Tag Archives: familiarity

Searching the crowd…

02 Wednesday Mar 2016

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Any time I am in a city, I have a strange habit of expecting to see someone I know. Somehow being around that many people makes me feel like I must surely know someone in the crowd.  Now, when I lived in Wilmington, Delaware, my habit was not unwarranted.  In fact, the better expectation was how many people you would run into and from what connection you would know them.  But in cities like New York City or Washington, DC, the habit is a little silly.  We all say “It’s a small world!”  But I am pretty sure I have never accidently run into someone I knew in Manhattan.

So imagine my surprise this week, while on a quick trip down to the DC area, I ran into a former parishioner while waiting to get on my return Amtrak train.  What I had anticipated as being a long, quiet trip of catching up on work and sleep turned into a fun, vibrant train ride with an old friend.  Being from Delaware, he got off at Wilmington, while I continued on to NYC.  But the unexpected moment of recognition and time together was a tremendous treat.  Suddenly my searching the crowds in DC did not seem so unreasonable!

Though I often make fun of myself about my silly habit, I wondered this week if my practice of searching crowds of strangers for familiarity is, in fact, an exercise in hope.  One of our deepest longings is to be known and loved.  Being known makes us feel valued, affirmed, and comforted.  It gives us a sense of belonging, and harkens back the knowledge that we are beloved children of God.  But asking to be known is a hard thing to do – it requires vulnerability, openness to rejection, and letting down one’s guard.  Most of the time, when I scan crowds, I am sorely disappointed.  But every once in a while, a joyous reunion of recognition and being known happens – not unlike stumbling into Jesus’ open arms.

This coming Sunday in Lent is referred to as “Rose Sunday,” a Sunday of refreshment half-way through Lent.  I wonder in what ways we might take a break for penitence and reflection on our sinfulness and remember to walk in the world as a people of hope.  In what ways are you searching the crowds for reminders that you are a beloved child of God?  Keep an eye out so you don’t miss those gracious moments of recognition, affirmation, and hope.

Sermon – Acts 2.1-21, PT, YB, May 24, 2015

28 Thursday May 2015

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There is something quite comforting about coming into the doors of a church.  There is a peace that comes over us when we enter the doors.  Despite the fact that a wooden bench would not be all that comfortable any other time, the sleek, hard pews give us a sense of stability and security.  The familiar motions of the liturgy give us just enough variety to keep us engaged, but enough similarity to give us a sense of comfort.  The distinct texture and taste of the bread and wine in our mouths somehow fill our entire bodies with tranquility.  When those doors close behind us, we feel protected from the outside world – a world that is noisy, harsh, and sometimes cruel.  Inside the doors we find warmth, calm, and serenity.  Slipping into the church is like slipping under a soft blanket that envelops us in security.

We are not unlike those disciples on Pentecost day.  The disciples had made a habit of retreating indoors ever since Jesus died.  Even though the miracle of Easter had happened, almost every time Jesus makes a resurrection appearance, the disciples are behind closed doors.  In fact, on the feast of Pentecost, the disciples were supposed be having a party with the rest of the community to celebrate the giving of God’s law.  But instead, we find them cowering once again in one room behind a bolted door.[i]  I suppose we cannot be too judgmental.  They saw firsthand what happened to Jesus.  Though his ministry had been revolutionary, he was tortured and killed like a common criminal.  Surely anyone associated with him or promoting his ministry and witness would receive similar treatment.  And we cannot forget their shame.  Though they had vied to be at his right and left hand during his ministry, and though they fawned over him when he was making an impact, when push came to shove, they all abandoned him.  And Peter was the worst.  Though he did not betray Jesus like Judas, he basically did the same thing.  In fact, his betrayal may have been worse because he vowed – swore to Jesus and everyone – that he would never, ever betray Jesus.  But he did betray him.  Over and over he denied he even knew the man who was an intimate friend and mentor.  We would probably be hiding behind closed doors too, trying to cover our shame.  Even with all the promises Jesus makes, and the ways he keeps appearing to the disciples, they just cannot seem to get over that hurdle of their shame and fear to step out into the light.

