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.

Prayer 2870

Guardian of Creation, God of Heaven and Earth,
we praise you beneath the bluest awning of sky,
and give thanks for your manifold mercies.

Help us to rededicate ourselves to your gospel, Lord:
to tend the sick,
to feed the hungry,
to stand with the overlooked,
to give voice to the silenced.
Your commandments enshrine
our call to live and work together
as kindred and companions,
to see You, Lord Jesus, as standing in our midst
and calling us to the values of love and community.

Give us a thirst for wisdom and kindness, O Spirit of Peace,
that we may walk in integrity if the Way of Jesus,
laying down our lives to take up your reconciling work.
Gather those for whom we pray
in the hollow of your hand, O Holy One,
and grant the blessing to rest upon those we name.

Amen.

Serving Jesus in Everyone: Sermon for the Feast of Christ the King, Year A

In 2013, a piece of artwork based on our gospel passage was installed outside Regis College, the Jesuit School of Theology at the University of Toronto. But its journey there had not been straightforward.

It started when Canadian sculptor and devout Catholic Timothy Schmalz was creating meditating upon the passage “Whatever you did for the least of these, you did to me.”

And so, he began the work, and cast his first bronze of his piece. It depicted a life-sized park bench, about 8 or 9 feet long. On one end of it, with room for another person to sit down on the other end, is a human figure, huddled under a blanket drawn up like a cloak, no hands or face visible, lying on its side. The only part of the actual body visible are the feet, sticking out from under the blanket, bare. Two open wounds are visible on the center of the feet, gaping open slightly. The statue is called “Homeless Jesus.”

Casts of this statue have now been installed on five continents, including one in Capernaum in the Holy Land. One has been installed in Rome outside the Papal Office of Charities, where, when Pope Francis encountered it in 2016, he touched its knee, closed his eyes, and prayed.

But what is interesting is how people have reacted to this statue. Ironically, the first two cathedrals that were offered the statue, one in Canada and one in New York, both turned it down. It was too controversial. It was too shocking. They claimed that ongoing renovations prevented them from installing artwork.

When an Episcopal parish in North Carolina became the first home for a cast of the statue in the US, a neighbor wrote an angry letter, while another person in town called police, thinking that the person on the bench was real. Others complained that depicting Jesus as a homeless person was insulting to Jesus, and damaged the neighborhood esthetic. But the priest at St. Alban’s, Davidson, says that most people now who see the statue sit down on the bench alongside Jesus, place a hand on his feet, and pray.

Jesus, who admitted he had no place to lay his head, rejected by people for revealing who he is. Where have we heard that before? Two mighty cathedrals, rejecting an image of Jesus that isn’t an idealized one—but that may be actually a whole lot closer to the truth of who Jesus is and remains for us today. A Jesus who was put to death by empire because his message of love was dangerous to the forces of fear.

It may seem disconcerting, to say the least, on the day we celebrate his reign on earth and the claim that he is King. However, if you listen to the readings in today's lectionary selection, perhaps it's not so surprising after all. All four of our readings talk about leadership and the right use of power, especially political power, with once again the word “political” being used in its best sense as referring to the good of the community.

Our reading from Ezekiel begins with the denouncement of unfaithful priests and kings, those who held religious and political power over the people. Here Ezekiel was doing the most dangerous work that a Prophet could do at the command of God --to denounce the leaders. This is what usually got profits killed, to be honest. And Ezekiel spares no details in the verses before our reading today, listing a long line of offenses: they gorge in themselves while the people starve, taking the best and leaving the scraps answering the need for healing with harshness and cruelty. In fact, Ezekiel depicts the kings and priests as devouring those whom they were supposed to care for. Therefore, God has decided to step in and take charge of caring for the people, using the metaphor of God is the Good Shepherd That closely echoes Psalm 23.

In verse 16, God promises to feed both the weak and the oppressors with justice. Depending on where you stood, that promise was either comforting or ominous. The next verse makes it clear that God is judging between people who may look the same to the outward eye, but whose actions have brought either respite or rejection upon their heads.

