(The following is a Call to Worship I wrote for today, the third Sunday of Advent.)
Good morning! I’m grateful to share a story with you to transition us toward worship.
Eight years ago this week, early on a Sunday morning, my wife, Mindy died. She was 36 years old, and the rebellious cells inside her brain and lungs and spinal column died with her after wracking her body for at least three years. I wasn’t in worship that morning, but I heard later that news of her death made for a solemn service. Lots of folks here knew and loved her.
The morning Mindy died was not the worst day. The worst day was about two months previous, when we learned the tumors were back and riddled through her body, and that she would likely die that day if nothing was done. She was sedated, rolled into an ambulance, and sent to Providence Saint Vincent for brain surgery. I sat next to her as the doors thudded shut, and the ambulance pulled onto Highway 99. Outside the portal window, the trees around the Chehalem Valley were vivid with oranges and yellows and reds, all under a clear blue sky. And from inside the dark interior, behind dense, scratched glass, all I could feel was doom.
Here is another doom described in The Jesus Storybook Bible, right after the death of the main character:
Even though it was midday, a dreadful darkness covered the face of the world. The sun could not shine. The earth trembled and quaked. The great mountains shook. Rocks split in two. Until it seemed that the whole world would break. That creation itself would tear apart.
But, on that worst day, God’s light was on the leaves, shading the sky blue. I was not doomed, because our Rescuer was with us. Over the next months, He revealed Himself through family and friends, through donated walkers and innovative casseroles and a painting of us as owls. Christ shined in folks who flew across the country to see their dear friend one last time. The Holy Spirit was in the steam rising to reopen a stack of Christmas cards, our last as a family of three, a cadre of loved ones working to slip in the last chapter of the Storybook Bible printed tiny.
Mindy wanted everyone to know how the story would end.
On Christmas mornings, my dad taught me to bite into the peel of a Satsuma before eating the segments. And he didn’t know this then, I’m sure, but what happens is the taste of the pith and orange oil is too much and unpleasantly bitter, but also, in the crushing of the peel, all this limonene is released. So then when you bite into the segment, the bright, luscious fruit flavors are all heightened, and the bitterness is absolutely overwhelmed by the citrusy sweetness.
Just have that in mind as we read this final passage, from the last page of the Jesus Storybook Bible:
“One day, John knew, Heaven would come down and mend God’s broken world and make it our true, perfect home once again.
And he knew, in some mysterious way that would be hard to explain, that everything was going to be more wonderful for once having been so sad.
And he knew then that the ending of The Story was going to be so great, it would make all the sadness and tears and everything seem like just a shadow that is chased away by the morning sun.
“I’m on my way,” said Jesus. “I’ll be there soon!”
Today, we light the third candle of Advent––the candle of Comfort.
Let us worship him together.
Such a beautiful meditation - but it’s hard for my stinging eyes to see.
A wonderful meditation for us to contrast the bitterness of a fallen world with the sweetness of our Savior. Thank you for sharing.