“But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.” – 1 Thessalonians 4:13

I have a different playlist for every month of the year (Jazz in January, Funk in February, etc). They’re all amazing, but December is special. I have at least 5 Advent and Christmas playlists. And yet, the 6th playlist is old school. It’s my Christmas Album collection. Legit LP’s. Records.

Many in the collection are heirlooms, some of them I’ve bought myself. I have all the classics Johnny Mathis, Dean Martin, Nat King Cole, John Denver, even Barbara Streisand, who, as a Jew, sings an Away in a Manger that will knock your socks off. But each December, the first album on the turntable is always this one.

The music is gorgeous. It’s all acoustic. Some familiar tunes, some not. And, don’t tell the cool kids that I’m this much of a sentimental dork, but each year this album moves me. 

And it’s not just the music. It’s the cover! Look at it! This is Advent: tree branches silhouetted on deep blue at twilight or dusk. This is it! Shadows, darkness all around, and yet, there, there is light. 

Paul writes, “We do not want you to be uninformed… so that you don’t grieve as others do, as if you have no hope.” 

In the midst of lamentation, pain, long-suffering, sadness, the shadows can seem like all there is. The darkness can appear to be winning, even to have won. But friends, I want you to understand. I do not want you to be uninformed. The light is there. And its fullness is on the way. 

The interesting thing about lamentation in the Bible, or lament psalms, is none of them end in lamentation. No. All of them end with some kind of turn toward hope. An affirmation of faith, an “I will trust in the Lord,” a promise to wait until joy comes in the morning. Advent is the season of waiting in the space between the lament and this final Word which turns sorrow into gladness.

And so in this season of shadows, the church waits together. We grieve together, lament together, and wait to hear another word. In fact, even in the waiting, we actively offer one another this word as it’s been given to us: written in the scriptures, proclaimed in the church, made flesh in Jesus Christ. We declare to one another a word which we, on our own, cannot hear, a Light which we, on our own, cannot see, a promise. The promise, that, though the branches are bare, and darkness surrounds, the light is not gone. 

This Word, it will not magically stop our grief, or our pain, nor our sin or death. What it will do, however, is prevent us from grieving, or living, as if we had no hope. 

In the name of God, I do not want you, dear reader, to be uninformed. To those who dwell in deep darkness, a light has come, is here, and shall prevail. We have a hope.

“Say to those who are afraid, ‘The Lord your God shall come.'”
– excerpt from an ancient monastic liturgy for night prayer in Advent.