The Messiness of Christmas

St. Luke’s Church, Philipsburg, NJ

The Rev. Anne E. Kitch

Christmas Eve 2019

St. Luke's Pageant 2019

Are you ready for Christmas? Our fabulous parish administrator and bookkeeper asked me this on Saturday as we were reviewing bulletins one last time. I think it surprised her when I said, Yes.  “That’s because I have let go of five things,” I told her. This is my secret—I am never going to be ready for Christmas, so at some point I stop trying and let the messiness be what it is.

Christmas is difficult. Christmas is glorious. Christmas is stressful. Christmas is about family or food or festivities. Or grief, or loneliness, or lostness. Or Jesus.

Christmas is about all these things, because Jesus is about all these things. There is no joy or trouble where we can be that Jesus is not. That’s the whole point. That’s the whole point of Jesus being fully human as well as fully divine, of the Word becoming flesh, of the Incarnation—the embodiment of God in frail humanity.

Jesus, being fully human, had a fully human birth. And this doesn’t only mean that our audacious God put the salvation of humankind into the hands of two very vulnerable human beings who were first-time parents of a newborn. Even before that, God had to count on both Mary and Joseph saying, yes. The salvation of the world depended on their faithfulness.

And while our gospels are full of what made this a Holy night—in Luke ‘s version we get angels choirs, in Matthew’s version we get a sacred star—what they don’t tell is the ordinary stuff that our pageant and Christmas cards and classic works of art leave out. Actually, a Christmas card with cheery snowmen on it may get close to being right, because the birth of Jesus was in mnay ways ordinary.

Mary and Joseph were set apart…and they were not. To begin with, they were not the only ones traveling to Bethlehem at that time. There was a government census that required everyone in Judea to travel back to their hometown in order to be registered. Everyone. So all those adult children who had created lives for themselves in some other city were on their way home. Mary and Joseph likely traveled with a caravan on the roads from Nazareth to Bethlehem, a journey of 90 miles up and down hilly country, and Mary was surely not the only pregnant woman around. I imagine her receiving advice and comfort from older women who had given birth before. Nor were they the only couple trying to find a place to stay in a small city that was full of travelers.

And the manger was not in a stable outback somewhere, but in a room of a family home where animals were kept nearby. And Mary, surrounded no doubt by friendly beasts, surely also had the help of a local midwife and the women in the family.

In other words, it was about community.

The extraordinary were there too, but the heavenly host of angels were not by the manger but rather shining all their glory on some shepherds out in the wilderness beyond town, doing the ordinary business of watching their flocks. They’re the ones who are told the Messiah is born and they hurry off to Bethlehem to see for themselves, finding Mary and Joseph and the baby, and telling them and all else who are there and anyone who would listen what they had learned from the angels. And everyone marvels at what the shepherd tell. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.

And by the way, the magi are not in Luke’s story at all. They show up in the gospel of Matthew and not on the night when Jesus was born, but perhaps even a year later when Jesus was a young child (we hear that story on Epiphany, January 6th).

So our manger scenes and our Christmas pageants get it wrong…and get so much right.  In fact, our pageant this afternoon was exactly the kind of ordinary, loving, somewhat messy community which embodies the love of Jesus.

When we gather together, we are both human and holy. This is what it means to be a church, to be a community of God. It is to travel together, to become companions, to find places for those who are lost or lonely or hurting. To laugh and play together, to help one another, to gather together to get through hard times and to celebrate new life.

We don’t always get it right. But we are here tonight in part because we are all reaching for something more and we know that doing it together helps. Faithful walking is not the same thing as perfect fulfillment. Faithfulness includes striving and forgiveness and acceptance and renewal.

One of my favorite carols is In the Bleak Midwinter, especially verse 4:

What can I give him, poor as I am,

            if I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.

            If I were a wise man, I would do my part;

            yet what I can I give him, give my heart

What can we give to Jesus, what can we give to each other, is what we can—ourselves. Welcome to the messiness of Christmas. Welcome to the glory. Welcome to one another.

