Blue Christmas: The Wound, The Route, The Gift

John 20:24-28

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hands in his side, I will not believe.”

A week later, the disciples were again in the house, and this time Thomas was with them. Jesus came, again, and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” And he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand put it in my side. Do not doubt, but believe.” Thomas said to him, “My Lord, and my God.”

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David Brooks, in his book, How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen, the inspiration behind our Advent journey this season, tells some beautiful and hard stories about grief and despair and suffering. He gives some sad statistics about how and why we are such a disconnected people these days – and about what it means to experience hardships ourselves, to learn to see them in others, and to walk with others – and each other – through the struggles of this life.

If you’ve picked up the book, but haven’t made your way into it, yet – and you’re here tonight – maybe Part 2, Chapter 8, page 97, is a place you could begin reading. (If you don’t have this book – or don’t know or care about any of that – fear not; none of it is necessary. I plan to fill in all the gaps you might be missing.)

But in discussing what it means to see one another in our struggles, David Brooks tells part of Frederick Buechner’s story. Buechner was a Presbyterian minister, theologian and very prolific author – a few of who’s books were required reading in my Pastoral Care and Counseling courses back in seminary. When Buechner was just ten years old – and his younger brother, only 8 – their dad peaked in them early one morning in their bedroom before they were set to go on a family outing about which the brothers were quite excited.

It was too early that morning to get up so the boys stayed in bed, in their room, anticipating the fun day they had planned. As Brooks writes it, “A little while later, they heard a scream and the sounds of doors opening and closing. They looked out their window and saw their father lying in the gravel driveway, with their mother and grandmother, barefoot and still in their nightgowns, leaning over him. Each woman had one of his legs in her hands. They were lifting his legs up and down as if they were operating two handles of a pump. Nearby, the garage door was open and blue smoke was billowing out.

“… their father had gassed himself to death. It took them a few days to find the suicide note, which their dad had scratched in pencil on the last page of Gone with the Wind. It was addressed to their mom, [and said]: ‘I adore you and love you, and am no good … Give Freddy my watch. Give Jamie my pearl pin. I give you all my love.’”

Within just a couple of months, Buechner’s mother moved them to Bermuda, where they started a new life, and little Freddy effectively avoided and denied whatever grief he would have/could have/should have probably wrestled with until he couldn’t avoid it any longer – when he became a young adult. His work as a teacher and author helped with that, as did more life experiences and research into his dad’s past and family history. Sadly, and surprisingly, it wasn’t until he reached middle age that Frederick Buechner was able to cry real tears – to actually grieve – the loss of the father he loved very much.

I picked this story to tell, because I agree with David Brooks: that the trajectory and experience of Frederick Buechner’s grief is a familiar one for many people.

See if this scenario sounds familiar:

Some sadness, struggle, or even tragedy strikes. There is a period of shock and grief that feels too great to face or engage, so that grief – and all the emotions that come along with it – are packed away, avoided, denied, whatever. We suck it up and move on, because we think that will be easier. We brave the grief alone, or quietly, because that looks like “strength” to us – and that supposed “strength” is often affirmed as such by the world around us. At the very least, maybe we minimize whatever grief or struggle finds us because we are needed by others – children, parents, spouses – or because we don’t want to appear weak, or to be a burden or a buzz-kill, or something of the like.

(Again, not that anyone here would ever … but does any of this sound familiar?)

Whatever the case, this can go on for quite some time … until it can’t anymore. In Frederick Buechner’s case, it took decades before it caught up with him and before he was finally able to find meaning and new life through the grief he learned to experience and engage over having lost his father so young and so tragically.

Anderson Cooper tells a similar story. (I know I am a broken record about Anderson Cooper and his podcast “All There Is,” and I’m sorry – not sorry – that I bring it up every chance I get. If nothing else I have to say tonight resonates or sounds encouraging or helpful to you, make listening to that podcast part of your holy homework soon and very soon. I propose – I almost promise – it will either help you find some words and wisdom about whatever grief you’ve already experienced, or it will prepare you for the grief that will find you – as it does us all – at some point in our lives.)

Anyway, the whole reason Anderson Cooper started this podcast a few years ago, where he interviews others all and only about their grief is because – at the age of 55 – he realized he had never been taught or encouraged to engage, let alone wrestle with or mend, the deep grief he endured by losing his father to heart-failure when he was just 10 years old (like Frederick Beuchner was); or the grief he suffered after losing his 23 year-old brother to suicide when he was just 21.

Instead of grieving well, Anderson says as a young adult, he traveled the world, risking his life to report on wars and tragedies and disasters – literally on a global scale – so that, while simultaneously running from and avoiding his own grief, he could subconsciously measure that kind of horrific sadness against his own, and maybe see how other people survived in the face of it.