In our gospel, one of my favorite passages from Matthew, the idea of comparison and judgment is carried forward, this time carried out by Jesus, sitting on his throne as the King of heaven. The subtitle that often accompanies this reading is the Judgment of the Nations. Once again, just like in our Ezekiel reading, we see a pastoral image, this time of sheep and goats. Jesus listeners would have known that in the Middle East it was a common practice to have the sheep and goats be together in one flock, since their grazing methods were complementary. But what we often don't understand when we hear this parable, in our North American context especially, is that in many parts of the world sheep and goats actually look incredibly similar, so much so that unless you can see their tails you might not be able to tell them apart.

In fact, mistaken identity plays a big role in this story. Jesus as King divides the flock in front of him not based on how they look, but based on what they have done --based on how they have embodied the gospel values that Jesus has been teaching throughout his life to his followers, even if they themselves may not have been able to identify as such. And what are those gospel values that Jesus expects his followers to fully embrace?

Feeding the hungry (for I was hungry and you gave me food,)

Giving water to those without it (I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink,)

Welcoming strangers and refugees (I was a stranger and you welcomed me,)

Clothing those without clothing (I was naked and you gave me clothing,)

Caring for the sick and injured (I was sick and you took care of me,)

Visiting the imprisoned rather than denigrating them as being subhuman for being “criminals” (I was in prison and you visited me.)

When Jesus separates the righteous and praises them, inviting them to enter into the Kingdom of heaven, you'll notice that even the righteous are confused. Jesus claims that they have cared for him devotedly. The funny thing is, they don't remember any of that—at least not that they did it to Jesus. Likewise, Jesus denounces the unrighteous for ignoring him.

The unrighteous likewise claim to have not seen Jesus anywhere before. That’s when Jesus makes it clear. They expect Jesus to look like them, talk like them, and judge like them. But God’s justice is not based on human ideas of respectability. God’s justice is grounded in restoring hope to the hopeless and love to the supposedly unlovable.

The righteous are willing to care for others, without any thought of what’s in it for them, even when they think no one’s looking. The unrighteous see no one outside themselves that don’t deserve their troubles, and so do nothing to alleviate the suffering that swirls all around them, if only they care to acknowledge it. If there’s nothing in it for them but time and expense, they are not interested. Even with their noses buried in scripture, their hearts have not been changed by Jesus’s call not just to belief, but to transformation.

For the last three weeks, we've been listening to part of Jesus’s discourse about the end of times and his eventual return, while in our epistles we've been hearing the disappointed hopes of those in the church in Thessalonica who thought that Jesus would return in their lifetimes. Now however Jesus makes a startling claim one that is intensely relevant for us today: Jesus has been here all along. There is no need to wait for a second coming. Jesus is present right now among the most marginalized and despised of people.

Once again, it is glaringly obvious that Jesus doesn't demand any statement of belief in order to be welcomed and celebrated as being faithful. The sheep don’t get claimed because they can recite creeds without crossing their fingers behind the back, or detail how many sacraments there are, or what exactly happens to the bread and the wine when it is consecrated. In fact, in bringing all the nations before Jesus for judgment, there would be plenty who had never heard of Jesus or ascribed to Jesus’s teachings. Nonetheless, they are celebrated for having served God if they have done those works of mercy and compassion that have sought to alleviate suffering in real and tangible, even if small, ways.

What's in your head is not important. What's in your heart most certainly is. And it is with your heart that you can see Jesus in every person, no matter how desperate, or despised, or degraded. In fact, Jesus specifically aligns himself as a king with those who are outcast by all decent folk.

Throughout the gospels Jesus makes it clear that the kingdom of God is within us, even those of us who are not exactly sure who Jesus is, and even those who are much too certain that Jesus is just like them, all buttoned-down and respectable. Serving Jesus in everyone around us—especially among the despised—reminds us of the immediacy of our work.

Bringing Jesus’s kingdom into being here and now is the call of discipleship. The question is, can we really embrace the beauty of the kingdom, knowing that it’s not going to be like a garden party?

God’s kingdom is about generosity, grace, and mercy. It rejects the calculus of “law and order” that insists that the denigrated deserve their fate.

Therefore, we create the kingdom when we feed the hungry and gave a drink to the thirsty, when we clothe those who are cold and naked, when we comfort the sick without worrying we will expose ourselves, and visit the imprisoned rather than justify their deaths even for petty disobedience.

We create the kingdom when we acted as if we saw Jesus in the exact people too many of claim to be “broken” or unworthy of dignity or compassion. We are called to serve our king the convict, our king the refugee, our beggar king huddling for shelter.