                       

Dawning love

Christmas Day

Mercy and truth have met together
righteousness and peace have kissed each other.
Psalm 85:10

Christmas day dawns
and with it the Light that the darkness does not overcome
because the darkness cannot grasp
or comprehend or contain
the Love that is continually coming into the world

Mary kisses her newborn child
her heart treasure-full
she ponders the mystery of this love
that lays in her lap
and escapes her grasp
to be the Light of the world











Copyright: feverpitched / 123RF Stock Photo

Rehearsing holiness

Christmas Eve

Happy are the people who know the festal shout!
they walk, O Lord, in the light of your presence.
Psalm 89:15

The pageant rehearsal begins with the usual amount of enthusiasm as parents and teachers channel the kid energy into entrances and exits and the obligatory manger tableau with good humor. I marvel how even this preparation is a way of telling the story. Not just the story of Jesus’ birth, but the story of how God’s love radiates into the world.

I admire the costumes waiting to be tried on, and one of the parents points to the older cardboard angel wings which we no longer use, recounting when she wore those wings as a child. And I realize preparing and performing the pageant is also the story of how we are connected to the holy across generations. We are creating memories and handing down tradition and forming one another.

The time is almost here. Soon, the stars in the bright sky will look down on this truly holy assembly as they offer up a rendition of Away in the Manger that is sure to melt hearts. And Jesus will be born again.



Image by congerdesign from Pixabay

Final turn

Monday of the Fourth Week of Advent

For God alone my soul in silence waits
Psalm 62:1

As I drive across the bridge, negotiating the traffic takes most of my attention and I can hardly spare a glance for the beauty of the river below.

I would like to stop midway. I would like to stop and take it all in: the flowing water, the reflected lights, the sense of the movement beneath the surface. I would like to be still for a moment and reverence the ancient water which has been since creation carving myriad pathways into the earth, shaping landscapes and civilizations.

I would like to pause in my Advent journey, take stock of where I have been, savor the travel, sense the movement deep beneath the surface of my soul. I am near the final turn, headed inevitably into the mystery drawing nigh. In the silence ahead, a gift waits for me. A gift that has always been waiting and has always been given and will always be.

I drive on into the night and make the turn for home.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Casting light

Saturday of the Third Week of Advent
Feast of St. Thomas

The Lord shall watch over your going out and your coming in,
from this time forth for evermore.
Psalm 121:8

As we pull into the driveway it is difficult to see. The porch light has not yet been turned on. It was still daylight when we left the house on this errand and I didn’t think to turn on the light. But now as we head toward the longest night, the dark invades the late afternoon.

Later, around the dinner table we will light three candles on our Advent wreath and soon we will be lighting four. The candles are not only counting time. They are dispelling darkness. As the winter nights lengthen, we light more candles. One flame would be enough. One flame scatters the darkness. One flame reminds us that the Light is coming. The light that the darkness can never overcome.

That light is with us along all our ways, illuminating our steps, brightening daytime and nighttime alike, sending us forth and welcoming us home. That flame of love is about to be born anew, rekindled by angel choirs and shepherd watchfulness and our own hope.

Barren sustenance

Friday of the Third Week of Advent

Behold God is my helper;
It is the Lord who sustains my life.
Psalm 54:3

It is the barren trees that arrest my attention. Throughout the day, I have been drawn to bare limbs tracing paths across the sky, ice-covered twigs woven into intricate designs, shadows of branches casting patterns on a window shade.

Sometimes my heart feels bare, like naked winter branches. This is not sadness, but rather lack. Lack of inspiration, lack of engagement, lack of closeness to God. As if my heart is standing far off choosing not to get involved with the now. Even as I sit in prayer, I wonder if I can just slide by on the surface of the day, without trying too hard or going too deep. Without asking the question honestly of what God is calling me to do or be or see or ask. Or tell.

The contemplation of the bare branches is enough. Enough to remind me that their very stature is sustained by life deep within them, that what seems dead will bear fruit in due season, that even out of stumps new growth may come. Enough to remind me that regardless of my perspective, my life is rooted in the Word which spoke the world into being and is speaking still, calling me to the wonder of this season and a manger that will not remain empty.

Image by Mabel Amber, still incognito... from Pixabay

Vulnerable strength

Thursday of the Third Week of Advent

I know every bird in the sky,
and the creatures of the fields are in my sight.
Psalm 50:11

The wind pummels the house, bitter and insistent. And on a bare branch outside my window a small bird holds fast. The early morning is too dark for me to see her colors and I cannot yet hear her voice. It is extraordinary to me that she remains perched in the midst of such fury. She is safe inside a tumult that would batter me to the ground.
I marvel that her vulnerable body contains such strength, and I marvel at the source of her strength. She is beloved of God, known to the Creator, counted amongst the cherished.

