
By Donn King
The Christmas season is a time for joy and celebration, but it is difficult for grieving people.
I’m one of those people.
My oldest son died right after Christmas nearly two years ago. Only 32 years old, but fighting brittle diabetes and renal failure, he had come close to death multiple times before and always returned from the brink. So when he went into the hospital with the flu on Jan. 6, 2018, it seemed almost routine, especially since all the rest of us were fighting the flu as well. On the morning of Jan. 10, he sat on the side of his bed and chatted with nurses when they brought medicine at 5 a.m.
When they came back at 5:20 a.m., they found him dead.
Apparently the flu messed with his potassium levels because his kidneys didn’t work correctly, and the potassium stopped his heart.
His seat at the holiday table sat empty for the first time in December 2018. Though hard, it didn’t surprise us. Maybe that’s why this year has been more difficult in a lot of ways.
I had never really heard about “Blue Christmas” or “Longest Night” observances until this year, but I have learned that a lot of churches hold them. While not exclusive to United Methodist churches, we seem to offer them more than other fellowships. So even though we really didn’t have enough time to promote it properly, my church decided that a lot of folks in our community could be facing the same challenge.
So we scheduled our own Blue Christmas service on Dec. 22 at 2 p.m. at Lincoln Park United Methodist Church in Knoxville.
Later that same day (Dec. 22) on the west side of Knoxville, Ebenezer United Methodist Church will hold a Blue Christmas service at 5 p.m.
We may pack the church, or we may only have two people. We don’t know. We have just tried to let our neighborhood know what Blue Christmas means (i.e., it’s not about Elvis!), and to make it available for those needing support. We realized we would have higher attendance earlier in December because a lot of folks will already be busy with family activities by Dec. 22. But that is also the time when grief may come most intensely and people need the service the most.
When you face grief during the holidays, you hesitate to talk about it because you don’t want to be a downer. You don’t want to diminish the joy and celebration of others. But that very joy and celebration can suddenly cause grief to rise afresh as we feel the absence of a loved one more acutely.
Blue Christmas is a service where you can come together with others who grieve, who will understand your challenge. You can receive support, take the mask off for a bit, and speak the name of the absent one, and although several churches have already held similar observances, you have at least two more opportunities for that kind of community on Sunday.
If you, too, find the holidays challenging, may you find peace and comfort, and yet also the freedom to feel and express your grief.
The Rev. D
onn King is pastor at Lincoln Park United Methodist Church, located at 3120 Pershing Street, Knoxville, Tennessee.
Another resource:
"Grief at Christmas," a Western North Carolina Conference podcast
The Christmas season is a time for joy and celebration, but it is difficult for grieving people.
I’m one of those people.
My oldest son died right after Christmas nearly two years ago. Only 32 years old, but fighting brittle diabetes and renal failure, he had come close to death multiple times before and always returned from the brink. So when he went into the hospital with the flu on Jan. 6, 2018, it seemed almost routine, especially since all the rest of us were fighting the flu as well. On the morning of Jan. 10, he sat on the side of his bed and chatted with nurses when they brought medicine at 5 a.m.
When they came back at 5:20 a.m., they found him dead.
Apparently the flu messed with his potassium levels because his kidneys didn’t work correctly, and the potassium stopped his heart.
His seat at the holiday table sat empty for the first time in December 2018. Though hard, it didn’t surprise us. Maybe that’s why this year has been more difficult in a lot of ways.
I had never really heard about “Blue Christmas” or “Longest Night” observances until this year, but I have learned that a lot of churches hold them. While not exclusive to United Methodist churches, we seem to offer them more than other fellowships. So even though we really didn’t have enough time to promote it properly, my church decided that a lot of folks in our community could be facing the same challenge.
So we scheduled our own Blue Christmas service on Dec. 22 at 2 p.m. at Lincoln Park United Methodist Church in Knoxville.
Later that same day (Dec. 22) on the west side of Knoxville, Ebenezer United Methodist Church will hold a Blue Christmas service at 5 p.m.
We may pack the church, or we may only have two people. We don’t know. We have just tried to let our neighborhood know what Blue Christmas means (i.e., it’s not about Elvis!), and to make it available for those needing support. We realized we would have higher attendance earlier in December because a lot of folks will already be busy with family activities by Dec. 22. But that is also the time when grief may come most intensely and people need the service the most.
When you face grief during the holidays, you hesitate to talk about it because you don’t want to be a downer. You don’t want to diminish the joy and celebration of others. But that very joy and celebration can suddenly cause grief to rise afresh as we feel the absence of a loved one more acutely.
Blue Christmas is a service where you can come together with others who grieve, who will understand your challenge. You can receive support, take the mask off for a bit, and speak the name of the absent one, and although several churches have already held similar observances, you have at least two more opportunities for that kind of community on Sunday.
If you, too, find the holidays challenging, may you find peace and comfort, and yet also the freedom to feel and express your grief.
The Rev. D

Another resource:
"Grief at Christmas," a Western North Carolina Conference podcast