One pastor's story in the midst of tragedy

Well, it has been a helluva Christmas, I'll tell you. It didn't take too long into my ministry to have some Really Big Things to deal with.

Everyone knows, of course, about the tragic Newtown shooting. At 10 days before Christmas, it definitely affected the mood of some of our Christmas preparations. Our Christmas pageant was the following Sunday. How do you rejoice in these children (and on Gaudete, or "rejoice" Sunday, on the church calendar), knowing that so many families are so deeply mourning the loss of their children? I struggled knowing how to address this in my congregations. I hadn't planned to preach. Should I change my plans and write a short sermon? Did people need to hear some hope? Was I equipped to offer this hope? The season of Advent is already about hope - would a reminder of that be enough? Would mentioning it at all be a relief for people, or would it spoil the excited mood of the Christmas program that the kids had worked so hard on?

I finally realized that much of the excitement that always surrounds the children's program is, in fact, hope, and that the children could preach that message of hope as well or better than I could. These are our children. They are full of hope and potential. They are telling us the story of a child who came not only to bring us hope in the midst of sadness, but who shows us the promise of Emmanuel, God-with-us, in our suffering. We would sing carols about this coming child. We would rejoice in and give thanks for our children, and relish in their offerings. This was how we would start to deal with this tragedy.

With all this fresh in my mind, I wrote my Christmas sermon. Not surprisingly, it ended up drawing heavily on the image of a light that "shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it." I mentioned all the recent shootings. I mentioned the more mundane (but equally important) darknesses we feel in our lives. I expressed our deep hope in that light, and the fear it dispels. I hoped it would speak words people needed to hear on this Christmas, now so tainted with death and grief.

Then on Christmas Eve morning, I got a call from a parishioner. "Have you seen what's happening in Webster on the news?" I hadn't turned on the news that day, as I had a zillion things to do to prepare for Christmas, both personally and at church, but now I did. There was a house fire down on Irondequoit Bay, only a couple miles from St. Martin. When firefighters arrived, they were shot at. Two were confirmed dead, two others injured. They were ceasing fighting the fire, and it had spread to other houses (in the end, seven total). I was horrified. I have members who are volunteer firefighters in West Webster. Were they okay? Names hadn't been released yet. People from home in California started contacting me - this was national news! And my mind started racing: how do we celebrate Christmas tonight, knowing that probably every person in Webster knows a firefighter who will somehow be affected by this? Webster is a pretty tight community, and the fire department in particular. On a personal, but still professional, note, Michael and I planned to leave for vacation right after worship that night. How could I leave when my community was dealing with this trauma?

I couldn't do much to change the Christmas Eve service, so the first thing I needed to do was look at the parts I could change - prayers and my sermon - and tweak them accordingly. My sermon, having been written in the wake of the Newtown shooting, was still surprisingly apt for the situation. We still needed a light shining in the darkness. We still needed the hope that Christ brings. Truly a Holy Spirit moment - someone knew this would be the Word that needed to be preached this Christmas. I finally did get in touch with "my" firefighters and found out they were fine. We decided to have coffee and cookies after worship so we would have an opportunity to talk together and process in a casual setting. And I planned to make a comment before worship about how this is the reason we need to gather on this night, to gather around the light shining in the darkness, and put our faith in that, even if we couldn't gather in as much joy this night as we might have liked. And I prayed. And I asked people to pray - for Webster and for me.

A couple hours before I planned to leave for church, I got an email from a woman at church who used to work as an anchorwoman for the news, and she always connects St. Martin to various news sources. "Could Channel 10 come to St. Martin tonight and interview you?" And then Channel 13. And then Channel 8. Everyone wanted to interview a pastor and see how people are coming to terms with this tragedy on Christmas from a spiritual perspective. I told all of them I'd be happy to interview with them, but did not want them to interfere with our worship. They all agreed. As it turned out, the Firehouse was holding their vigil at the same time as our service, so none of them showed up.

On my way to Bethlehem, I got a call from someone at WXXI, our local NPR station. She wondered if she could interview me on their morning show the next day. "I think a lot of people are looking for some spiritual answers in the midst of all this, and so I hoped you could make a statement on how a community heals after a tragedy like this." Wow. I felt incredibly under qualified to make such a statement, and told her so, but, I am a pastor in close proximity to this event, which I guess makes me as qualified as anyone. So I agreed to do it. The interview was very interesting, and I will include some of what we talked about in a separate post, since this is getting so long. Stay tuned.

How did church go? People were... guarded, I guess. We wanted to say Merry Christmas, but didn't know if we could. We wanted to be joyful, but our hearts were so heavy. But by the end of worship at Bethlehem, which was the first service, I honestly felt better. I felt like it had never been more important to worship on Christmas, to sing, "O Come, all ye faithful," or "Joy to the world, the Lord is come." The words of these and other well-known carols suddenly meant so much more to me. What was strange was then going to St. Martin and doing it all again, because they had not yet had the chance to worship and rejoice in the incarnation, had not felt the transformation we at Bethlehem had. I found, however, that as soon as I saw people's sullen faces, the tears in their eyes, it wasn't hard to find myself right back in that painful place. And then to transform again. A remarkable experience, both times.

And then I drove my exhausted self home and packed. Michael and I had decided to postpone our departure until the morning (especially since it had started to snow). And then I lost it. I sat next to Michael and cried into his lap. "100 pairs of eyes looking up at me for some answers! I don't have them!" It helped. After a day of running around getting ready, while staying glued to the TV, while trying to figure out how to manage all this with my churches and with the news stations... I was completely spent.

Life meets ministry, indeed.