Maybe that is what the community of Christ would have been – a community that gathers in the shadows – had Pentecost not happened.  In the comfort of closed rooms that envelop like a warm blanket, they would whisper stories from the good ol’ days.  They could even develop some rituals just for their members – Jesus had taught them about washing feet and eating the Eucharistic meal.  In fact, maybe they could use that as a recruiting technique.  If word gets whispered around that they are gathering in the quiet, then maybe others will seek them out and ask to join them.  Maybe they do not need to go out like Jesus said and share the good news.  Maybe people will come to them.  They could even figure out a symbol – like a red door – to let everyone know how to find them.

Ah, but you see, God had other things in mind for those disciples.  I wonder sometimes how God ever puts up with us.  God tried for the longest to be in covenant with God’s people.  Over and over again God delivered them from peril.  Over and over again, God renewed God’s covenant with the people, even though they kept breaking that covenant.  Over and over again God chased after the people, longing to gather them like a mother hen.  God even went so far as to send Jesus, to be present among the people in flesh form, and died on a cross to redeem God’s people.  Even after the miracle of the resurrection, after destroying death forever, God’s people still sit hovered in fear, having forgotten all the ways that Jesus wanted them to live boldly.[ii]

And so, on this day, because they clearly could not muster that boldness themselves, something – or someone – breaks down the door – breaks down the walls – and explodes inside the disciples.  A violent, rushing wind fills the room and bursts the doors open.  Different languages – languages they had never spoken before – erupt out of their mouths.  The text says that the people are bewildered, amazed, astonished, and perplexed.  But the Greek text is much more vivid.  The original text says they are “confused, in an uproar, beside themselves, undone, blown away, thoroughly disoriented, completely uncomprehending.”  [You can imagine the chaos from just hearing the chaos of our reading today.]  No longer do the disciples hover in a darkened room.  They are loudly, boldly in the public square talking nonsense – and yet sounding perfectly clear to those gathered.  Even Peter, the one with the most to be ashamed of, the one who probably feels like the deepest failure, on this day manages to become all that Jesus intended for him to be.  When the disciples meet resistance and sneering, Peter stands up and does what he was meant to do all along.  He testifies.  He testifies in public, in the midst of scary chaos, and says the words that have been on his heart since Jesus died.  He proclaims hope, and promise, and fulfillment.  He steps out of the shadows and steps into the light.

How do they do it?  How do the disciples manage to get over their fear and shame and go out into the public square?  Well, they certainly do not do it alone.  The only way they are able to conquer their fear and shame and step boldly into the public square with their testimony is through the Holy Spirit.  Most of us do not really feel comfortable with the Holy Spirit.  We use words like the “Advocate” or the “Comforter” to describe the Holy Spirit.  We think of the Holy Spirit as the one who remains with us after Jesus is gone.  But in our text today, the Holy Spirit is not comforting.  In fact, the Holy Spirit is disturbing, disruptive, and life-changing.  As one scholar says, “The Holy Spirit is as much agitator as advocate, as much provocateur as comforter.”[iii]  In fact, the word in Greek for the Holy Spirit is Paraclete.  That word may be our best way to understand how this all words.  Paraclete is a compound Greek word that literally means, “to come alongside another.”  “In this sense, the Paraclete can be an advocate – to come along side to defend and counsel – or comforter – to come along side to provide comfort and encouragement.  But the one who comes along side might also do so to strengthen you for work, or to muster your courage, or to prompt or even provoke you to action.”[iv]

Last weekend at the Vestry Retreat, our facilitator gave us a challenge at lunch.  She gave us all an assignment.  We had to go up to a stranger in Panera and ask them whether they knew of an Episcopal Church in Plainview.  You should have seen the furrowed brows and the shifting in our chairs most of us did.  You should have heard the bargaining many of us did, promising to do it another day.  We’re not alone in our discomfort.  Tomorrow, you all have been invited to walk with us in the POB Memorial Day Parade to promote St. Margaret’s in the community.  Many of us have valid excuses for not going – the walk is rather long and some of us are out of town for the holiday.  But many of us just do not feel comfortable being the face of the church – giving witness to total strangers.  And that is not the only challenge before us.  Just this week, we posted the baseball schedule for the Little League team we are sponsoring.  The idea is for us not just to have our name in print on a big sign in the outfield.  The idea is also that we meet people where they are – at a baseball field at the POB Community Park on a Saturday afternoon – and just say hi.  We listen to their stories and we share ours.  I know that most of us will not get up the nerve to go sit with a bunch of strangers.  In fact, when we decided to sponsor the team and invite parishioners to go to games, one parishioner told me explicitly, “Oh, St. Margaret’s parishioners won’t go to a game.  They just won’t.”