The Word too is born vulnerable, coming into the world small and human and exposed. And the Word holds fast and the darkness does not overcome it.



Image by Pezibear from Pixabay

All that comes next

Wednesday of the Third Week of Advent

This is my comfort in my trouble,
that your promise gives me life.
Psalm 119:50

Suddenly it seems like there is no time left. My to do list threatens to derail my life sending me over a cliff to…well, all manner of chaos.

I know from past experience (as well as the turtle and the hare) that slow and steady is the way to go, and that things take the time the take. The now calls for discernment, for greeting the needs clamoring for my attention with wisdom. One breath at a time, one step at a time, first one thing and then the next.

Coffee with a friend. Prayerful preparation of worship. Rest. Relieving suffering. Remembering what the preparation is for. Making ready to celebrate the promise.

It is not enough time. It is all the time I have. And the promise is on its way.

Bright reminiscence

Tuesday of the Third Week of Advent

My heart is stirring with a noble song
Psalm 45:1

A memory pops up in my social media from a year ago--my goddaughter singing a solo in a Christmas concert. I would not have recalled this without the prompt, but now in remembering I see again her face radiating pure joy and I feel something stirring in my own heart.

Remembered joy evokes joy anew. I am drawn back toward that moment as at the same time its essence fills the now. I wrap myself in the reminiscence, pulling it close around me like a warm shawl, letting the sweetness of the memory and my awe of her envelope me.

Then and now Advent transports me closer to the glory waiting in the manger.

Insistent

Monday of the Third Week of Advent

In my integrity you hold me fast,
and shall set me before your face for ever.
Psalm 41:12

I hear the tea kettle begin to murmur and know it is time to attend to it, but before I can extract myself from the task at hand it begins to whistle shrilly. I usually try to anticipate when the water will boil so I can pull the kettle off the burner before it begins to shriek. Partly this is so the noise will not disturb anyone, including me. But it is more true that I want to deal with it before its song becomes a strident demand.

As I think of the week ahead, I also feel the desire to keep things calm, to anticipate potential stress, to be attentive to my tasks and the world around me so that I can keep chaos and confusion at bay.  There suddenly seems too much to do.

But then I realize it is the nature of Advent to be insistent. I am on the path toward the breaking in of a mystery, one that will not be stopped, that demands my acknowledgment, that will take my breath away.  And one that will hold me fast as I am ushered into the presence of newborn deliverance.

I take a breath. I am in good hands.


Image by Ken Boyd from Pixabay

Dawning

Saturday of the Second Week of Advent

Send out your light and your truth, that they may lead me,
and bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling.
Psalm 43:3

I walk in the dark, knowing my way around furniture and obstacles, intentionally ignoring light switches as I invite the ambient glow to usher me to my meditation space in this house. A small lamp and a candle are my prayer companions as I watch the night outside my window gently give way to the dawning.

The emerging light uncovers shapes, bringing definition, revealing the familiar and unmasking a day that is not yet known, that will have light of its own. Dim or bright or heavy or clear or shy or dazzling.

And I wait for the dawning of another light, for Light itself whose glory outshines bright stars and angel brilliance. I feel its quickening in my heart even now as I make space for the wonder to be revealed.




Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Sacred waiting

Friday of the Second Week of Advent

Be strong and let your heart take courage,
all you who wait for the Lord.
Psalm 31:24

I sit in the reception area waiting to be called in for my appointment. I expected the wait and am prepared, have even looked forward to it, as I can use the downtime this day.

Sometimes I wait less patiently. Sometimes my waiting goes unnoticed. Like an app running in the background, it is unseen yet takes up energy. Waiting for an issue to resolve, waiting for healing, waiting for a change in season.

Waiting can be so many different things: tedious, hopeful, unexpected. Anxious, instructive, opportune. The season of Advent reminds me that waiting is sacred time, holy in and of itself. We are waiting for the coming, and the waiting itself creates the space for Christ to enter into our lives anew.



Image by Hùng Phạm Anh from Pixabay

Contrast

Thursday of the Second Week of Advent

Commit your way to the Lord and put your trust in him,
and he will bring it to pass.
Psalm 37:5

As I start my drive the audio in my car begins to play random tunes. I didn’t realize I had it set to shuffle, but I decide to let it be. First it is U2, then Bach then Adele, next Vivaldi. I muse about this strange juxtaposition.

