God With Us-- Sermon for the Eve of Christ's Nativity, December 24, 2023

Once, we knew we lived, and walked, with God.

In the beginning God placed us in a beautiful garden(1)—an orderly place, where everything had a name, and everything had a purpose, and everything, even the humans, had been placed there in this beautiful garden by God. We knew we lived with God because every day God would come and walk in the cool of the evening with us. (2) 

We’d stroll along, companionably, and talk about our day together. God would ask us what we had done: “Today we found a new plant over in the verge over there, and we were drawn to it by its amazing fragrance. Few flowers smelled anything like this plant, God, so we named it fuschia.” And our days were filled with wonder, and everything we saw and tasted and touched was a miracle. And God was very pleased. 

When we asked God what God had done that day, God would talk about very important matters, something like midwifing a new solar system in another galaxy,(3) or watching puffins play, or teaching chimpanzees how to use a stick to dig termites out of their mounds so they could eat them as a tasty treat. And always making sure to be home in time for our shared evening walk.

But our restless selves were not satisfied, and so we chose to move away from God and God’s loving companionship. We chafed to be independent. We chafed to make our own rules.(4) That garden and that companionship was tossed aside. (5) 

But God has been chasing after us ever since.

And when we are very honest with ourselves, we have felt something missing deep inside us.

We built monuments to ourselves in Babel, in Nineveh, in Athens, in Mesopotamia, pretending we didn’t need God. God kept visiting our ancestors all along the way, and maybe we’d walk beside God for a while, but always, always, we would decide we could choose our paths better, find an easier way. God even rescued us from slavery in Pharaoh’s courts, parting the waters of the sea like they’d been cracked open like an eggshell, but even then we complained and carped.(6) 

Out in the wilderness, where everything was as un-gardenlike as possible, where hunger and thirst and rattlesnakes dogged our every step, we grudgingly agreed to not only follow God’s cloud in the day and fire in the night and eat the food of angels and the fried chicken God rained down on the ground.(7) 

And in return, in order to keep us happy and safe, we agreed to follow God’s 10 Simple Rules—all of which boiled down to one word really: Love. Love of God and love of each other.(8)

We’d promise—and it would last for a little while. But then, like the trickster raven, we’d get distracted by something bright and shiny, or we’d want to be like the other scrabbling clans around us, or we’d decide we didn’t need a God so incredibly close to us, and we’d push God away and wander off again to do our own thing. Over and over.(9)

When we did turn to God, all God asked was to love us and have us love God and love each other and have some faith. All God asked for was for us to honor God’s presence in the midst of us—not for us a God who needed mountains like the Greeks or Ziggurats like the Babylonians or Teocalli like the Aztecs. All God wanted was to live in the midst of us, and for us to love God and each other. Really.

But we wanted control. We kept trying to put God in a box. David tried to build God a house of cedar, and his son Solomon actually achieved it. God said, "No, no, I’m happy living among you all, a tent is fine, really!"(10) But we wanted our God to be just as awe-inpiring as the neighbors’ gods. 

Each generation made that house bigger and bigger and bigger, and added porches and courtyards and antechambers dripping in gold and gemstones and ivory, all obscuring the fact that they thought they were further confining God out of their everyday lives. Soon, talking to God was reserved for only special days for a select few, and the rest of the time they could go about their business without even thinking about God shut behind those imposing walls and turrets.

But God would not be shut in a box. Not then. Not ever. God would not only be willing to be brought out like the fine china on special occasions or like a lucky rabbit’s foot when things got tough. Because here was the secret: even when we shut our eyes, even when we pushed God away, God was still there. Not forcing us, but waiting for us to see and trust in God.

See, God is always with us, loving us—even when we turn our heads, or our hearts, and insist on our own way—even when our own way is out there with the rattlesnakes and the desert wastes of our fearful hearts even when our own way looks more like a hell of our making. God comes to show us that love is justice and mercy in action—and calls us to embody that with joy and faith. So simple, yet so difficult.

And so it went on. God calling to us, setting before us God’s beautiful vision for which God had made us—and us resisting, mistaking selfishness for security and wealth and power for well-being. Which never worked, much as we wouldn’t admit it.

Finally, God decided that prophets and saints and sages and mystics and even angels just weren’t enough to get us to remember those days when we knew God was always with us.

God with us…..

That gave God an idea.

God, who is the literal embodiment of love and community, decided to actually become one of us. And not as some fire-bolt throwing, six-pack flaunting, bearded Titan; not as some pampered princeling with a fine pedigree and a fancy mansion. Oh no. God had had enough of boxes, even fancy ones. God wanted to show us that God is always loving and present to us—even in the least significant places.

