Waiting in the Dark Part 2: The Blanket of Presence

Three boys were doing a project for school. Their topic was world religions. When it came time for their report, the first boy told the class, “I’m Roman Catholic; our symbol is the crucifix, with Jesus hanging on it.” The second boy said, “I’m Jewish; our symbol is the Star of David.” The third boy reported, “My family goes to the United Church; our symbol is a casserole.”

Now that’s pretty funny; but it’s also profound. You see, there is a sacramental quality to food. There’s something sacred about sitting down at table with someone; sharing a meal with someone. Among the highlights of this past week for me have been the several times when I’ve done just that: including the Christmas luncheon of one of the U.C.W. units. The food was delicious; and it included, of course, lots of casseroles.

Casseroles are comfort food. They are for me, anyway. When the nights are long and the days are cold and I’m feeling dark and gloomy inside, there’s something about a plate full of macaroni and cheese which warms my soul.

And we need our souls to be warmed. We need comfort. Because sometimes in December we long for home. You might be sitting in your own living room, reading a book and listening to Christmas music; but deep inside, on a profound level, we feel a long way from home.

Today’s Old Testament lesson is addressed to people who were a long way from home. It’s almost 600 kilometres from Jerusalem to Babylon as the crow flies, but it might as well have been a million miles for the people of the Exile; the citizens of Jerusalem who had been burned out of their homes and forced with swords and knives to walk across the desert to captivity in the capital city of their enemies and conquerors.

For 50 years they were exiles. Until one day they heard some news which was so good that they hardly dared believe it. In my imagination, it’s early morning. Dawn is still several hours away. But there’s a single bird who’s already singing. That’s what first woke the exiles that fateful day. This crazy bird singing to the dawn when it was still pitch black outside. And then they heard him; almost whispering in the pre-dawn darkness: “Comfort; comfort, my people. God has heard our cries. It won’t be long now. We’re going home!”

There had been a shift in the power alignments of the Middle East. Persia was soon to conquer Babylon and send the exiles back to Jerusalem. It hadn’t happened yet, but the prophet could see it coming. His name has been lost to history, but this 6th century B.C. prophet whom we call Second Isaiah, he could see the geopolitical events unfolding even before they occurred. Even more, he could see God’s hand in these events. God had used the nations to judge God’s people, and now God was using some of those same nations to free the people. It was still dark. How exactly this would happen could not yet be seen. But this much was clear: they were going home.

Life can be painful and difficult. But sometimes there is comfort. Even in the middle of the night. Even when it’s dark and cold and you’re feeling lost. Sometimes good news can be whispered in the dark.

I discovered this during Advent eight years ago. It was the beginning of the nearly two years that my wife and I were separated. A dark time indeed. I mean, I was the one who had initiated the separation, but that didn’t take away the sadness and the loneliness that I was feeling.

Now you can try to fight that kind of loneliness. You can try to fight that kind of sadness. You can lose it in busyness. Or you can tell yourself, “I shouldn’t be feeling this way.” But all that you succeed in doing is simply pushing it down. The sadness and the loneliness are still there. And one way or another they’ll come back to haunt you. So in the gathering darkness of those late autumn weeks eight years ago I didn’t try to lose that sadness and loneliness and inner darkness; I decided to sink into it. Not in the sense of a drowning man sinking into the dark, swirling waters; never to live again. No, it was more like sinking into sleep when you’re very tired. You know how you sometimes try to fight fatigue and keep going when it’s getting late and you’ve got more to do, like address Christmas cards or clean the house ‘cause guests are coming, or maybe even make that casserole? You can try to fight your drowsiness and keep going, just like you can try to fight those dark feelings and keep busy; or you can sink into your drowsiness, and let it wash over you, as you drift off into a much deserved rest.

Well, it can work the same way when you’re feeling lost and alone; when you’re feeling sad and afraid; when you’re feeling a long way from home. Sometimes it’s okay to sink into that darkness; to wrap it around you like a warm blanket. In fact, maybe that’s exactly what you do: you literally wrap a blanket around you, and hold a hot cup of tea, and simply allow yourself to feel whatever it is that you’re feeling. Sometimes even the darkness can be like a warm blanket.

You know what? As deep as that darkness is, there is something that is deeper still: the Presence of the Holy One. Sometimes, if you wrap yourself in the blanket of darkness, you find yourself being held in the arms of God’s Presence. It’s a miracle of grace.

I wonder what it’s like for a caterpillar in those final moments before it goes into its cocoon. The caterpillar has been hanging there for hours, attached to the underside of the leaf of a tree, feeling things stirring within it that it can’t understand; things that are maybe quite painful. And maybe that caterpillar fights against those painful forces; maybe that’s part of the twisting and turning that you see as the caterpillar is hanging there. Until it can’t fight that inner turmoil anymore, and it gives in to this dreadful process that has somehow taken over its body. It’s at that point of sinking into those overwhelming forces that the caterpillar’s skin splits, and it becomes enveloped in the cocoon. Surely that must feel like death itself. But of course we know that cocoon to be the crucible of new life. We know that within that cocoon, a transformation is going on which will enable that caterpillar to soar like an angel; floating with newly created wings on the winds of grace.

Sometimes you have to be cocooned in the darkness. Wrapped in the comforting arms of God’s Presence. Waiting for the dawn. For at first light, you may find yourself taking flight, on the wings of the morning. Amen.


Text: Isaiah 40:1-2
Preached by Bruce D. Ervin
Second Sunday in Advent
7 December 2008