And then it is Jesus Christ Super Star. I am struck by how odd it is to be listening to a story about the way to the cross as I am headed toward Christmas. Certainly, hearing Judas sing about his doubts concerning Jesus is a stark contrast to the Christmas carols blaring all around me these days.

But then I realize the invitation is the same, then and now, headed to the cross or headed to the manger. It is the call for commitment to a way that holds mystery. A call to place my trust in One who is beyond my ability to grasp and who nevertheless holds me fast.

The Advent way is a way of contrast, full of the unexpected, suffused with the holy.



Image by Florian Kurz from Pixabay

Walking with words

Wednesday of the Second Week of Advent

I will walk at liberty,
because I study your commandments.
Psalm 119:45

I open my book to the day’s scripture passage both knowing and not knowing what I will find there. I have been reading these same lessons in the same pattern for more than half my life, and yet there is always something new to discover. I linger over a beautiful phrase unnoticed before, or an insight that speaks to me anew, or a deeper understanding of a familiar theme.

My morning study is not scholarly. I do not open reference books or delve into the historical context or look up definitions. Rather, I enter into the text on the page as if it were a landscape. Sometimes I wander through it at a leisurely stroll, sometimes I explore it as if I were on an expedition.

The gift of these holy words is that they continue to speak to me, continue to ground me for the day ahead, continue to connect me to the ancient and the not yet. And continue to call me into expectancy as I spend this season waiting for the breaking in of the Word itself.

Destinations known and unknown

Tuesday of the Second Week of Advent

For I am but a sojourner with you,
a wayfarer, as all my forebears were.
Psalm 39:14

I sit in the car in the pouring rain. I have arrived early at my destination and feel no need to step out into the deluge just yet. I am safe and dry here, protected from the rain and the darkness and any busyness.

In this moment of respite, I think over all the roads I have traveled this day: highways, city streets, rural roads past farms and through woodlands. Others have been on those same roads, people I do not know with destinations other than mine. And some, perhaps, with the same purpose and end in mind.

I am not the only one on this Advent journey. I share it with other wayfarers, sojourners, roamers. Wanderers and wonderers headed toward Bethlehem now and in times past and in futures yet imagined. Temporary on this earth, yet invited into the forever, we make our meandering way.

Remembered paths

Monday of the Second Week of Advent

Remember not the sins of my youth and my transgressions;
remember me according to your love
and for the sake of your goodness, O Lord.
Psalm 25:6

As I write in my journal, I recall a moment this time last year which leads me in turn to think of years before that. Any day can be an anniversary of sorts, the marker of time passing, an invitation to review life lived with its joys and regrets.

I am grateful that I grow and learn. Sometimes when I recall a past moment of failure or disappointment, I think with relief how much wiser I am now and feel thankful I wouldn’t misstep in that way again. And then I realize someday I will look back on this moment too, and think how naïve I was, how ungraceful my steps.

Yet in this space of recollection, I see more. I trace paths of healing and wholeness and integrity in the way I have already journeyed. I see the evidence of faithful companions who traveled past roads with me. In retrospect, I see even more clearly how God has worked wonders in my life. And I know that I too, with all my vulnerabilities, am invited to make straight a way in the wilderness for the coming of the Christ child.

Full compassion

Saturday of the First Week of Advent

Gracious is the Lord and righteous;
our God is full of compassion.
Psalm 116:4

The conversation is an unexpected blessing. Due to a variety of circumstances, what was meant to be a conference call becomes a one-on-one with a trusted friend. And in that space, I lay open a burden that has been weighing me down, hampering me from walking with delight. What I find in return is a balm of wisdom and compassion.

Compassion is more than its dictionary definition of concern for the suffering of another. To receive genuine compassion is to have my hurt, my doubt, my quest for solace recognized and respected. Such loving-kindness reflects the compassion of God, who became as vulnerable as a newborn in order to bring healing and deliverance to all of humankind and creation itself.

Our conversation moves from the sacred place of shared griefs out into our present joys, the light of Christ within each of us calling us into mutual expectancy. We make the way forward just that much more clear for one another as we travel again toward the cradle containing light and life.