God came to be one of us—and one of the least of us, because God had been trying to tell us all along that money, fame, political power, military might, and oppressing others in the name of our comfort were no way to fill the aching empty spaces in our hearts.

God came to us as the most helpless creature in the world—a human infant, born to a teenaged mother in an occupied territory under the thumb of one of the greatest empires the world has ever know. God came as a little child, to show us the qualities that really matter by embodying them:

Compassion for the lost and aching.
Healing for the hurting.
Wisdom and teaching.
Food for the hungry, given freely.
Empathy for the wayward.
Freedom for the oppressed.
Community and equality for all.
Self-sacrifice and virtue for everyone’s mutual benefit. Especially the forgotten.

A little child, wrapped in rags, lying in a manger—a feeding trough. He and his family looking, like all of us, for a home. Born TO us, born FOR us, living and teaching and loving among us.

Tonight, tonight, if we are very quiet, we can hear—if we are very still and intent—the slight rasp of angel wings as they flutter overhead just as they did to those ragged shepherds all those years ago, and we hear that promise, as much a promise as a plea:

Do not be afraid.
To you, and me, and to all of us is born this day a savior.
He will be called Emmanuel—God With Us.
He will be a Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace.

He will come to live among us, to walk alongside us, in every moment of our lives, no matter how much we try to shove him back in a box and only bring him out on Sundays.

No, our Savior is looking for a home. May we open the doors of our hearts, and spirits, and invite him in, that he may guide us in learning how to live a life of purpose, of joy and connection and life eternal, grounded in love. Jesus didn’t come to reward us for when we die. Jesus came to show us how to live. And it starts by remembering how to walk alongside him, allowing him to show us the way of virtue and love, every day of our lives.

Joy to the world! Jesus Christ is born this night. All he asks is that we live among him, and allow him to a home inside our hearts, that we may walk beside him. Tonight, and every night. God with us. Emmanuel.

Preached at the 8:00 pm Christmas Eve Choral Eucharist at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Isaiah 9:2-7

Psalm 96

Titus 2:11-14

Luke 2:1-14(15-20)

Citations:

(1) Genesis 2:8-19

(2) Genesis 3:8 a

(3) Job 9:7-10 

(4) Genesis 2:15-17; Genesis 3:1-5

(5) Genesis 2:24-25

(6) Genesis 11:4; Genesis 10:6-12; Jonah 3:1-3; 

(7) Exodus 13:3-10; Exodus 16:2-16

(8) Exodus 20:1-17; Matthew 22:36-40

(9) 1 Kings 12:26-30; Judges 2:11-13; 1 Kings 11:33-34; 2 Kings 23:8-14

(10) 2 Samuel 7:1-11

Where Love Is, There is God: Sermon for the Eve of the Nativity, Dec. 24, 2022

That gospel story we just heard cannot be surpassed. In it we have faithfulness, tenderness, awe, wonder, probably a little fear, relief, praise and joy. Through the shepherd’s example, we are encouraged to reach out to God through our God-given imaginations and not be afraid to believe the impossible. We are called to care, fidelity, and compassion, as Joseph modeled, and we are called to giving ourselves over to God in the pursuit of bringing about God’s kingdom, boldly, as Mary modelled. One thing that the shepherds, Joseph, and Mary all knew was that love had come among them, and their lives would be forever changed.

That’s it. The message of the most beautiful story in the world: where we act to bring love and warmth into the world, we encounter God.

It’s the part we don’t hear tonight that we spend our entire lives tracking down. The part that tells us “How”—how to welcome Jesus into our lives, and show that he still lives by our own witness, just like those shepherds in our gospel. How to receive Jesus not simply by saying we believe in him, but actually shaping our lives by his example.

And so, alongside the beautiful story we just heard, and that we will celebrate for these next many days, I want to offer you another story. Some of you may have read it in a book of stories by the great Russian master Leo Tolstoy. The problem is, he read it somewhere, attributed to an anonymous author, and he adapted it, thinking it was a folk tale. By the time he found out the true author, his works had already entered the public domain. So tonight, I want to share with you a version of the original story, written by a French pastor named Ruben Saillens. Even better, let me introduce to you the main character, because his name, so perfect for our congregation, was “Father Martin.”(1)

One hundred and fifty years ago, in the French city of Marseilles, there was a humble cobbler named Martin. Although he was an incredible shoe maker, his generosity and humility led him to live a simple life-- he had his tiny shop on a dusty side street consisting of a single room, and above it he lived in our studio apartment that was neat but plain. Father Martin's wife had died many years before, and their only son had been a sailor who had been lost at sea. He had a daughter, too, but for some reason they no longer spoke, and when asked about her, a single tear would leak out of his eye and run down his cheek as he shook his head mournfully. Yet even though he had known these tragedies, he was nonetheless known as a simple, kind, compassionate man.