Today we sit inside, huddled together in a place of comfort and familiarity.  We even painted our doors red and we hope people will find their way to us so that they might enjoy the beauty of St. Margaret’s as we do.  But our church is inviting us again and again to get out of that nostalgic pew, to go out in public, and proclaim the good news.  How in the world will we do it?  Amen.

[i] William H. Willimon, “Taking It to the Streets,” Christian Century, vol. 108, no. 15, May 1, 1991, 483.

[ii] Rob Merola, “Radical Reliance,” Christian Century, vol. 123, no. 11, May 30, 2006, 22.

[iii] David Lose, “Pentecost B: Come Alongside, Holy Spirit!” May 18, 2015, as found on May 20, 2015 at http://www.davidlose.net/2015/05/pentecost-b-come-alongside-holy-spirit/.

[iv] Lose.

Sermon – Acts 8.26-40, E5, YB, May 3, 2015

07 Thursday May 2015

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Have you ever heard a story so many times that you feel like you could recite it from memory?  There was a time in my life when I read the book Good Night Moon so many nights in a row that I could probably have told the story without even turning the pages.  But rereading books is not just a habit of young readers.  Adults do the same thing – we love a book so much that we may read the book again and again.  The familiarity of a story and knowing how the story will end can be quite comforting.  The same could be said of Bible stories too.  Though the Bible is a huge book with tons of stories, we tend to have our favorites that we read again and again.  We read and reread them because they give us a sense of comfort and they steady us in a world of chaos.

The challenge with a familiar story is that we sometimes get so used to hearing the story over and over that we stop really listening to the details.  That is especially true in our story from Acts today.  Philip, the educated evangelist graciously approaches the foreign, outcast eunuch and asks if he needs help interpreting scripture.  He then teaches the eunuch about Jesus, and graciously accepts him into the community of faith by baptizing in a nearby body of water.  In essence, this is a story about how the Jewish followers of Christ graciously open up the community to those who have traditionally been seen as outcasts.

At least that is how the story goes in my memory.  But as I reread the story this week, I began to realize that the comforting tale I had memorized is not quite as simple as I had remembered.  I had always thought of Philip as one of the educated disciples who graciously takes in the eunuch.  But Philip is actually an outsider in this story.  The Philip in our story is not the Philip from Bethsaida, one of the twelve disciples of Jesus.  This Philip is a Greek in Jerusalem, who is one of the seven appointed by the disciples to run the food pantry, the clinic, and the hospice program in Jerusalem so that the Twelve did not need to do that work.[i]  He is not necessarily well-educated, and in fact, is probably pretty disheveled and unseemly, given the relief work he has been doing with the outcasts of society.  The Ethiopian eunuch is an outsider too – in fact he is a double outsider of sorts because of his race and his sexuality.[ii]  Because of his dark skin and the fact that he is a eunuch means he would not have been allowed into the temple.  But this is no ordinary foreigner.  Yes, he is a double outsider, but he is also a highly educated, wealthy, powerful man.  He is in charge of the Queen mother’s treasury, he is prominent enough to ride in a chariot, and he is wealthy enough to own a scroll.[iii]  And although he is not allowed into the temple, he is returning from a time of worship in Jerusalem – so in some ways he is both a double outsider and a faithful follower.  When the eunuch invites Philip into his chariot, Philip is not the one being gracious – the eunuch is the one graciously allowing this disheveled man of faith into his pristine chariot.