Image by Johannes Plenio from Pixabay

Playful formation

Friday of the First Week of Advent

They shall come and make to a people yet unborn
the saving deeds that he has done.
Psalm 22:30

I walk into the church and smile as I look at our giving tree. It is momentarily adorned with felt Advent wreaths industriously placed there by a toddler. These wreathes currently reside on the shelf at the back of the church, ready for our youngest to interact with. They are an invitation and a teaching tool. I love that this particular young child of God enjoyed playing with them, and how that playfulness made my heart glad.

The spiritual formation of our youngest is about the spiritual formation of all of us. I am on my journey with Christ because a multitude of people shared their faith with me while I was growing up. Sunday school teachers, my parents, camp counselors, priests, youth leaders, nuns and monks, pageant directors, grandparents. As an adult, my spirit has been strengthened by the discernment of the holy offered by so many who are so much younger than I am.

On this feast day of St. Nicholas, as I call to mind all those who nurtured my faith along the way, I also offer a prayer of thanks for all the young ones in our midst. They continue to form me, delight me, call me up short, teach me more about God and love and joy.

Bright for one another

Thursday of the First Week of Advent

You, O Lord, are my lamp;
my God, you make my darkness bright.
Psalm 18:29

The night is cold, and we make our way carefully across the parking lot avoiding treacherous patches of ice, heading for the door that beckons us with light shining from within. There will be welcome there, warmth and company, food and prayer, conversation and camaraderie.

The moon casts its reflected light onto the trees, and the snow outlining their bare limbs captures the light and reflects it in turn, illuminating our way with frozen beauty.

Another brightness lights our way as well. God’s light is not only reflected in the world around us, but in one another. We too contain light and have the capacity to make the way bright for one another.

The door opens, we enter the sanctuary, each a flame of God’s promise.

Deserving attention

Wednesday of the First Week of Advent

I will mediate on your commandments
and give my attention to your ways.
Psalm 119:15

As I begin my morning, I feel the tug of the game on my phone. I resist the temptation to play as I know it will lead me into a zone where, before I know it, I will have spent an hour matching three pieces of fruit. As I make my tea, as I begin to journal, as I center myself for prayer, the lure of playing lingers, distracting me.

Of course, the game is perfectly designed to lead me deeper and deeper into a commitment. And capture my complete attention.

And I realize how easily I can undervalue my attention. Yet, where I place it is also where I place my soul. So many voices clamor for my awareness, my consideration, my devotion, and not all of them call me to my best self. I can and need to make choices about where I give my heart.

I center myself again, remembering why I begin my day with prayer. So that I can give my attention and myself to God, who leads me deeper into life and wholeness.

Empty urgency

Tuesday of the First Week of Advent

Lead me, O Lord, in your righteousness.
because of those who lie in wait for me;
make your way straight before me.
Psalm 5:8

The file folder lies there as an affront, tugging at my sense of duty, somewhat buried on my desk but not quite obscured. Its bright green color is intentional, as well as its label—urgent. It is meant to draw my attention so that I will not forget it or set aside the work contained within.

Nevertheless, it has been sitting unattended for weeks that have become months, holding a final piece of paperwork from our move last April. Its completion has been complicated by all that comes with a transition. But I have also been hampered by allowing the task to become larger than it is, letting myself become almost paralyzed by a sense of failure. These are familiar snares that lie in wait for me.

In my spiritual life too sometimes my way forward is blocked by obstacles that I create. Often, I just have to wait until God clears the path before me.

Today the way opens. In calmness I find all the right paperwork, complete the form, put it in an envelope. Tomorrow it will be in the mail.

I leave the urgent folder empty on my desk and give my attention more fully to this season, this Advent, this time of waiting.

Evidence of Glory

Monday of the First Week of Advent

But you, O Lord, are a shield about me;
you are my glory, the one who lifts up my head.
Psalm 3:3

Across the way, I watch the smoke rise from a chimney, moving across the cold morning air. It drifts, dissipates, disappears—simply a sign of a warmth being generated somewhere within the building. And yet it is a thing in and of itself, particles of water and dust that make a path across the sky, evidencing the presence and direction of the winter wind.

I, too, am a thing made of particles of water and dust. Dust that God called into being eons ago. Dust that is evidence of God’s love. Dust that God finds worth shielding.  And on this Advent morning, I am called into being again. Called to begin again the journey to the manger and to the end of time. Called to travel a path yet undefined.

I lift my head to watch the smoke, following its dance, ready to discover sacred glory in unexpected places.




Image by analogicus from Pixabay