It is Christmas Eve, and there's a sharp chill in the air as Father Martin closes his shop for the day.

He heads upstairs to his apartment, lights a stove, prepares a simple meal of stew and bread. He takes his cup of wine and goes and sits in a tattered armchair after pulling out the well-worn Bible from his shelf. He turns to the gospel of Luke, and reads about the struggle of the Holy Family to find a place to rest as they awaited the birth of Jesus. “There was no place for them in the inn,” he reads, and traces his fingers along under the words. “No place for Jesus—no place for the savior!” he exclaims in empathy.
He looks around his tiny home, noting that things may have been worn and well used, but they were neat and clean--certainly much better than spending the night out on the streets, or in a drafty barn. Father Martin thought slowly, “Oh that I could have made room for him here! I would have been glad to see him, to shelter him, and to welcome him into my home.”


“Of course,” he continued, “I have no gifts-- certainly not like the gold and the frankincense and the myrrh that the Magi brought. But what did the shepherds bring? It doesn't say-- but perhaps they didn't have time to get anything. Perhaps they only brought themselves.” Father Martin suddenly looked up on the top of one of the shelves along the wall and saw a small tattered cardboard box he sprung across the room and got it down and looked inside, where two perfect little shoes lay wrapped in tissue paper, made for a baby long ago whose parents had never come to get them. They were the best thing Father Martin had ever made-- his masterpiece. He smiled and touched the supple leather and neat stitches. “This is what I would give to Jesus--my very best pair of shoes I ever made! Oh, I wish I could have seen him and his family!”

He smiled for a moment at his own foolishness. The old man closed the box carefully and returned it to its place on the shelf. He then walked across the room and sat back down in his chair, sighing. Soon his head nodded on his chest, and he fell asleep. His lone candle burned itself out.

A voice suddenly spoke out of the darkness. “Martin!” “Who's there?” he cried out, seeing no one. But the voice, continued gently, “Martin, you wanted to see me. Keep an eye out on the street for me tomorrow.” And then the voice ceased. Martin rubbed his eyes wearily, and heard the clock strike midnight. It was now officially Christmas Day. Surely he must have been dreaming. So he put on his night clothes and crawled into his bed and fell asleep.

The next morning when Martin awoke, he was convinced that he had heard the voice of Jesus. Surely he had nothing to lose by remaining watchful as the voice had told him and seeing if he could see Jesus walking on the streets outside his shop. surely he would recognize Jesus as Jesus passed by-- after all, hadn't he admired paintings of Jesus throughout his entire life? And so he dressed, went downstairs to his shop on the main floor, and pulled up his chair at the large front window.

It was barely dawn, and there was no one on the streets. All that Martin saw was a street sweeper working in the bitter cold. He shivered visibly as he tried to attend to his work, rubbing his hands together, and stamping his feet to keep the blood circulating. Martin, thought, while he was waiting to see Jesus, surely he could take time to offer the man something warm to drink. So Father Martin opened the door and called out to the man. “Come in, won't you? Come in and let me offer you something warm to drink and a seat by my stove if only for a moment!”

The streetsweeper turned to Martin gratefully, and came in from the cold, scraping his boots on the mat outside first. “I can only stay a moment,” the man said. “I don't want to lose my job.”

“Let me make you a cup of coffee, at least. Surely you have time for that!” exclaimed Martin, and the streetsweeper couldn’t say no. Yet even as he prepared the pot of coffee, Martin's eyes kept darting to the window to the street outside to see if anyone was passing.

“Why are you looking outside so often?” asked the street sweeper.

“I am waiting for my Master,” Martin replied.

“Your Master?” the street sweeper asked. “I thought you owned this shop.”

“Yes, I do, I was talking of another Master,” Martin replied.

“Ah, sure,” said the street sweeper, too tired to try to solve riddles. He finished his cup of coffee, wiggled his toes in his boots, and prepared to leave. “Well, good luck, I hope you see your Master today.”

The door closed behind the street sweeper, and Martin sat down again, watching the street closely. A group of children passed by, singing Christmas carols. Martin waved, and they waved back. But still no Jesus. Some people saw Martin watching from the window—he smiled invitingly, and even those who had seemed less than happy smiled back. But still no Jesus.

Martin made a simple lunch from some of his leftover stew, and sat watching carefully. But still no Jesus. A few beggars were made brave by Martin’s smile, and approached, begging for a few pennies. They were not disappointed, and left with enough to buy a small roll and some cheese. There were cheeses-- but still no Jesus.