Anderson Cooper embodies Frederick Buechner’s suggestion that, even though we long more than anything to be known fully, grief – even though it is utterly universal – may be one of the things that is most difficult to embrace, admit, or share about ourselves.

It’s why what we’re up to tonight is as practical as it is holy to me. It’s why I’m so grateful you’ve showed up. It’s why I wish this place was as full tonight as it will be on Christmas Eve.

See, on a recent episode of that podcast, Anderson Cooper interviewed the actor Andrew Garfield, who talked about the loss of his mother. And Andrew Garfield said something so profound it’s been making its way around the internet, lately. Maybe you’ve seen or heard it.

“The wound is the only route to the gift.”

I wonder if, when Jesus showed up for the disciples after his death – and then again to Thomas, who refused to believe it …

I wonder if he was doing even more than proving his identity … if he was doing more, even, than just showing evidence of his resurrection …

I wonder if, when Jesus showed off the wounds in his hands and on his sides… If, when he invited Thomas to put his fingers “here” and to see his hands, to reach out his own hands and to touch the wounded sides of Jesus…

I wonder if Jesus was offering Thomas healing for the deep grief he surely felt, and if he was showing them all – and us, too – that “the wound is the only route to the gift” that even our grief can be for us, as people of faith.

Not that we would ever choose the grief that comes our way …

Not that we deserve the deep sadness and struggle that finds us, too often, on this side of heaven …

But that, because God shows up in Jesus to walk the way of suffering before and beside us as we go, we can remind ourselves and each other that God does God’s best work in the dark, sad, scary places of our lives.

See, I believe God showed up, in Jesus, to remind us that the only way through the grief that finds us in this life – and toward the healing and hope we desire and deserve – is to trust that it won’t last forever; that we don’t need to fear or deny or avoid or pretend that it shouldn’t exist; that we can come to and through the wounds of our sadness and struggle… We can touch and tend to what hurts us most… (“The wound is the only route to the gift.”)

And we can share all of that with one another, without fear, shame, or hesitation. And we can let the light of God’s grace – the light that shines in the darkness – shine in our direction, too. And we can let it heal what we cannot, on our own … and we can let it bless our lives with the love that is born for us all, even and especially in our darkest days … with thanks for this Jesus – who was, who is, and who is to come.

Amen. Merry Christmas.

The Right Questions

Mark 8:27-30

Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea-Philippi. Along the way he asked them, “Who do people say that I am?” They said to him, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” Jesus said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” And Jesus sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.

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I hope you remember we’re focusing our time during these Advent days on a book by David Brooks called How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen, in which he talks about pragmatic, practical practices to achieve spiritual, holy ways of living in the world.

And Brooks devotes a whole chapter to the idea of and the power behind questions. With the aim of growing into the kind of people who want to know others more deeply – to see them for who they really are and to care about that – Brooks proposes that we should be the kind of people who ask questions. And not just any questions, but good, curious, open-ended, thoughtful questions that invite others to respond comfortably … in ways that reveal something about who they are, how they see and experience the world, and how they want to be seen and received by others around them.

Brooks goes so far as to say that he’s, “come to think of questioning as a moral practice. When you are asking a good questions, you are adopting a posture of humility. You’re confessing that you don’t know and you want to learn. You’re also honoring a person. We all like to think we are so clever that we can imagine what’s going on in another’s mind. But the evidence shows that this doesn’t work. People are just too different from each other, too complicated, too idiosyncratic.”

I learned a long time ago – either from my Psychology and Counseling classes or from watching Oprah – about the danger of certain kinds of questions. Questions like “Where do you work?” or “Where do you live?” or “If you went to college and where?” aren’t the best things to ask when you’re just being introduced to someone.

Brooks says those questions imply that you’re about to make a judgment about a person based on their responses. Someone pointed out to me once that, asking someone what they do for a living – which is probably a first inclination for many of us, right? – implies and perpetuates a false notion that what we do for work is the most important, valuable, interesting thing about us. (That may be true for some, but surely isn’t true for most.)

We all know, too, how superficial and worthless it is to ask most folks how they’re doing when we greet them – the answer is almost always “fine,” or “okay,” or “good, how are you?” Which is to say, the answer is always incomplete, at its best, and it’s often a lie, at its worst. We’re rarely 100% “fine,” “okay,” or “good.” And there are plenty of days when we offer those answers when we are feeling everything but “fine,” “okay,” or “good.”