Not only is there more complexity to the socio-economic status of these two men, there is also more to the interaction between the two men.  In my mind, Philip was the gracious imparter of wisdom in this story.  But in fact, the Ethiopian does not ask Philip to teach him – as if acknowledging that the two men are unequals.  The Ethiopian asks Philip to guide him – in other words, to journey with him into the Scriptures, and even eventually into baptism, as the two men go down into the water together.[iv]  These two strangers sit side-by-side and together read scripture and talk about what that scripture means.  Philip is on as much of a spiritual journey as the Ethiopian.  This is not a story about a well-educated follower of Christ taking in a marginalized outsider and converting him to Christ.  This is a story about two outsiders, unlikely to ever be sitting together, pondering the word of God together, and finding new life in Christ.

That’s the funny thing about stories – if we do not really pay attention and listen, we tend to fill in the blanks ourselves, often missing the big details.  As I have been watching the riots and racial unrest in Baltimore this week, I keep returning to that theme – that perhaps this is one of those instances where we have not done a very good job of listening.  I suppose I should not be surprised that we are not very good at listening.  We are a culture that talks over each other, that tries to force our version of truth upon one another.  I have listened to countless reporters this week argue with Baltimore residents and protests about their experiences.  I have read countless Facebook posts expressing anger and frustration about the civil unrest.  This whole week has felt like people are competing to have their own version of the truth being seen as the “Truth,” with a capital “T.”  In fact, just the mention of Baltimore probably has you thinking about your own feelings on the subject, mentally blocking any other narratives from your mind

When I lived in Delaware many years ago, I joined a group run through the YWCA that was meant to help foster healthy conversations about race.  One of the main rules of the group was that when an individual shared their story, we were not supposed to be in true conversation.  Each of us was to take turns telling our truths – without interruption or questions.  And the others in the group were to listen.  The method was so counterintuitive that the facilitator’s main job was to enforce the speaking and listening rules.  Although I struggled with the method, I must admit that I learned more in that group than I ever could have imagined.  When I listened – truly listened without assuming I knew how the story would end – I learned things about the experiences of black Americans that I had never known, and had certainly never experienced myself.  Truth unfolded for me like a blooming flower.

Those groups, and my experience this week of trying to prayerfully listen to the oppressed in Baltimore, reminded me of the interaction between Philip and the eunuch.  Back then, God’s chosen people and foreign, black, castrated men did not sit together and study scripture.  God’s chosen people were not accustomed to guiding people instead of teaching them.  God’s chosen people were not only not used to be called to accountability, they were also not likely to accept the criticism and change.  And yet, that is what these two men do.  And the only way any of this story happens is because both men listen – really listen to one another.

This winter I read a book called Toxic Charity.  The premise of the book is that much of the charity work that churches and communities do is flawed because that work is posed as work we do for others as opposed to with others.  The author criticizes communities that enter into impoverished areas, assuming they know what is best for the community.  Instead, the author suggests that those who want to help do so under the direction of those in need.  The main role of those who want to help is to assist the community in articulating their needs, and then empowering the community to make the systemic changes needed for long-term, sustainable change.  That kind of shift in charity work involves a lot more listening, humility, and a willingness to follow instead of lead.

In the case of Baltimore, in the case of Plainview, and really in the case of all Christianity, today’s story reminds us that there may not be simple answers to the world’s ills.  We cannot always fix what is wrong in our society – and in fact, perhaps we can never fix the wrongs without first being prayerful listeners.  As soon as we assume we know someone else’s story, or we know all there is to know about an issue, we have already shut down the movement of the Spirit.  And that is what this story is really all about.  This is not a story about how Philip converted a eunuch.  This is a story about how the Holy Spirit moved among strangers who had nothing in common and created commonality, love, and faith.[v]  The amazing work of Philip and the eunuch journeying to the baptismal waters together is only possible because both agree to vulnerably, honestly, prayerfully listen to one another, to learn together, and to be converted together.[vi]  Their story today invites us to go and do likewise.  Amen.

[i] William Brosend, “Unless Someone Guides Me,” Christian Century, vol. 117, no. 15, May 10, 2000, 535.

[ii] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Homilietical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 457.