The kingdom of heaven is also not centered upon our own personal salvation. Making Christ our king means letting love and caritas rule our hearts. Once we accept Jesus as our Lord and king, we are not done. Making a choice to save ourselves is easy. That is why true salvation lies in what we do for others rather than what we do for ourselves by clinging to Jesus like a lifeline. As we are reminded, if we want to save our lives, we must be willing to look beyond ourselves. Proclaiming Jesus’ name will not bring about the kingdom of heaven—living out Jesus’ love among our fellow beings will bring about the kingdom of heaven and show that Jesus is our king. We acknowledge our king not by words but through what we do and how we serve him in each other.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 online service at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO in time of coronavirus.

Readings:

Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24
Psalm 100
Ephesians 1:15-23
Matthew 25:31-46

The Beggar King: Speaking to the Soul, November 19, 2020

In 1925, the fires of World War 1 still smoldered in the memory of those who had lived through it. And yet, even with the memory of the suffering and destruction still vivid in the minds of millions on three continents, nationalism and fascism began to arise in Europe, political movements who sought to gain power by dividing people into victors and vanquished, that sought to claim the right to empire and oppression as the natural order for humanity.

Movements that sought to enslave or eliminate entire races of people based on hatred and fear. Movements that sought to co-opt the church, as in Italy and Germany, and blaspheme God by aligning God with national interests, serving human purposes. It was the continuation of the struggle between good and evil, fueled by technologies of death and worship of might over right unimaginable in human history up to that point.

It was in this context that the Feast of Christ the King was first proclaimed, and has continued to be observed annually. It is a feast that calls us to remember whose, exactly, we are, and the real power to which we owe our allegiance. It also reminds us how easy it is to be coopted into serving our own desires dressed up as true belief, to deify ourselves and our conception of power or human hierarchies. This feast was also established to remind us to identify and resist any attempt to divide us from God and from each other in pursuit of human political agendas.

The image of a king here in America is inevitably tainted by our last brush as being subject to one, an image that fills many of us with a mixture of repugnance and mockery, especially after we have watched Jonathan Groff strut around in heels singing “You’ll be back” as the delusional King George III in Hamilton. We treasure our autonomy and independence above all things. We don’t want someone telling us that, “when push comes to shove, I will send a fully-armed battalion to remind you of my love.”

But Christ’s reign in our hearts is founded upon entreaty rather than command. Proclaiming Christ as our King is a jubilant, grateful response to God’s plea to allow see ourselves as God’s own beloveds, as Psalm 100 reminds us, and to give thanks for God’s gifts of the good things in creation to bring us joy and a deep abiding sense of well-being.

But where and what is this kingdom? Throughout the gospels Jesus makes it clear that the kingdom of God is within us, and bringing it into fruition is our responsibility. And indeed, the gospel reading for this Sunday of Christ the King tells us the same thing: we created the kingdom when we fed the hungry and gave a drink to the thirsty, when we clothed those who were cold and naked, when we comforted the sick or the imprisoned. When we acted as if we saw Jesus in the exact people too many of claim to be “broken” or unworthy of dignity or compassion. Rather we are called to serve our king the convict, our king the refugee, our beggar king huddling for shelter.

It is also clear: the geography of this kingdom lies upon and within our hearts. The kingdom over which Jesus reigns is not in a place or in a time just as God does not exist within the boundaries of space or time. Jesus is God’s physical presence within space and time, within our understanding of the universe. Jesus’ power as king does not come from compulsion, or force, or power as earthly kings wield, but through the power of love and through example. Jesus’ power as king over our lives is not the power of demand but the power of love. We follow Christ and obey Christ through the choice of our will, which is what the root of the word, “voluntarily,” means.

The kingdom of heaven is also not centered upon our own personal salvation. Making Christ our king means letting love and caritas rule our hearts. Once we accept Jesus as our Lord and king, we are not done. Making a choice to save ourselves is easy. That is why true salvation lies in what we do for others rather than what we do for ourselves by clinging to Jesus like a lifeline. As we are reminded, if we want to save our lives, we must be willing to look beyond ourselves. Proclaiming Jesus’ name will not bring about the kingdom of heaven—living out Jesus’ love among our fellow beings will bring about the kingdom of heaven and show that Jesus is our king. We acknowledge our king not by words but through deeds.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on November 19, 2020.