Throughout Advent, I’m grateful for the chance to offer a series of reflections about Advent and the grief we experience in our lives, in our churches, and in our world.
Part two: The forgotten sadness of congregational grief
Advent has begun. Thanksgiving’s leftovers are mostly finished, and the pace of life is picking up. At church, hallways are festooned with greens and twinkling lights. Dusty nativity scenes have been unpacked and cleaned, banners hung, and candles placed. Talk turns briefly from budgets and pledges to the more pressing matter of ordering poinsettias and remembering which Sunday is the pink candle Sunday.
All seems to be merry and bright, until the veneer of joy gets nicked and hidden sorrow is revealed. Yet our culture in general, and many of our churches in particular, work hard at avoiding grief. Anyone preaching about grief during Advent runs the risk of sounding like comedian Rachel Dratch’s “Debbie Downer” character from Saturday Night Live circa 2004. Surrounded by the aura of Christmas, churches fear that mentioning grief will result in a “wah-wah” sound from an anonymous trombone player in the narthex.
We are well versed in practicing what Debie Thomas calls a “grief-averse faith,” and I believe it is killing us. Thomas’ wonderful little book A Faith of Many Rooms recounts how our grief-phobic faith and culture encourage us to avoid unpleasantness. She notes that we approach sorrow as labor, or a task. This is clear, she says, by the verbs we use to describe grief. Thomas calls our attention to these verbs:
“We work through grief. We manage grief. We process grief, and we handle, bear, endure, survive, and overcome it. I never hear anyone say, ‘I welcome grief.’ Or ‘I honor grief.’ Or even ‘I’m making time for grief.’ (Thomas, p. 108.)
Aversion to grief takes hold of our congregations. Our congregations are all smaller, in part because of the impacts of cultural shifts. Once flourishing congregations are dwindling. That becomes particularly apparent in smaller membership churches. How do you have a hanging of the greens if your members can no longer climb ladders?
Add to these societal factors the real-world burdens imposed by costly building repairs, rising insurance premiums, aging parishioners, and fewer pastors. This year, we watched as a vicious storm tore apart our city and destroyed the sacred space where our Cote Brilliante Presbyterian siblings worshipped. We are a people acquainted with grief, and we will be healthier by admitting and lamenting this grief.
Of course, we know that “the church is not a building.” Of course, we know that the harvest is plentiful. Of course, we know that none of the churches Paul founded will be holding Christmas Eve services. But knowledge without emotion just buries the sadness deeper.
To give witness to our grief is to give witness to the living Christ. In Advent, we take seriously that great mystery of faith: Christ was born, Christ has died, and Christ will come again. Grief can challenge us, but it may also stimulate our faith. Giving witness to our grief acknowledges the sadness that is part of life without allowing grief to leave us paralyzed.
Letting go of our aversion to institutional grief means we can acknowledge the void left by the death of a beloved member or the relocation of a delightful family while clinging to the promise that God is still at work. Recall Paul’s instructions to avoid grieving without hope. That hope allows us to reach toward each other holding sorrow, while the other discovers possibilities.
Leading a congregation through seasons of grief is hard, and that work is even harder during Advent. A hopeful exercise might be to make an inventory of the different sorts of losses your congregation has endured in the last ten years. All sorts of losses provoke feelings of grief and naming these can be beneficial.
It is possible to let go of traditions that no longer serve our mission, even though they are saturated with memories. It is possible to grieve while also envisioning the promise of the one who comes to us. Indeed, Christ has come. Christ has died, and Christ will come again. That is the mystery of our faith that rings especially true as we steady ourselves with promises of joy even as grief digs into our souls.
Rev. Dr. Chris Keating
Pastor at Woodlawn Chapel Presbyterian Church
Chaplain, St. Louis County Police Department, West County Precinct (7th)