As darkness approached, the streets grew emptier and emptier. A small, ragged brown mutt slunk by sniffing in the gutter for scraps, limping slightly. The butcher down the street acted as if he would strike the pup with his broom, and the dog yipped in alarm and scurried straight toward Martin’s door and leaned against the post. Martin reached into the stewpot and pulled out a few pieces of meat and some of the broth, putting them on a chipped plate. He took them out to the poor dog, who, after starting, carefully approached the plate in almost human disbelief. Within moments the plate was licked clean, and the dog allowed his head to be petted before he trotted off.


The streets were in twilight and empty now. Suddenly around the corner a figure appeared, and Martin’s heart leapt—but it was only a young woman, not much more than a girl really. She held a bundle in her arms, and as she got closer, Martin could see she was dressed in a threadbare smock and a ratty coat, and the bundle was an infant, about nine months old. Martin sprang outside when he saw her stagger. “Ma belle!” he called out as he rushed to her as she leaned against the wall. When he was closer he could see that her face was creased in weariness, and the baby clung to her for warmth.

“Why, you don’t look well, ma chere. Why are you out so late on such a cold night—and alone with a little one?” Martin asked.

“I’m ill, and going to the hospital, and hoping that they will have pity and admit me although it’s Christmas Eve. My husband is away at sea, and should have returned. But it’s been three months. And now I’m ill…” The shoemaker immediately though of his own son, and his heart ached.

“Please, won’t you come inside for just a moment and warm up a bit? I have some stew, and milk for the baby.” He looked so kindly she felt reassured, and she followed him inside. Martin insisted on taking the baby from her so she could eat, and found one of his wife’s old shawls he had kept for sentimental reasons and draped it around her shoulders, all while crooning to the baby. When the young woman finished eating, he poured out some milk in a cup for the baby and placed it in ront of her so she could feed the child. As he passed the baby over, the blanket slipped, and he saw that the baby’s feet were bare and cold.

“No shoes? Oh no this will never do,” Martin murmured out loud. He looked closer. Could it be that the size was right? He went over to the shelf and pulled down his masterpiece shoes, and took them from the box and unwrapped the paper. Ah, they were the best shoes he had ever made! But he had no use for them, really—shoes are made to be worn, not stored away. And so Martin came to the woman, holding out the shoes, and asked “Will you allow me?”

“I have no money to pay you,” she cried, “and those are so very fine! They are fit for a prince!”

Martin smiled, “We have your young prince here now. Let’s try them on.” And the shoes fit as it they were made for the baby’s feet. It seemed impossible but they looked even more beautiful actually being worn. The young woman clasped the old man’s hands in gratitude and got up.

“I must go,” she said. “You have been so incredibly kind! I can never repay you.”

“No need, my daughter. Just get yourself well, and I will pray for your husband to be home soon!” The door shut behind her, Martin sat down again thoughtfully. It was now night. A fog even began to roll in from the sea. No point in watching any more. Jesus had not come!

He was so heartbroken he moved to his chair and slumped down. It all must have been just a dream! “He didn’t come!” he repeated over and over to himself.

Suddenly the room filled with light. The door of his shop swung open, and he saw all the people he had seen that day—the street sweeper, the passersby, the carolers, the beggars, the young woman and the baby. Each one approached Martin and said, “Didn’t you see me?” Over and over again. Martin was astounded, and his mouth formed a small o in wonder and shock. Could it be?

And then, with one voice, they spoke in the voice Martin had heard the night before:

“I was cold and you warmed me. I was hungry and you fed me. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you invited me in. I was naked and you clothed me.”2)

Martin suddenly understood. Jesus had come, after all.

And so Jesus has come among us, too, and comes to us still, in all those whom we can welcome and help not just in the Christmas season, but all year through. Jesus has come, and lives among us—in the room that we make for him in our hearts and in the love that we share with those we meet, Where Love is, there is God. That’s the message of Christmas.

Amen.


Readings:

Isaiah 9:2-7

Psalm 96

Titus 2:11-14

Luke 2:1-14(15-20)

Citations:
1) Ruben Saillens, “Where Love Is, There is God,” translated from the French by Bob Goodenough, found at his blog Flatlander Faith, from the post “Papa Panov should be Father Martin,” November 20, 2018. The story by Tolstoy is known as “Papa Panov’s Special Christmas,” which can be found here.
2) See Matthew 25:35-36.

The Christmas Heart: Sermon for Christmas Eve

People always want to quibble.

They want to point out that so many things the gospel writers, even Luke, who claims in the first 4 verses of his gospel, he is writing “an orderly account” so that his audience “may know the certainty of the things you have been taught.” And see, already, I have said something to quibble over, because the person writing probably was NOT named Luke, and may not have been the “Luke the Physician” who was a sometime companion to Paul, and may not even have been male.