[iii] Paul W. Walaskay, “Exegetical Perspective, Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 457.

[iv] Brosend, 535.

[v] Taylor, 459.

[vi] Nadia Bolz-Weber, “The Conversion of the Ethiopian Eunuch,” April 20, 2012 as found at http://thq.wearesparkhouse.org/yearb/easter5nt-2/ on April 29, 2015.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, YB, CE, December 24, 2014

14 Wednesday Jan 2015

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Most of us have a favorite Christmas movie.  Whether we like “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” or “A Christmas Story,” many of us find that until we have watched that special movie, we do not feel like Christmas has really arrived.  My personal favorite is “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” – the animated one, not the newer one with Jim Carrey.  I love the cute little dog that the Grinch dresses up like a reindeer, I love the little girl who sweetly encounters the Grinch dressed as Santa, and I love the songs throughout the movie.  But my favorite part is when the Grinch hears the Whos singing on Christmas morning despite their supposedly ruined Christmases and how the Grinch’s heart is warmed and grows in size.  Part of what I love about the movie is the movie’s wonderful lesson about the true meaning of Christmas – that material goods and abundance do not make Christmas:  only love and community make Christmas.  But I think the real reason I love this movie is its familiarity.  I like that I can watch the movie every Christmas and the movie never changes.  I like that no matter what house I lived in growing up, or where I found myself as an adult, or even how happy or sad I was on a given Christmas, the familiarity of the movie made me feel like I had something to ground me.  When all else in my world was changing, the movie never changes.

I think that is why we find ourselves at Church on a Christmas Eve too.  Every year we find ourselves sitting in a pew hearing the same story of Mary, Joseph, shepherds, angels, and the baby Jesus.  The story is so familiar that we could probably recite the story if pressed.  Whether we are a child or an adult, at home or far away, with loved ones or alone, the story never changes.  That changelessness, that familiarity is something we eagerly anticipate every Christmas and in large part is why we come to Church this night.

Familiarity is something we all long for at Christmas.  When we have lived long enough, we come to know that despite the fact that we celebrate Christmas every year and we try to keep familiar traditions, our celebration is never the same.  Invariably someone has passed away and their absence changes our experience; a family member is not present because of a falling out in the past year; the grandchildren become too old to play silly games or make crafts and the mood is different; or any other number of things have changed – divorce, births, illness, job loss, or moves.  Even if you still gather with your family or a set of friends, change is inevitable at Christmas.  And because we all know how unsettling change can be, we long for something that is unchanging that we can cling to and with which we can ground ourselves.

This Advent we have talked a lot about how much turbulence and change has been happening in our world.  We have watched as the world has erupted in violence.  The atrocities, suffering, and fighting have been so vivid that many of us have stepped away from watching the news.  We have seen unrest in our own country, as issues of race, class, and gender have collided.  And in case any of us were tempted to believe that those issues of race, class, and gender are someone else’s issues, we have only to look at as far as Staten Island to know that we are not yet in a place of peace and justice.  The noise of unrest is so loud that there are times when instead of listening to the news we turn to music, sports, or any other escape we can think of to run from the reality of our world.

The funny thing is that though we turn to our gospel lesson for comfort and familiarity, the same noise that we find in our lives and in our world is present in our reading tonight too.  The very reason that Mary, Joseph, and Jesus end up in a stable is that the Roman Empire has been greedily looking for more ways to bring in money into the empire.  And so peoples are being displaced, making their way back to their hometowns so that the empire can determine whether they have collected enough money from the people.  The Pax Romana is bearing down upon the people, and this nobody couple from Bethlehem is just one more victim of the injustice of the system.[i]

Perhaps that background noise is part of why we love this story so much.  Despite the chaos of that night and of that time, good news comes – to shepherds, to angels, to Mary and Joseph.  We savor the familiar words of goodness that override the story:  “do not be afraid”; “good news of great joy”; “peace among those whom he favors.”  To displaced Mary and Joseph, to disenfranchised shepherds, and to distant little Bethlehem peace, joy, comfort, and hope explode on this very night.  We have learned from hearing Scripture Sunday after Sunday that Scripture can often be hard, challenging, and downright condemning.  We spend much time throughout the Church year struggling with where God is challenging us to live differently and beckoning us to live more Christ-like lives.  But not on this night.  On this night, we get assurance, comfort, and joy.  We get an innocent baby – in fact a baby that will change the world for good.  Like young parents ourselves, we can worry about money, health, and safety later – because on this night of Jesus’ birth, we just want to cling to the Christ Child and all that the child represents.

