As a pastor, one of my great thrills is
Christmas Eve. There’s nothing like the
arrival of those first notes of “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” And I wish you could stand with me on these
steps to watch the light of Christ spread through the sanctuary during the
singing of “Silent Night.” We worship
leaders have a spectacular view of the growing light, and it’s a huge kick.
At the same time, though, I struggle, as I
know many of you do, with the pain and violence and sadness that shadow so many
people here and around the world. A high
school senior has just been rejected from early decision at the college they’ve
pined for. Somewhere right now a woman
is being beaten. Sgt. Mike McClurg, a Marine
and a son of Federated, was shot in
battle this week in Afghanistan. And while he expects a full recovery, it’s a
measure of just how prevalent is the world’s ache and brokenness. In Iraq, Christians are under so much
persecution that many of them are not celebrating Christmas at all this
year. One Iraqi Christian said this week
that “we cannot find a single source of joy that makes us celebrate” (http://www.cleveland.com/world/index.ssf/2010/12/iraqs_churches_cancel_christma.html). What a shocking and frightening reality grips
countless people, some of you included.
The truth is that while many of you celebrate
rich joys this evening—the return home of a child, the presence of a friend,
the birth of a new grandchild, as happened this week to Dan and Jan DeWeese—even
with those joys, most of us also bring here a measure of uncertainty or anxiety
or concern. Most of us have needs that
haven’t been met, hungers that haven’t been filled, hopes that simply have not
panned out.
And truth be told, we hear that story of an
angel of the Lord appearing, and the glory of the Lord shining, and we wonder
if something like that will ever happen to us.
This story of the angels coming to those ancient fields leaves many of
us feeling impoverished by comparison.
Why does such an amazing thing happen to all of them and not at all to
us?
And we would be perfectly within our
rights to wonder that. Except that one
of the striking aspects of the story is who exactly it is to whom the angel of
the Lord appears. I’ve always sort of
blithely assumed, without really thinking about it, that the angel comes to
everyone in the story. That’s not true,
though. While Mary had had an angel
appear to her earlier, when she was told she would give birth to the Savior, in
this part of the story there’s no angel for her. An astute minister named Fred Craddock makes
an observation that I find enormously helpful.
He points out that the Magi who come to visit the baby in Matthew’s
gospel don’t have an angel visit them.
And Mary and Joseph don’t have an angel at the time of Jesus’ birth. Only the shepherds in Luke’s story get an
angelic visit. And here’s what Craddock observes:
“[O]ne still would have wished for [Mary] that night one angel of her own, just
for reassurance. But faith is usually
one angel short” (Preaching Through the
Christian Year, Year A, p. 34).
For some of us, that’s really it, isn’t
it? “Faith is usually one angel
short.” Perfect. The sign we wait for doesn’t come. The obvious reassurance we pray for seems to
keep its distance. Which is why the story
we read a moment ago is especially helpful.
Because it certainly doesn’t say that everyone is going to get an angel
when they need it. That’s not what we
should expect.
Alan Culpepper says the question that
hovers over the birth stories is: “What is it that makes you go to Bethlehem?” It’s different for everyone. In some way or other, we’re all beckoned to Bethlehem, to come to
that place where we might both adore, and be nourished by, the Messiah. The stories of Jesus’ birth, though, remind
us that we all get to Bethlehem,
we all encounter the blessings of God, in our own way. The Magi in Matthew’s story seem to find a
special inroad to God by way of their scholarship and study (Mt. 2:1-12). The shepherds go because of the dramatic
appearance of a whole army of angels (Lk. 2:8-16). And Mary and Joseph go there simply as one of
the chores required of them—to be counted as part of the census (Lk. 2:1). It’s as if to say, ‘Some get to Bethlehem by way of some
dramatic revelation. Some get there by
way of sustained study. And some simply
run into God in the course of their daily lives.’
I’m guessing that most of you are like me,
that you have not had a dramatic appearance of God or some angelic being in
your life. If you have, God bless
you. You have something that many people
don’t. Even if you haven’t had such an
event, though, I’m convinced that, like me, and like Mary and Joseph at the
manger, you meet the Holy One in the course of your everyday lives.
I see the solicitous care of a man for his
extremely frail mother. He visits her
daily, takes her to her church and shopping, talks to her, seeks her joy. And when I see him, I have been to Bethlehem.
I see a nine or ten year old girl sitting
in church with her family, holding the hymnal for her parents, and singing out
as loudly as she can sing. And when I
see her, I have been to Bethlehem.
I see a woman shed tears at her mother’s
death, and talk about the strains between the two of them, and move to
forgiveness and a new peace. And when I
see her, I have been to Bethlehem.
Christmas is funny. We put such an emphasis on the gifts we give
and receive. And unlike some people, I don’t
mind that. I love trying to pick out
just the right gift for someone. And, truth
be told, I love receiving the perfect gift.
I’m aware that we can take the gift-giving to an orgy of excess and
materialism. I still think, though, that
it can be a sign to those we love of our affection and care.
That said, though, it’s not often that I
remember particular gifts as much as I do the experience that surrounds the
giving and receiving of the gift.
Several years ago, when our son Alexander [your scripture reader] was
just beginning to shave, I happened to receive in the mail, just before
Christmas, a free razor. The box said
clearly and conspicuously that it was free.
I nevertheless lightly crossed out the “Free” in a way that it could
still be read, wrapped it, pretended that Mary and I had bought it for him, and
gave it to him as a gift. The other
evening at home, his brother Taylor was remembering that gift, and he said
that, while he doesn’t remember other gifts, he has vivid memories of that one,
because we all laughed so hard about the blatant and shameless
“re-gifting.” In the course of an
ordinary Christmas, with the giving of a silly razor, there is great joy. And in that moment, I have been to Bethlehem.
We go to the manger at Bethlehem in a huge variety of ways. The “wondrous gift is given” through many
different nudgings and graces. One of
the truest paths, though, is by way of offering ourselves in love wherever
there is need. That path always takes us
to Bethlehem. You may have been struck, as I was, by the
story this week of the Cliffs, a family of six who, two years ago, had a major
car accident here in Cleveland as they were
traveling from their home in North Carolina to
celebrate Christmas in Michigan. They skidded on black ice, were struck by
another car, and crashed into the median.
Three of the four children were severely injured, with multiple facial
fractures, broken backs, and numerous internal injuries. They spent nearly three weeks in the hospital
here. What was so striking, though, was
the response to it all. Local Ohioans
prayed for them and brought them gifts for Christmas. And the Cliffs were determined not to be
defeated by the accident. The chief
surgeon said their spirit was amazing.
They never seemed to ask why this had happened to them. They looked, in fact, to the gift the accident
gave them. They came up with their own
family motto: “Don’t waste the wreck.”
They were recently named the winners of a “Vacation Do-over” contest. They used the $5000 to return to Cleveland, and to bring
gifts to children who are in the hospital and at the Ronald McDonald House now. As Tricia, the family’s mother, put it, “We
started thinking, ‘How can we be a blessing?’
It meant so much that people who didn’t know us reached out, and we
wanted to do the same” (http://www.cleveland.com/healthfit/index.ssf/2010/12/accident_victims_return_to_pay.html). They didn’t waste the wreck. They had been blessed to be a blessing.
The signs we get of God’s presence are so
often small and apparently inconsequential.
And yet those signs—the visits of angels, the strange and tender gifts
of daily life, the chances we have to be a blessing—those signs are the stuff
of holy love—God with us, full of grace and truth. “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken
place, which the Lord has made known to us” (Lk. 2:15).