Then there’s the argument over the dates—Jesus’s couldn’t have been born as late as 6 CE, and yet THAT is when Quirinius, the Roman governor of Syria, which included Israel, ordered a census. And the census didn’t require you to travel, because it was for purposes of taxation, and you KNOW the taxman always wants to know where you live to determine the tax you will pay. UNLESS, of course, Joseph owned property in the city of Bethlehem itself. Then he might have travelled to claim the city as his home, because the Romans reduced the taxes of urban dwellers up to 50%. And THAT possibility, my friends, shows just how much like all of us Joseph was—trying to get his tax bill reduced by hook or by crook. And by the way—there’s still five business days to get those last donations in the St. Martin’s so that you can take them off of this year’s taxes—don’t delay!

And then there’s the debate about the virgin birth (the word for virgin actually meant unmarried young woman). There’s even a charge that having shepherds come to the place where Jesus was born is meant to echo the births of great heroes in Roman legend, like Romulus, Oedipus, and Paris—to place Jesus alongside great, legendary leaders, despite the humble circumstances of his family, including his membership in a race of people who had been subjugated by Rome.

This is what happens when you let your head get in the way of hope. It keeps you stumbling in the darkness of hopelessness, as our reading from Isaiah reminded us from its very first words.

And it’s at this point that we have to ask ourselves what happens to people who let their heads throw up roadblocks to truths that they find uncomfortable—either uncomfortable because they are potentially bad, but also uncomfortable because they sound too good to be true. That’s a kind of uncomfortable truth, too. Just that phrase “too good to be true” smacks of past disappointments. No one, after all, wants to appear gullible, or naïve. No one wants to play the fool. So we close our hearts.

In our gospel today, the most amazing good news gets proclaimed in the most amazing ways. I mean, look at this cast of characters: emperors and potentates and angels and heavenly hosts! And look at the scenes: the bright lights of Bethlehem, hillsides shrouded in darkness, the dark skies being rent apart by blazes of iridescent light and the songs of angels more deafening and surreal than anything one would expect-- and I've been to a Journey concert. And look at all the traveling that takes place: from Joseph and Mary shlepping from Galilee to Bethlehem, and let me tell you, heavily pregnant women don’t even want to travel to the bathroom until they have to. Then there’s the angel descending from heaven to drop heavy pronouncements on the heads of stunned and frightened shepherds, shepherds who fight off lions, leopards, and jackals for a living, and so were not exactly prone to terror.

Disbelief, scoffing, delusion-- these are things that come from giving your head a lock over your heart. And if any of the main characters in our gospel today had led with their heads instead of their hearts, we would not be gathered here today. And let’s give our own hearts some credit for the fact that we ARE here, together, today.

What I am talking about goes beyond the calculations that have led some people to declare that they have a relationship with Jesus—those calculations, I mean, that runs along the lines of a wager, that goes something like this: “when I die, I don’t want to go to hell; to escape hell the preacher has said I have to say I believe in Jesus; therefore I will say I believe in Jesus to escape hell.” That’s one sad, fear-filled line of thinking, right there—death is never a good starting point for anything.

Jesus comes to us as an infant to remind us of that. Jesus does not become a vulnerable human baby to scare us about how we are going to die. Jesus becomes a vulnerable human baby to tell us and to SHOW us how to live—how to live a life full of wonder, full of hope, full of generosity, full of joy. Full of heart.

An open heart is a sign of bravery. After all, an open heart is, by definition, a vulnerable heart. It’s not irrational—after all, it ponders and wonders. But it starts from a point of generosity rather than fear or calculations of possible cost.

Maintaining an open heart is also one of the most dangerous and revolutionary stances you can take—and let us never forget that Jesus was a revolutionary, raised by his revolutionary mother Mary (and if you don’t believe me, listen to that Magnificat again carefully). Jesus wasn’t raised by a mother who said “Hm, let me think that over and get back to you” while she set up the mental abacus. Instead, he was raised by a mother who led with her heart, and who had the courage of ten strong men. She had courage, BECAUSE she had heart, and because she led with that heart when told she would do what seemed like impossible things.

There it is: right there after the shepherds have left most of their flock behind with a skeleton crew, after they’ve rushed into town and barged in on an exhausted couple with a fussy baby, barged in even without a casserole, even though they are complete strangers because they just have to see for themselves. And once they see for themselves, and then gotten finished unspooling their tale, what reaction do they get?

The gospel does not record or mention either Mary or Joseph responding verbally in any way to the story these strangers tell them—the same one the angel had told Mary, the same one Joseph had heard in his dream, What we hear as a response is this:

“Mary treasured all these words and stored them in her heart.”

Another translator put it this way: “Mary stored up all these things, trying in her heart to penetrate their significance.” Mary’s reaction does not come from her head but from her heart. Think about that. Then examine the possible truth and relatability of this statement in your own lives.

