Hello in the middle of a holiday weekend,
Phrases like "it's the most wonderful time . . . I'm dreaming of . . . In the lane snow is glistening . . . Marshmallows for toasting . . . It's Christmas time in the city . . . I'll be home for Christmas." fill the airwaves, the store soundtracks, or our memories as we move toward the hopefulness that seems synonymous with the season that begins with a week more until the first day of Advent. While I am certainly grateful for the kindness this season seems to bring out in so many individuals, there is still the truthful, and for some, painful actuality that this month, which culminates in Christmas and a rewinding (or real moving forward) to to another year, can be stressful, might be agonizing, or the lengthening darkness might overwhelm the bright, as the shortening days of the winter seem to permeate all crannies of our temporary existence. And yet, yearly, it seems that I find a sense of hopefulness as I allow myself, though much later than retailers, to turn toward Advent and what it means.
It was my first trip to Germany as a student at Dana College that I began to understand Advent as something much more than the time before Christmas, and it was reinforced in that second trip when I was a student in seminary. Advent, the season of lighted weekly candles, candles named hope, love, joy, and peace, the season of preparedness for something yet to come. Those trips to the land of Luther did more to help me understand the liturgical differences of Advent and Christmas than anything ever did, and it changed my appreciation for both. What I realize now is it help me differentiate the elements of hope and reality, but also their connection. Hope is an incredibly important piece of our humanity. It is what keeps us going. I have considered the issue of hope from other perspectives, but hope from a liturgical sense, from a preparedness perspective provides something that takes us from the real to the possible. What I realize at this point, as someone who is moving into a different phrase of their life, hope is the consequence of preparation. Hope is something that moves us toward the possible. It is essential if we are to commit to the changes that are often too difficult to fathom. It is the substance of moving from a place of despair, seeing more than darkness and believing that change is something within one's grasp. While certainly some of this is based on my Lutheran heritage, much of it is also based on an unfailing belief that we have agency and accountability for ourselves on a daily basis.
As I have often noted, there are many experiences from which I could be disillusioned. There were words, phrases, and actions that did much that caused me to question my place, my self-worth, and my value, many of them undeserved, many of them in the moment overwhelming. My agency, my self-advocacy came through some small ember that smoldered inside me, eventually bursting into that flame that pushed me to see an option for something better. It was hope and trust in something greater than myself that allowed me to wistfully imagine a possibility for something more promising. And yet, from where did that hope or trust emanate? It came from real people, a grandmother, a church member, another Marine, who served as a surrogate father of sorts, and parents of a co-worker when I had come home from the service. I learned that I needed the support of others as I struggled to make sense of who I was, where I was headed, and what I hoped I might do with my life. Each of those individuals created a possibility, provided an opportunity, and offered something that had incredible value as I stumbled along, wondering where it would all lead. It was not until I had made it through the Marine Corps, wandered a bit more and found my way to Dana College I began to really see who I was, or more accurately, what my potential was. There had been glimpses, but nothing sustained. It was on that Nebraska bluff that I first found potential; I found hope. And yet, as long as someone was able to make me question, those questions loomed large. It was when they were no longer there I could begin to process all that had happened. By that time I was a parish pastor. My colleague and senior pastor looked at me intently as I returned from that time in Sioux City in August of 1989, and stated rather intently, "I want you to go to counseling about your mother." While on one hand, I wanted to rebel, believing I knew what I needed, but deep down, I knew he was correct. That work was the beginning of what would begin twenty years of work on my past.
In spite of all I had accomplished, there was a hollowness, an emptiness that no person nor success could heal. Once upon a time, the counselor, who worked with me for 6 years through graduate school, noted the difference between my professional and personal life, but he also noted that there were times that struggle to be good enough, to be work enough, to succeed enough in either realm would never happen because I would not let it. That is a stunning statement to hear, but more importantly one to comprehend. What is enough? There is no amount if there is no hope. It was not what I was or wasn't doing, it was what I did to mollify my struggling, my damaged, self-esteem. What causes us to lose sight of hopefulness? It is because our reality is unfulfilling, and yet that begs the question, what will create a serenity in one's life? Too often I found it easier to prevaricate anything that forced me to be introspective. Any such self-observation was painful because it caused those negative voices and actions to bubble to the surface and I was incapable of dealing with them. So it begs the question of what happened to change it? Distance from the time where that was the basic atmosphere that was either created for or self-created is part of it. Being in a situation where I felt valued is most certainly another. However, most importantly, those two things allowed me to be contemplative in a way that I faced those demons of sorts. I was strong enough and brave enough to be honest with myself. Again back to the connection of what is real and where is there hope?
The title of the blog seems to indicate they are different, polar opposites of sorts, but I have concluded that is the problem. Reality is our life; it must be dealt with, but what comes to the rescue when our reality seems to overwhelm us? It is the ability to see something, to believe something, to hope for something different. Note --- I did not say better. Difference causes us to rethink, reassess, reimagine. Difference, is the same think I speak with students about in their writing. It is, in composition terms, revision. Our lives are full of revision, a new school, a new job, a new house, a new car, and each time we are offered that revision, think about how you feel. It is something that offers hope. Hope always occurs within the reality of our lives, but too often we fail to see it. Hope is not something that beams through like the morning sun in an Eastern window - it can be, but often it is more like the Advent candle, a flicker of a single flame reminding us that there is still darkness, but that is not all there is. As I finish this week of classes, the last week before finals (and I do not have any of them), tomorrow will be the last day I am face-to-face in my teaching career in the academy. How did I get here? That is my reality this morning as I write this, and while there is a profound mixture of thoughts and emotions, and I am in the whirlpool of commenting, grading, preparing for a winter session and one last new prep in the Spring, I know tomorrow will be overwhelming to me. As always, there are so many student stories and they too are overwhelmed. If they are freshmen, this first finals period is daunting. If they are graduating in a week, doing final senior seminar presentations, and preparing to do that "adulting" thing, they too are beyond frightened. And yet for all of them, I pray they see a hopefulness. Regardless the grade in a class, in spite of any sense of what if?, whether they are ready or not, the semester, or their time as a student at Commonwealth, will finish. And I believe now, perhaps more than ever, and in spite of the panoptic worry about our world, the students going into today's world are more diverse, more accepting, and more capable than any student group in history. It will require thoughtfulness, careful analysis, and the belief that they can make a difference. I see them daily, and I listen to their thoughts and concerns. It seems impossible that four years have passed since my brilliant colleague, and soul of our department, left this world. Dr. Terry Riley was known for his ability to be a realist and yet hope for the goodness in his students. He also taught us, his colleagues so much. As Advent is upon us, I wish you all hope and yes, love for the other. I wish you joy in your preparation for this holy season, and I wish you peace both in your hearts and in your relationships.
Thank you as always for reading,
Dr. Martin
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