Christopher Thomas
Sermon for the Nativity of Our Lord, Year B, Christmas I – 12/24/20
Isaiah 9:2-7
Psalm 96
Titus 2:11-14
Luke 2:1-14(15-20)
Of one thousand stars I see
There are many more unseen
I’m amazed how they sparkle
They do not sleep or dream.
When I hear the stars are out tonight
I sleep before to stay awake
The moon will rise and give notice
To the coming of awe before the break
The sky will lighten heavens palace
Sending down rays of illuminating light
Covering the first frost late autumn
Reminding me of winter’s nearing sight
If I could take just a few stars
I’d put them on a tall tree
I’d walk the ground beneath the glow
Blessed with all that is given free.
– Starry Night, by Doug Pederson
When words escape us, all we are left with is awe and wonder. When actions escape us, all we are left with is awe, and wonder. Oh, we’ve stood at this place before and felt that overwhelming sense of awe, and wonder. If you’re as old or older than I, you’ve done it many, many times before. It risks bordering on cliché. And yet, it never seems to get old, or tired, or worn out.
Oh, we have stories, many stories, endless stories of Christmases past. The multitude, thousands upon thousands of stories, combined with the hope of those to come that we don’t even yet see, only strengthen and solidify that deep, unmitigated sense of awe, and wonder that we feel this night.
And why is that? Why do we make this pilgrimage every year, to this place, to come and to gaze, with awe, and wonder? We know Jesus is coming. We’ve heard the cries of Isaiah, and Elizabeth, and Zechariah, and John the Baptist, and oh, so many others. And we have had every intention of making this the very best of those comings. I did; didn’t you?
And so we find ourselves here, thankfully, blessedly, again. At the foot of the manger. Not because of anything we’ve done. Rather, in spite of all that we have, and continue to do.
I find myself wondering, how this happened. How did the ordinary give birth, how does the ordinary give birth, how will the ordinary give birth, to that which can only be described as extraordinary?
How did, how does, how will the savior of the world, our world, this world, the one that’s around us, the one that we can touch and taste and feel, do extraordinary things in the midst of what seems so mundane, so ordinary?
The only answer that I can come up with, the only thing that I can figure is grace.
Grace. If I could touch it, feel it, see it, describe it, maybe, just maybe, I could replicate it. Maybe I could be the one who turns the ordinary extraordinary.
Truth be told, grace was already there, long before Jesus showed up. It might seem to have been lying dormant, but it was there. God was there. Not only in the joyful, joy-filled moments, but in those endlessly mundane ones as well. Even in the harrowing moments. When I realized it, and even, and quite frankly more importantly, when I did not. Grace was there.
Grace. That extraordinary acknowledgement that what seems ordinary is not. Shepherds in fields. Pregnant couples journeying. That sense that when we are alone, we are not. That when it looks as though all hope is lost, if we can come back to that place of awe, and of wonder, that hope is being birthed again, and again, and again.
I want to be that place, don’t you? I want to be that place where God’s unbounded grace takes hold, where hope is birthed time and again. I have faith that, in the face of my own “ordinary-ness,” that God’s grace can and will make me whole enough, complete enough, to hold just enough of God’s grace, that I might be a vessel of that grace lived out in the world. That could be something extraordinary that you and I could do.
My mind races with all the possibilities of what might happen if, individually, and together, we could just hold onto a little of God’s grace! God gives us this incredible gift tonight. Hold it tightly; don’t let it drop, or slip through our fingers. Parse it out sparingly, so that it will last until next Christmas.
Funny thing about grace is, that’s not the way it works. The way you get more grace is by giving it away. I know, it’s the queerest of economies, but I promise you, it’s the truth. If each and every one of us is living in God’s economy, if we’re carrying grace with open palms rather than clinched fists, then there is enough of grace for everyone. There’s a mutuality, a reciprocity, and a reproductive quality to grace that says that the more you are willing to give away, the more you will have. And it’s that economy, that mindset that begins to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary.
Maybe that’s how this most ordinary of refugee couples, who set out to be counted, so that they could eventually be taxed, ended up in such an extraordinary situation of their own, the birthing of God’s grace. I like to think that, in spite of her own discomfort, Mary smiles at one of the many people she meets on their journey. Maybe Joseph has a kind word, or shares some food, with another of their fellow travelers making their way to Bethlehem. Grace, in the most seemingly insignificant moments, prepares the way for God to show up in life-changing ways.
Where does God go to make God’s presence known? The good news of Immanuel, God among us, doesn’t start with emperors and rulers and magisterium. It doesn’t start in palaces or grand hallways. It doesn’t start with popes or bishops or priests. No, God goes out to the margins to announce God’s arrival, to shepherds, shepherds, of all things, abiding in fields, watching over sheep. Well, who better to hear God’s message of hope, than those who live on the margins, the cast-offs, the least of us? Who could possibly be more receptive to a little good news?
“Do not be afraid. Today, I bring you good news of great joy for all people.”
Our instinct is to try to hold on to good news, to keep it, wrapped tightly, so that we don’t lose it, as though there’s somehow not enough. We come back here, again, this night, to remember that what has been freely and unconditionally born to each of us out of sheer, unconditional love is not something that we can or should want to hang onto, rather is something to be as equally and unabashedly shared, in ways small and not so small. Each of us can be that ordinary, seemingly insignificant conveyor of God’s radical and relentless grace. We can make big differences in small ways. I know we can.
But for tonight, sit, rest, find peace, the peace that passes all understanding, the awe and wonder that’s waiting for us at the foot of the manger.
Amen.
