It is the 3rd Sunday of Advent, a mark of seasonal time traditionally labeled as “Joy.” It is a poignant juxtaposition.
This weekend our small congregation of family convened at the south Texas graveside where an open grave would receive my mother’s ashes. Together contemplated the immensity of the moment - the profundity of the finality; verbalized a few remembrances, read a couple of scripture verses, joined hands in a prayer, lowered the precious box, and accepted the offered shovel. Each of us took a turn, replacing the soil that had been broken into a furrow to receive this seed of eternal life. Scoop by scoop, a final scrape and a smoothing, and then the awkward silence of completion. A few more words, then taking our seats back in the car, we drove away.
We have thought a lot about this conflictual transition - individually and collectively. There is, of course, the chasmic loss - of routine and companionship for our Dad after 70 years of marriage; of anchoring, circumscribing maternal love for my brother and me. Like turning, shifting tiles of a kaleidoscope our orientation has not yet settled into a new pattern. If it ever will.
And yet pushing against this tumbling void is a grateful experience of peace. For a lifetime Mother nursed a body that was rarely a friend and miserably often was an active enemy. Without belaboring the details, she bore it courageously, graciously, tenaciously. She once enumerated the surgeries she had undergone through the years. It was an extensive list. She suffered, though few would know it except in these latter months. Hardly a tragic figure, Mother saw herself as the most fortunate person alive. A constellation of deep faith, exuberant joy, creativity and nourishing attention, she routinely drank the nectar of happiness squeezed from the stones of circumstance. If she hurt along the way, that, she would have adjudged, was small enough price to pay.
But she hurt, and we knew it. Collectively we ached on her behalf.
Among the traditional readings for this roadside pause in Advent are verses from the prophet Isaiah. Historically they were addressed to the exiled people of Israel, aching to return home. The words describe the landscape of the spirit as well as the terrain separating where they were from where they longed to be. They are, I know, corporate words of passage and promise.
But suddenly, this time around, they are acutely personal ones as well. No longer words of far off and hoped for redemption, I hear them now as promise fulfilled; assurance satisfied - a highway not only cleared but traveled; a stream in the desert buoyantly floated down. With joy, indeed.
The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad;
the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly
and rejoice with joy and shouting.
The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it,
the majesty of Carmel and Sharon.
They shall see the glory of the Lord,
the majesty of our God.
Strengthen the weak hands
and make firm the feeble knees.
Say to those who are of a fearful heart,
“Be strong, do not fear!
Here is your God.
He will come with vengeance,
with terrible recompense.
He will come and save you.”
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
and the ears of the deaf shall be opened;
then the lame shall leap like a deer,
and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
For waters shall break forth in the wilderness
and streams in the desert;
the burning sand shall become a pool
and the thirsty ground springs of water;
the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp;
the grass shall become reeds and rushes.
A highway shall be there,
and it shall be called the Holy Way;
the unclean shall not travel on it,
but it shall be for God’s people;
no traveler, not even fools, shall go astray.
No lion shall be there,
nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it;
they shall not be found there,
but the redeemed shall walk there.
And the ransomed of the Lord shall return
and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
they shall obtain joy and gladness,
and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
(Isaiah 35:1-10)
We will light today this 3rd candle of Advent - not one of the purple ones of elusively opaque and enigmatic hope, but the pink one proclaiming realized joy. Whatever Mary might have thought of that divergent color, Merita would have loved it. Pink was her favorite color.
Strength and restoration. The grace of new life. The Holy Way the prophet bespoke, paved with the petals of gladness and joy, from which sorrow and sighing have fled away.
With gratitude and peace we light this candle. Those, and perhaps I can even say it amidst the enduring grief,
Joy.
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