Where do you store the things most precious to you—the most precious memories of your past—the smells, sounds, taste and feel of a beautiful day, or a loved one’s laughter or caress or hand at the small of your back? Do you store that in your head? Or in your heart?

Close your eyes. Dig down inside yourself and think of something that made you happy, and feel how your heartbeat changes when you pull up that memory. How your heart becomes lighter when that memory rises up. That’s why we continue to tell the story of the birth and life of Jesus, too—to remind us to store up the gospel story in our hearts until they overflow, and in overflowing, break out into the lives of others. That is, after all, how you change the world.

That statement that Mary stored up these precious encounters in her heart is an invitation to all of us. Jesus has come into the world to find a home in our hearts—each and every one of us. To be our light in the darkness. To be our hope, which calls us to have faith in things we have not seen. But then-

Jesus calls us to let our hearts guide us—to live with Christmas hearts each and every day—hearts filled with wonder, hearts that are open to the possible rather than guarded and shut tight.

A Christmas heart is an open heart. Only when our hearts are open can they be filled. And not just filled, but filled to overflowing. So that we too can be the light of Christ for those who go through day by day without hope, without heart. To show us how to live—really live—with courage and dignity and compassion. So that we can be hope for others.

Amen.

Preached at the 7 pm Christmas Eve Choral Eucharist, December 24, 2021, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church.

Readings:

• Isaiah 9:2-7
• Titus 2:11-14
• Luke 2:1-14(15-20)
• Psalm 96

The Song of the Shepherds: Sermon for Christmas Eve

It was surprisingly cold on the Migdal, or Tower, of Eder. It was normally windy and dry this time of year, but perhaps being up in the tower exposed us to more wind than we would have expected. The last lights of the houses in Bethlehem had faded out hours before, and it felt like we were the only people for miles around who were still awake. 

Nonetheless, I and my fellow-shepherds spent every night while we were on watch overseeing the flocks below from this tower, and so had fellow shepherds generations before us. This tower, after all, had been standing since before the days of Jacob and Rachel, our patriarch and matriarch. Rachel had even been buried near here, back when the town was called Ephratha. In fact, another term for this tower was the Tower of the Flocks—that’s how long the flocks had been pastured in the fields below.

After all, we watched not just any flock. These flocks were holy. The rabbis had set aside our flocks for a special purpose—these were the lambs that would be sacrificed at Passover, so they had to be without blemish or imperfection. We had to watch them especially carefully, therefore, and keep them clean with special soft cloths given to us by the priests, that we always carried with us.(1)

So we were passing the long hours of the night, shivering slightly in the wind, when suddenly the stars overhead seemed to whirl and spin. They danced so much, at first I thought I was getting dizzy and in danger of falling from the tower, and I gripped the parapet tightly—it was hard to tell if I wasn’t already leaning over. Or which way was up.

Then the heavens tore open like a curtain being ripped in two, and light like the sun at noonday dazzled us as a rush of noise broke over us like a wave on the sea. We were driven to our knees, with our hands over our heads. Yet, within seconds, the sound resolved into the most beautiful, most heavenly song of praise I had ever heard, but from no instruments from which I was familiar—and we often soothed the herds by playing the pipes and the lyre. Even I, the one who sang the most of all of us, had never heard such music. It entwined itself in my ear and in my heart, and even while I trembled I also marveled and rejoiced at such beauty.

And then! A terrible, yet beautiful being appeared in our midst. He shone with an inner fire that shimmered with colors of garnet, jade, jasper, carnelian, opal, and sapphire, yet also seemed whiter than salt. Surely, I thought, I was going to die—yet he turned his gaze to me and took in each one of us as we cowered, and I managed to gather my courage to look upon him.

“I AM the Angel of the Lord. Do not fear,” he said, in what seemed like the most ridiculous thing to say to anyone ever, and if we hadn’t been terrified, we might have laughed a bit hysterically. Instead, we were simply shocked into an awe-filled silence. Then he swept his arms open wide. The wind around us stopped, and a soothing, honeyed warmth began to spread through my bones, an abiding peace and calmness, and I felt more alert and alive than I had ever felt before. It gave me the courage to do as he said, and we all slowly got to our feet before him, although we still shielded our still-dazzled eyes with our hands as the light danced above us and around us.

He continued. “Again, do not be afraid; for see-- I am bringing you good news of great joy for all people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”

Can anything good ever come from Bethlehem, I wondered? Its time of glory was long since past. And why would the angel of the Lord come to us, of all people, in the middle of the night, to announce the coming of the Messiah, the long-awaited king? Why wouldn’t the Messiah be proclaimed from palaces and even from the top of the Temple itself? I felt a surge of doubt sweep over me so strongly that I began to suspect I was having some sort of dream.

It was only then that I realized I had asked my questions out loud, and I feared I had angered the self-proclaimed messenger of God. Yet he merely continued talking. “This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.”

