Drop everything--the thoughts about last minute shopping, the worries about tomorrow’s dinner, regrets about the present you forgot to wrap, the cards you forgot to send--drop everything and let yourself get lost in this amazing story. Savor the richness of it with all its heavenly peace where all is calm and all is bright. Savor this as fully as you possibly can.
I know, I know. There is a great irony in my telling you this. Except for the Giants winning the World Series, all in all it's been a bleak year. The world has not been all that calm or bright, and, God knows, we’ve been a little short on heavenly peace this year. It is an irony to tell the story of Jesus’ birth on a night like this after a year like this.
- Children slaughtered in Pakistan, innocent lives ending in beheadings, and a new, brutal terrorist state rolling across Syria and Iraq. The irony of this holy night.
- African school girls kidnapped, legions of women around the globe abused, and the rape culture in our own country. Not very calm and bright is it?
- Atrocious torture by our government that continues to this day
- In Ferguson, Staten Island, and too many other places, black and brown men killed by police, and in Brooklyn, two NYPD officers with young families murdered by a career criminal. The irony of this holy night.
- The other night I stood on Bernal Heights with the parents of Alex Nieto, the young Latino killed by four police officers. At the site where he was killed, we said a prayer. This is their first Christmas without him. For them, this night is neither calm nor bright, but carries more than a few tears. The irony of this holy night.
- I spent yesterday afternoon with a young man and his girlfriend. Like Mary and Joseph, they are pregnant, and like Mary and Joseph they have no place to stay, have spent many nights on the streets. He has a troubled past and is now trying redeem himself, turn his life around. He’s been looking desperately for a simple, low-skill job but no one will hire him. The irony of telling the story of Jesus’ birth on a night like this.
- And here in our own community, we have watched, often with a helpless feeling, as our own beloved Jackie and Tikhon and Nico and Cecil have struggled with serious health issues.
We all get it: It is ironic to tell the story of Jesus’ birth after a year of so much struggle like this past one.
But do it we must, because on this night a child is born. And whenever a child is born, the whole world stands still, and we humans drop everything to stand once more in amazement and hope. Maybe a smile comes over your face, maybe a tear of joy wells up in your eye. We can't help ourselves. It's what we do.
If only for a brief moment, all the sadness and tears and death of the year give way to life and joy and a reason for hope. It's enough to keep us going, a moment like this, as we relax into a peace that is holy and into a time where time itself seems to stand still, and the sounds of violence and gunshots are suddenly far away, overcome by angelic voices drifting through a starry, cold night.
After feasting on this story of the Savior’s birth, there will be time enough for you and me to get back to work, to once again pick up our gifts and go to work with God
to feed those who come to our Julian Pantry in need of food,
to stand with our LGBT sisters and brothers and the many immigrant families still being torn apart by our broken immigration system
There will be time enough for us to resume our Nightwalks to end the violence on the streets of our neighborhood, to stand in silent vigil against our country's wars, to work with our friends in Nicaragua for clean water in their villages
There will be time in the days ahead for these things, but for now, we step back from it all to enjoy once again those visions of angels and shepherds, and the manger and the baby in the straw, and the animals, and Mary and Joseph; to sing out all the old carols; to relish the warm and wonderful family memories that we treasure and hold dear; the colors and sounds and scents and flavors that add to the richness of this feast.
These things warm us in the winter, comfort us and give us hope. They brings us back to childhood--every Christmas, year after year after year. Amazing. Just today, just for this one day, let this moment be comforting and traditional. Let it be familiar and warm and loving. Let it nourish and strengthen us for the year ahead.
Garrison Keilor with his down home humor puts it this way:
...a little faith will see you through. What else will do except faith in such a cynical, corrupt time? When the country goes temporarily to the dogs, cats must learn to be circumspect, walk on fences, sleep in trees, and have faith that all this woofing is not the last word. What is the last word, then? Gentleness is everywhere in daily life, a sign that faith rules through ordinary things: through cooking and small talk, through storytelling, making love, fishing, tending animals and sweet corn and flowers, through sports, music and books, raising kids — all the places where the gravy soaks in and grace shines through. Even in a time of elephantine vanity and greed, one never has to look far to see the campfires of gentle people.
Gentle people of St. John's, gentle guests, on this dark winter night, let us once more savor the story of our Savior's birth, and this feast in all its richness, so that we can keep our campfire burning.
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