If you’ve ever participated in our CrossRoads class for folks curious about the ministry here, you know that one of my favorite ice-breaker questions is, “Where did you live when you were in the 8th grade?” I always like the surprising geographical connections made between whoever is in the room. It’s fun to see who has landed in Indiana from the farthest distance. We’ve had people realize they grew up in the same or neighboring towns in other states. We’ve had people who knew the same pastors or who went to the same church, way back in the day. But the connections and common ground are often deeper than that, because it’s hard to talk about where you lived in 8th grade without also, perhaps, mentioning why; or how long ago that was for you; or what your life was like in those days.

David Brooks offers up some really good questions in his book that I hope you’ll consider asking folks at your next office Christmas party or family gathering in the days ahead:

“What’s working really well in your life at the moment?”

“What are you most confident about?”

“When was a time you adapted to change?”

“What has become clearer to you as you’ve gotten older?”

“What’s a Christmas tradition your family keeps?

Again, consider those questions in the days to come and be bold about asking them of others to see what comes of the answers you receive and share.

Because, remember – and here comes the spiritual, holy part of it all – the point of this sermon series and of this Advent journey together, is to open ourselves to the birth of Jesus in ways I believe God intended from the very beginning. In a world where people are increasingly distant from one another and divided by so many things … In a world where we increasingly let technology do the talking and the working for us … In a world where it’s easier to hide behind screens and so tempting to stick to our cultural, political, theological silos … I believe the Gospel of the incarnation – the good news of God showing up among us as a human being – is as holy, as challenging, and as relevant as it ever was.

David Brooks closes his chapter on questions by saying, “Each person is a mystery. And when you are surrounded by mysteries … it’s best to live life in the form of a question.”

And I think that’s something Jesus teaches us, too … to live life in the form of a question. People like to pretend that having faith and living a life of faith is about being certain and knowing answers and having black-and-white, yes-and-no, right-and-wrong views on life’s most pressing questions.

But more often than not, it seems to me, Jesus responds to the request for those things – certainty… answers… yes/no, black/white, right/wrong propositions – with more questions, or stories, at least, that leave a whole lot up to our interpretation and imagination.

When his followers come to him asking that he interpret the signs in the sun, the moon and the stars… when they come hoping for a sign, telling them that the end is near … Jesus doesn’t give a hard and fast answer. He says, “no one knows; neither the angels in heaven, nor the son, but only the Father,” so just keep your eyes peeled, be curious, and get ready.

When that lawyer asked Jesus once, “Who is my neighbor?,” Jesus doesn’t give him a list of addresses or a litany of names. He tells him a story about a particular Samaritan that contradicted everything they’d ever been taught to believe about any Samaritans – that they could be good, merciful, kind, loving neighbors – and better and more righteous, even, than a priest and a Levite.

And this morning, while he’s milling around the region of Caesarea-Philippi, he asks his disciples to let him know what the word on the street is about him. What are people saying? What have you heard? “Who do people say that I am?”

And they tell him what they think he’s after – the rumor, the gossip, the wrong answers and assumptions of the people on the street. And I imagine they take great joy in the foolish things people are saying. “Those idiots think you’re John the Baptist!” “I heard some knucklehead say you were Elijah, come back to life!” “I think people are so dumb and desperate they’ve painted you as some prophet like back in the day.”

But all of that just sets the stage for what Jesus is really after – for the question he really wants an answer to: “Who do YOU say that I am?”

Because Jesus knows he’ll be able to tell a whole lot about how … whoever … answers that question. And Peter does. And Peter gets it right. Which took some guts. It took some courage. It took some wisdom and understanding and a whole lot of faith. Peter calls Jesus the Messiah, without apology or hesitation, it seems. And it earned Peter a place of honor and respect in the eyes of Jesus. He became “the Rock” on which the Church would stand.

And this question matters for us, still. Who is this Jesus we’ll celebrate at Christmas? Who is this Jesus we’re waiting on? Who do we say that he is, was, or will be? There may be as many answers to these questions as there are people listening to me now: He is a Comforter, a Redeemer, a Judge. He is a Savior, a Brother, a Healer. He is a Friend, a Stranger, a Mystery, and more.

And what if we were as curious about the way our friends, family and neighbors might answer that question as Jesus seemed to be? What if we sincerely wondered who Jesus is – if anything – to the people in our lives and in this world? And how might their answers impact our relationship to them?

So let’s not go about asking any of these questions because we want to prove who’s right and who’s wrong. Let’s ask more and better questions. And let’s be genuinely curious – not at all judgmental – about the answers we might hear from each other and from our neighbors. And let’s listen for the wants, needs, hopes, and longings of those around us – like Jesus would.

And let’s respond, through our very lives, with who and how Jesus calls us to be: utterly human; afraid sometimes; hopeful, when we can muster it; full of grace; offering mercy; praying for peace; extending forgiveness; doing justice; and shining light into the darkness of this world God loved enough to show up in it.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.