Longest Night

December 20, 2014

Tomorrow night is the longest night of the year. When I get to this point in the year, I can almost feel my bones beginning to ache for sunshine and warmth.

As we gathered at Earl Huse’s graveside this past Wednesday, a cold rain was falling and we shivered as we prayed the familiar prayers and sang the songs he loved. His longtime friend, Pat Gorton, said the words, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and made the sign of the cross over his casket. It’s hard to grieve and to pronounce a blessing at the same time, but she did it.

And I guess this is what we do when we gather for the Blue Christmas service tomorrow night. Those who are sad or lonesome or sick or grieving or just feeling “blue” during this time of year – we all gather together to lift up those real and raw feelings to God, but also claim the promise of hope that is just as real: Emmanuel, “God with us.”

I believe that promise and I have seen it come true over and over in my life. Sometimes it has felt muted – during moments of great difficulty, or when praying the same prayers over and over and over again by a hospice bedside, or when the cancer is diagnosed and ravages mercilessly, or when a young life is snuffed out, or ____________________(insert any bad thing that could happen), but nothing can silence the song of God’s promise. Somehow it is able to sing to us even in the worst moments, the unimaginable moments. Still, even there, always – Emmanuel, “God With Us.”

I’ll share with you a poem from Jan Richardson:

Blessing for the Longest Night

All throughout these months
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.
It has practiced
walking in the dark,
traveling with
its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory
by touch
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.
So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you
even though you cannot
see it coming.
You will know
the moment of its
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.
This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.
So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.
Get up.
Set out on the road
you cannot see.
This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.

Blessings to you as this Advent season draws to a close.

Pastor Ruth

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