Now there are times in our lives when clinging to the familiar just for the sake of comfort is a bad thing.  Maybe you yourself have been criticized for living in the past, romanticizing what once was, especially at this time of year.  But this is one of those rare instances when the Church says that we have permission to live in the past and cling to the familiar.  That is because this familiar – this story of Jesus’ birth – is worthy of that kind of devotion.  We are not staking our claim on something superficially good when we come to Church this night – we are not clinging to a romanticized past that can never fulfill us.  We are clinging to an event that happened a long time ago, but whose significance changed things forever.  In this incarnate experience of God, the game changed for all time.  God became flesh and dwelled among us, and we are changed for the better.

So tonight, I invite you accept the gift of familiarity and comfort.  Let this night warm your heart and soul and cling to the familiar story and all that the story means for us.  Hold fast to that comfort, and return to these words whenever you need them.  We have 364 other days to worry about what is going on in the world.  In fact what happens here in Scripture tonight deeply impacts how we will respond to that world the rest of the year.  But that is for another day.  Tonight, take the gift of comfort, joy, and hope and let that gift fill you up and strengthen you for the work God has given you.  Use that gift as fuel, and then let God’s holy meal fill your belly so that you are strengthened for the work ahead.  May God’s peace and joy fill you up and overflow out of you to others.  And then be agents of peace through the Prince of Peace who comforts you tonight.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Something More,” December 18, 2011 as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=1612 on December 20, 2014.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2012

27 Thursday Dec 2012

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When my daughter was first able to express her desire for a particular bedtime book, I found that she wanted to read the same book over and over again.  After a while, I knew the words and images of Goodnight Moon by heart.  Knowing them by heart meant that I always knew how many more pages we had to go, and what the next rhyme would be.  I knew which pages would be in color and which ones would be in black and white.  I remember several times trying to convince my daughter to try one of the other lovely books on her shelf, but she wanted the familiar.  Just the other day, I stumbled across Goodnight Moon at the bottom of a stack of books, and a broad smile spread across my face.  I sat down and turned the pages on my own.  Memories of rocking my much smaller daughter to sleep, of turning on her music mobile, and of tiptoeing out of the room flooded my mind.  Rereading those words and seeing the pictures again brought to mind a very happy time.

Sometimes I think the Christmas story from Luke is like that for all of us.  We have heard the words hundreds of times – from priests, in pageants, and even in “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”  We long for the familiarity of the words.  We close our eyes as the words wash over us, the familiarity giving us a sense of peace and calm.  This is why we came here tonight – to have the familiar story retold to us, to center and ground us in the story of our ancestors.

In truth, we all could use a familiar comforting story lately.  We have had a rough couple of months.  Between the mess of Superstorm Sandy and the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut, we are emotionally exhausted.  Add on to that the normal stress of Christmas – traveling to be with family or hosting people, running around trying to get the perfect Christmas presents, making sure the kitchen is stocked with the ingredients for everyone’s favorite recipes, and getting out those Christmas cards.  The roads are crazy with traffic and our minds are in a hundred different places.  Although we come to Church nicely dressed on Christmas Eve, our appearance only masks the chaos within ourselves.  In the midst of all of this, we long for a familiar, soothing story.  We need a “once upon a time,” story where we can turn off our minds and settle into the goodness of God’s incarnate son.

The problem with this desire for comforting familiarity is that Jesus’ birth story is not exactly a comforting story.  We prefer to hear the story this way:  “Once upon a time, there were two people in love who were given the gift of birthing God incarnate.  And when this sweet baby was born, angels appeared to shepherds who came to celebrate the Christ Child.  And they all lived happily ever after.”  We do the same thing with our own family stories:  “Once upon a time, grandma and grandpa had mommy and daddy who had me.  Every Christmas we gathered together and celebrated with our whole family in great joy, peace, and harmony.”  We leave out the part where our drunk uncle always marred the celebration, our grandma always managed to insult our mother, and we always just wanted the day to be over so we could go home and sleep off weeks of Christmas anticipation finally fulfilled.

