Ministers’ Message
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is often remembered as the darkest of Scrooge’s visitors, yet I’ve always believed its purpose is far more hopeful than frightening. I have watched this ghost send my own children scurrying out of the room during different cartoon versions of the story, or covering their faces with blankets until the scene passed. There is something about this silent, shrouded figure that touches a very human fear, even for adults.
And yes, this spirit shows Scrooge how dark and lonely his life becomes because of love withheld, but it does so with a strange sort of charitable compassion. While all the spirits have come for Scrooge’s welfare, I have always considered this final visitation to be the costliest part of what Jacob Marley secured for him. Who among us ever gets to see how we are remembered? Who ever receives a gift like this, painful as it is, revealing the truth so that it may yet be changed?
The visions Scrooge sees are unflinching: he hears people speak of his death without grief, even with amusement, he watches a family’s relief blossom the moment they learn he is gone, he stands at the edge of a neglected grave bearing his own name. Nothing in these scenes is warm or hopeful. They show him, with terrible clarity, the cost of a life lived without connection.
These moments crush him, and within that crushing weight lies the truth he fears most: his heart has changed, but perhaps too late for the world to see it. The looming silence of the spirit gives him no reassurance; despite his pleas, there is no promise from the ghost that the future can be altered … no comforting word … no clear answer. All he has left is a longing to live differently, and the doubt that his longing might still matter.
When Scrooge finally pleads to become a new person, his words rise from a vulnerable and fearful place. He knows he has wasted years. He knows he has wounded others. He knows he cannot undo the past. Yet he reaches anyway, asking for a chance he cannot guarantee. This is the moment when faith looks a lot like acting without certainty, and it is also the moment Scrooge first stands on the edge of unconditional grace.
On Sunday morning we will reflect on this final spirit’s visitation to Scrooge as an invitation for us to consider the future we still long to shape. Many of us carry fears about our own lives, our relationships, our regrets. Many of us know the ache of wanting to mend what feels beyond repair. Scrooge’s story reminds us that even the hardest truths can lead us toward mercy. The future is never fixed. There is always room to turn toward love again.
Later that evening, we will gather for our Longest Night service, a gentle space for those who carry grief during the season of Christmas. We will light candles for the people we miss, for the love that remains, and for the stories that shaped us. The Longest Night does not pretend grief is easy. It simply makes room for it. And Scrooge’s own night of visions reminds us that acknowledging loss does not pull us away from hope. It can deepen our desire for it. It can remind us how much we long for light.
If you would like to revisit Scrooge’s encounter with this spirit, you will find it in A Christmas Carol, Stave Four.
As we enter this fourth week of Advent, I encourage you to listen to your own longings for the future. Notice the places where you hope for reconciliation. Notice the parts of your life that still seek healing. Notice the small stirrings of courage that rise when you imagine living with greater compassion. You may not have certainty. You may not know how things will unfold. But that is where grace often meets us; moving forward in the very act of loving without guarantees. It is there that the light we await draws near, whether or not we feel ready for it.