me:
“We do that by learning to be quiet. We do that by walking away from all of the technology. We do that by walking away from our fear of missing out, or our fear of being irrelevant. We do that by reconnecting with that flow of information and truth that has been flowing right beneath our feet since the beginning of time, since the beginning of life, certainly on this planet, …there’s a continuum there that’s steady.”
Sherri Mitchell says there’s a power in getting outdoors and off the pavement and standing on the ground, letting the energy of the earth flow into you. “You have to get your feet on the ground,” she says. “You have to put away your cell phones, away from all of the distortions of all of the technology that’s zipping through your body every single day, and cleanse yourself. Allow your brain to reorganize and connect to the source of life.”
I once heard Advent described as singing in the dark. Can you picture this? Turning off the lights and getting out under the stars, listening for the music of the earth and the sky, listening for the song that is in you, waiting and wanting to be heard, and giving voice to that. Entering into the mystery, into the wonder of being alive and in relationship with all that is—these companions, this earth, our spiritual guides, our own hints and guesses— who only ask that you to slow down, and be open; and trust there is good, and blessing, all around, waiting for you.
This is what Advent asks of us—to be receptive to to this Love, this wisdom, this goodness, this mystery.
And it prepares us for what Christmas asks of us, which to be like children again, willing to suspend our disbelief, to be open to mystery and wonder. Can you do that? Are you willing to try? It’s Advent! It’s almost Christmas!
There’s a children’s story called The Polar Express, it came out a few years before our kids were born, and we read it with some regularity at this time of year. It’s about a boy who, one night, steps aboard a train that magically appears in his neighborhood. A train that takes him, and other children, all in their pajamas and bathrobes, up to the North Pole and the home of Santa Claus. This boy gets chosen by Santa to receive any gift he wants—anything—and what he ask for is simple and small—one of the bells from the reindeer harnesses of Santa’s sleigh. Santa smiles, cuts it the bell free, and before handing it to the boy, holds it up and announces, “The first gift of Christmas!”
One the way home, our boy is dismayed to find that he’s lost the silver bell—it slipped through a hold in his bathrobe pocket, and of course, he’s heartbroken. But on Christmas morning, his sister Sarah finds a small box hidden behind the other presents under the tree. When he opens it, there’s the bell, with a note from Santa: “Found this on the seat of my sleigh. Fix that hole in your pocket.” Signed, “Mr. C.”
The boy says, “I shook the bell. It made the most beautiful sound my sister and I had ever heard.”
But my mother said, “Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Yes,” said my father, “it’s broken.”
When I’d shaken the bell, my parents had not heard a sound.
The book concludes, “At one time, most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I've grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.”
How do we stay open, in this season of busyness and unrealistic expectations, to the Mystery that’s moving right here, in our midst? How do we find and feel the spirit of Christmas?
We do it by slowing down, by turning away from things that aren’t life-giving, by opening our hands and our hearts to those in need, and showing ourselves the same compassion we give to others. By putting ourselves in touch with the healing energy of this good earth. By resting and abiding in the Love that will not let us go.
Dear spiritual companions, let us be people who go slow and look up and bow to the mystery all around. So we will hear that voice quietly calling, that bell sweetly ringing. And let this be our prayer, for ourselves and for our world:
That in the darkness
there be a blessing.
That in the shadows
there be a welcome.
That in the night
you be encompassed
by the Love that knows
your name.
Amen.