When we treat Christ’s story as a “once upon a time” story, we forget the real details too.  A very pregnant Mary and a troubled Joseph have just taken a long journey, bowing to the demands of the empire.  The city is so crowded, they are forced to sleep and birth their first child among hay and animals.  Later, angels in their astounding and shocking glory appear to shepherds – the lowest on the social strata – to share the news of Jesus’ birth.  These grubby men with their loud animals barge in on what is already a messy temporary home to share the angels’ story with Mary and Joseph.  In the framework of an oppressive empire, we find our savior being born not in the majesty due a king, but in a very normal, vulnerable, if not impoverished setting.  When the news is announced, the news does not come to the Temple priests or religious leaders of the time.  Instead, the news is given to nobodies, with little influence or power.  This amazing, incredible thing – God taking on human flesh, becoming incarnate to save us, happens in the form of a vulnerable baby in a nondescript setting.[i]  This version of the story does not have quite the same ring as the “once upon a time” version we most prefer.

The good news is that the messy, uncomfortable, tense version of this story has much more meaning than our glossy version of the story.  As strange as this may sound, Jesus’ birth happening in this un-peaceful setting is what makes this story so full of peace.  From the very birth of Jesus, we discover what this new life will be about – the poor, the marginalized, and the outcast.[ii]  Why would this kind of news be good news for us?  This is good news because not only does Jesus give us our mission from the very beginning of his life – to serve the poor, marginalized, and outcast – but also Jesus reminds us that we too are impoverished without God.  As Bede reminds us, “Though he was rich, yet for our sake he became poor, so that by his poverty we might become rich.”[iii]

You may not know this about me, but I am a big fan of religious art, especially art portraying Mary and child.  Certainly fine art depictions and iconography of Mary and Jesus are fascinating, but what I most like are renderings that catch me off guard.  One of my favorites is an icon from Cameroon, depicting a very African Mary and Jesus.  A more recent addition to my collection is of a dimly lit room, with a sweaty, exhausted Mary, messily splayed out on a make-shift bed, surrounded by women helping her recover from childbirth.  In the dim background, a baby is being held, without much detail, but a light halo around his head.  Something about the raw, gritty nature of the scene opened up for me something fresh about that night.

What I like about this painting is that it offers the raw, real version of the Christmas story.  The painting takes us out of the idealized “Silent Night,” version of Christmas, and throws us into a night that is much messier.  Besides, there was little about that night that was silent.  Surely Mary cried out in childbirth, Jesus screamed as a newborn, and there was a commotion with all those animals around.  Surely the heavenly host singing did not make for a silent night.  Surely that noisy night was as loud, noisy, and messy as our lives.

And that is where I find comfort in the birth story tonight.  Imagine your favorite aunt leaning over to whisper in your ear a story like this:  “Once upon a time, two scared young people said yes to God, and in the most socially unacceptable way, brought a young baby into this world.  They did not have a nice place to stay, but they made due.  Later, a crew of crusty sheep keepers came and told them a fantastic story of angels affirming what Mary and Joseph knew all along – their precious little son who had already caused so much trouble for them was actually going to save the world.  And as all those gathered around looked at one another – disrespected shepherds, a socially outcast couple, and a vulnerable little baby – they laughed.  The laughed because they knew the truth – God has a funny way of breaking into the world and bringing salvation to those of us who need saving!”

Now maybe this version is not the version you needed to bring you that sense of longed for familiarity.  Maybe you just want to hear, “And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.”  But this rougher version offers us the interpretation we need to understand why tonight’s familiar story is so full of hope.  For if God can redeem the messiness of the world, maybe God can redeem the messiness of our lives too.  Amen.

[i] Charles L. Campbell, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),121.

[ii] Robert Redman, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),120.

[iii] Redman, 120.