And with that final word, the angel rose overhead, and the parted curtain of stars into which he ascended was pierced by an army of winged cherubim and seraphim, singing a holy melody of praise as they zoomed and dipped in formation like a murmuration of starlings—yet rather than being black forms against a white backdrop, they were pure white against an inky expanse of sky such as I had never seen before.

And then, just like that, with glorious songs of praise resounding, in formation the heavenly host ascended back into heaven, and sky sealed itself back up. The stars again shone forth in their flickering constellations, but their light now seemed diminished and hesitant in comparison to what we had just witnessed. We all looked at each other, to make sure we had all seen and heard the same thing—and soon we were talking all at once, trying to make sense of our last few minutes together

We all agreed on the details we had just seen and heard, and we were shaken to our cores. Surely, we thought, lights would be blazing on in the town. Surely, the entire region had seen and heard the amazing things we had just experienced. Surely, we had totally forgotten about the sheep down below and they had scattered to the four corners of the earth is terror. We looked down, though, and the sheep were still placidly grazing or sleeping, head to butt in clumps down below, right where we had left them. It seemed like time had stopped, and then just resumed; the wind swirled faintly around us on the top of that tower, the sheep grazed on, but our understanding had just been completely altered forever.

“What just happened? What shall we do?” wailed Chaim, the youngest of us.

Isaac, the wisest among us and also the most quiet, raised his hand to speak, and when he had our attention, he stunned us. “The prophet Micah foretold what just happened when he wrote,

'And you, O tower of the flock, The stronghold of the daughter of Zion, To you shall it come, Even the former dominion shall come, The kingdom of the daughter of Jerusalem.'”(2)

Isaac looked at all of us, and then continued, “If the Messiah is to be born in Bethlehem, it would be announced from this tower, and the child should be in one of the cave-stalls that we sometimes rent out to shelter our sheep before driving them to Jerusalem.” We were stunned. But that made sense, and agreed with what the rabbis had explained to us in shul. 

 “The angel said for us to go. I think we’d better go,” declared Yossel, who was always the bravest (some could call him the most foolish and reckless among us). But his next words made sense: “If we don’t go, the messenger might come back, and I don’t think I could survive it.” Yet all of us couldn’t go, so Chaim volunteered to stay behind to watch the flocks. The rest of us clambered down the tower and headed into town.

As soon as our sandaled feet touched the ground, a misty, shimmery light shone down from heaven and danced before us, and began to lead us into Bethlehem. We walked past the shelter at the tower’s base where the ewes were kept when they were giving birth, and the light moved ahead of us toward town. This was actually the least incredible thing that had happened to us in the last many minutes, and so without even marvelling we fell into step with this light. When we slowed, it slowed; when we sped up, it sped up too.

Soon it came to rest near one of the caves we used near town—a place that also had rooms to rent as we waited to depart each spring for Jerusalem, and not far from the main road-- just as Isaac had predicted. We had to duck down to enter the cave, and as we entered, we heard the sound of sheep and cattle and donkeys—but also, the low murmur of voices: a man and a girl’s. Soon we saw them—a man, a young woman laying back against a bale of straw, not much older than a girl, really-- and there, in a feeding trough, was a newborn child, his brown, curly hair pressed down flat and moist against his forehead. The young woman started as she saw us, because she had been preparing to wrap the babe in her hijab, and her hair was uncovered.

But we couldn’t back out now. We hurriedly cast our eyes downward, but our gaze kept being drawn to the baby in wonder. It was just as the angel had said! We were rooted to the spot.

It was Rueben, the oldest among us, who figured a way out of our predicament. He reached into his pouch and drew out some of the linen cloths purificators that we used to keep the lambs clean. Keeping his eyes averted from the young woman, he offered the cloths to the man. “For the baby,” Rueben whispered. And the man knelt down next to the young woman, and they swaddled the baby in the cloth strips weaving them snuggly until the child was wrapped securely against the night.

The baby, soothed, opened his eyes and looked right at us. His parents motioned us closer. His eyes were clear as the centuries, and the light of the angel host that had accompanied the announcement of his birth danced and swirled across his dark pupils. I felt all the weight of care and want and fear leave me. Just the brush of his gaze against me healed the broken places within my very deepest being.

In the stillness, as we gazed at each other, we heard an echo of that heavenly song of praise. Hosannas faintly swirled overhead. Then he turned into his mother’s arms and drifted to sleep. Could this truly be the Messiah, the longed-for savior and rescuer anointed by God to reign over Israel?

Yes. This is the lamb of God, we breathed to one another. That’s why he was announced to us, lowly shepherds that we are. Here was the true lamb without spot or stain. And we knew that this holy child would show us the way of peace. The way of truth. The way of shalom—of contentment, of wholeness, and well-being. The way of life eternal, right now.

