“As the dark awaits the dawn, so we await your light.  O Star of promise, scatter night, loving bright, loving bright, till shades of fear are gone.”

– Susan Palo Cherwien, ELW #261

Dearly Beloved,

When World War Two broke out in September 1939, it was not uncommon in Britain to hear the remark, “It’ll all be over by Christmas!” (Just as people had said that World War One would be over by Christmas 1914.)  Unknown to people at the time, however, there would be five Christmases before the war’s end in 1945. Over the course of those years, Christmas celebrations were experienced in the context of more and more restrictions. In the wake of bombing raids by the Luftwaffe, blackout regulations prohibited light displays in churches, businesses, and homes—no lit up Christmas Trees shining in windows (like the one in our narthex, which shines its lights over the westside patio each night.)  Over the course of years, rationing increasingly limited the kinds of foods that made their way to wartime tables. Homes at Christmastime were marked by absences—the absence of men who were deployed to Europe and women who were engaged in wartime vocations; the absence of children, who had been evacuated from London and other major cities in southern England to safer environs up north and in smaller towns; the absence of means and money for travel; the absence of new presents under the tree—if a tree was even available at all; the absence of Christmas fare—no chance of turkey, chicken or goose – not even the despised rabbit![1]  And, of course, the absence of joy in those households where father, son, brother, or uncle had become casualties of the fighting.  I can only imagine what it was like to live through such times and to feel one’s life indelibly shaped by them.  Those of you who lived through the war years on this side of the Atlantic have your own memories of rationing and of absences; of eagerly awaited news from the war front, and the longing for that day when the terrible conflict would come to an end.

This pandemic year has been marked by its own absences—from shortages of PPE, hospital rooms and ventilators, to runs on toilet paper, and, most centrally, the curtailment of social contact.  Mixed messages by national leaders and social media have aided rather than inhibited the virus’ spread.  Early in 2020 some suggested the virus scare would be over in a matter of weeks rather than months.  A number of us, after cancelling in person worship and taking Easter services online, harbored a deep hope that “this will all be over by Christmas”; that by Christmas Eve we would be able to gather safely once more in community and join in a candle-lit singing of Silent Night.  It is not to be.  Still, there is hope in the air with several promising vaccines poised to be deployed in coming weeks and months. As that process takes its course, it’s important that we continue to exercise the utmost care for ourselves, family members, and neighbors by limiting physical contact and wearing masks. This Christmas Eve we will be gathering remotely rather than in person.  Those who are working behind the scenes to create meaningful worship experiences in these extraordinary times want you to know how deeply we wish it were not so!  Still, fostering community is always possible and always important, no matter what the circumstances.  So we hope you continue to join us online for worship.

When you compare this time of living under virus safety protocols to the context of global challenges such as World War Two, it’s clear that restrictions in place this year don’t hold a candle to what was required of those who endured two World Wars and the Great Depression.  Where’s the unity of purpose in our day—the sense that we are part of a larger community working together—that typified the Americans’ response to the grave challenges of WW 2?  Achingly absent.  I don’t know about you, but the strident voices opposing COVID-19 protocols under the guise of “individual” or “religious freedom” fall hallow on my ears.

        “Shine your future on this place, enlighten ev’ry guest,

that through us stream your holiness, bright and blest, bright and blest; come dawn, O Sun of grace.”

The church has a testimony to give during these times.  This testimony is that we are connected to one another in spite of physical distancing, and that we are also connected to our neighbors; that the God who came into the world as a vulnerable child, and who offered himself fully to unite all human beings and all creation under the banner of divine love, is calling us through the Holy Spirit to show a deeply vulnerable world what love incarnate looks like.  We do this best not by making demands or seeing ourselves as exceptions to proven health practices, but by following proven protocols and inviting others to do the same.  We do this not because we want to but because it’s how we best can love and serve our neighbor during these times.

As Christians, we judge the present by the future—not by the past.  And God’s dream for creation—the future into which God is calling us—is a future full of light, “bright and blest,” a future where healing and wholeness are complete; a future which we glimpse most fully in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.  Whatever Christmas looks like for us this year, let’s keep our eyes and hearts and minds trained just here.  Walking in the light, Pastor Erik

[1] See the article on the British Broadcasting website: BBC – History – British History in depth: Christmas Under Fire