We looked at each other in wonder, shepherds and parents, and then introduced ourselves. Together, we told the parents how we had been drawn here and what we had seen and heard, even as we knew we must sound insane.

Yet instead of disbelief, they nodded, and greeted our tale with one of their own. They told us how they, too, had been visited by angels and led by miracles and wonders to this place and this time.

Soon, Isaac prodded the rest of us. Surely, the new family needed rest. We promised to bring them food and more cloths when we could. Since our own shelter as shepherds for the temple flock was not any better than this cave, that was all we had to offer. And with that, we backed out of the cave and headed back to the tower just as dawn began to glow in the east.

Yet even as we left and returned to our tower, that song stayed within us. And we began to sing our way through the night—singing out the glory of God, echoing as best we could that song of praise. This was now our mission: to share that song of wonder, to announce the marvels we had seen with our own eyes. To proclaim to the world the coming of the Holy One of God. That song echoed within us even through the coming years. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

 Won’t you join us? Join us, even in our wonder and praise, in proclaiming the light that has come into the world! Join us in carrying that wonder, love, thanksgiving, and praise and sharing it with the world. Tell out the story of God’s love made visible, come for the sake of us all, as the poet proclaimed about us:

The Shepherds watch their flocks by night,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
All around is calm and still,
Save the murm'ring of the rill:
When lo! a form of light appears,
And on the awe-struck Shepherds' ears
Are words, of peace and comfort flowing
From lips with love celestial glowing.
Spiritual forms are breaking
Through the gloom, their voices taking
Part in the adoring song
Of the bright angelic throng.
Wondering the Shepherds bend
Their steps to Bethlehem, and wend
To a poor and crowded inn:--
Tremblingly their way they win
To the stable, where they find
The Redeemer of mankind,
Just born into this world of danger,
Lying in an humble manger.
And they spread abroad each word
Which that joyful night they'd heard,
And they glorified the name
Of their gracious God, Who came
Himself to save from endless woe
The offspring of this world below.(3)

Amen.

Preached at the 8:00 pm Christmas Eve service at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, on December 24, 2019.

Readings:
Isaiah 9:2-7
Psalm 96
Titus 2:11-14
Luke 2:1-14(15-20)

Notes:
1. For a history of this theory, see https://www.patheos.com/blogs/faithwalkers/2012/12/was-jesus-born-away-in-a-manger-at-migdal-eder/
2. See Micah 4:8, at https://bible.oremus.org/?ql=444250871
3. Christina Rosetti, “A Hymn for Christmas Day,” at https://www.accuracyproject.org/t-Rossetti,Christina-Christmas.html

Prayer 2521: On Christmas Eve

Most Merciful God,
let the whole earth and all that lives within it 
sing out your glory and praise! 
Holy One, envelop us through your Holy Spirit
to join in the cloud of witnesses who worship You with joy. 

Let us remember tonight the birth of your Son,
born as a poor refugee, and work for others to have a home. 
Let us be guided by you, Lord Christ, our Daystar, 
to follow the path of wisdom to your side. 
Let us seek to uphold each other in a common life
bound by the love that Christ births in us, and calls us to embody.

Bend near to hear the whispered prayers of your people, O God, 
and place the mantle of your blessing on those we now name.

Amen.

Prayer 1793: The Fourth Sunday of Advent/ Christmas Eve

Blessed Jesus, enter into our lives today:
may we bid you welcome,
and make our hearts your home.

May we join the chorus of heaven
and the throngs who gather to worship You, O God,
and receive your gift of Love Incarnate.

May the power of the Holy Spirit
overtake us and renew our spirits
that we may welcome the Prince of Peace
who calls us to new life and unity.

O Holy Savior,
whose Mother said yes to the power of God
and dared to open herself to God's will,
and carry Love Incarnate into the world:
give us the same courage and openness
to carry your truth in our lives
and be transformed.

Lord Christ,
who comes to us in tenderness and humility,
lead us to light everlasting,
and pour out your blessing upon all who seek your face.

Amen.

Prayer 1066- On Christmas Eve

Dawn, December 24, 2015.

Dawn drenches gold across the sky as we rise from our beds to sing out our praise, Lord God! With overflowing hearts we offer our thanks to You for your manifold mercies, for your glory which fills our spirits with joy. 

Abide within us this day, we pray, and guide us in pathways of compassion and gentleness. May hope arise in our hearts as we seek to live and learn from you, O Blessed Savior, delighting in your commandment of love. Draw us together in unity and amity, O Spirit of Truth, that peace and contentment may reign in our hearts. 

Holy One, press the hand of your blessing upon the hearts of those we now name, we pray.

Amen.