Christmas Eve, 2012
As many of you know, I have fairly recently added a new addition to my
family. No, I don’t mean my fiancé, though him too, I suppose. I mean a sweet, cuddly, slightly quirky, mostly good, little Dachshund: a pooch named Klaus (or as I have grown fond of calling him at this time of year, Santa Klaus). Sometimes he is a disobedient rascal, but most of the time, he brings me such delight. One thing that is (usually) delightful is his insistence to cuddle, to be in contact with at least one human, at all times. Sometimes when I lie on my couch, I will no sooner get settled, then I will feel a little nose poking my leg, then wiggling in beside it, and then a little black and tan face appears and his 13-pound wiener-dog body creeps in and wedges its way between me and the back of the couch where there is not really enough room for him, then he then sweetly gives me a lick and then settles in to sleep.
Klaus came into my life at a pretty rocky time – nearing the end of my cancer treatments this fall. Some may think that adding a dog to the mix two days after surgery wasn’t the best choice. And maybe it wasn’t. But cancer treatments are not an easy time, and I needed something in my life to make me giggle, to whine with happiness when I got home, to lick me incessantly no matter how bad my day was. I needed some love to creep in and wiggle its way right up beside me in the midst of a time so otherwise full of questions and darkness.
At the end of this service tonight, as we do every Christmas, we will light candles in a dark sanctuary, hear the prologue of John’s Gospel about how “a light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it,” and we will sing Silent Night, recalling that light shining from the manger on that silent, holy night so many years ago. This image of Jesus as a light shining in the darkness has always been one dear to me in my understanding of who Christ is, but this year, it has taken on an even deeper and more poignant meaning. This year, the darkness has seemed particularly aggressive in its efforts to overcome the light. It seems every time we turn on the news there is another shooting – a movie theatre in Colorado, a Sikh temple in Wisconsin, a school shooting in Connecticut... Even this morning, a house fire in Webster and four firemen shot, two killed. Darkness is making a pretty good showing in these situations, and it leaves us with more questions than answers. “How could this happen?” “What can we do about it?” And perhaps most bitingly, “Where could God possibly have been?” Where is that light that is supposed to be shining in this darkness?
As many of you know, I have fairly recently added a new addition to my
family. No, I don’t mean my fiancé, though him too, I suppose. I mean a sweet, cuddly, slightly quirky, mostly good, little Dachshund: a pooch named Klaus (or as I have grown fond of calling him at this time of year, Santa Klaus). Sometimes he is a disobedient rascal, but most of the time, he brings me such delight. One thing that is (usually) delightful is his insistence to cuddle, to be in contact with at least one human, at all times. Sometimes when I lie on my couch, I will no sooner get settled, then I will feel a little nose poking my leg, then wiggling in beside it, and then a little black and tan face appears and his 13-pound wiener-dog body creeps in and wedges its way between me and the back of the couch where there is not really enough room for him, then he then sweetly gives me a lick and then settles in to sleep.
Klaus came into my life at a pretty rocky time – nearing the end of my cancer treatments this fall. Some may think that adding a dog to the mix two days after surgery wasn’t the best choice. And maybe it wasn’t. But cancer treatments are not an easy time, and I needed something in my life to make me giggle, to whine with happiness when I got home, to lick me incessantly no matter how bad my day was. I needed some love to creep in and wiggle its way right up beside me in the midst of a time so otherwise full of questions and darkness.
At the end of this service tonight, as we do every Christmas, we will light candles in a dark sanctuary, hear the prologue of John’s Gospel about how “a light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it,” and we will sing Silent Night, recalling that light shining from the manger on that silent, holy night so many years ago. This image of Jesus as a light shining in the darkness has always been one dear to me in my understanding of who Christ is, but this year, it has taken on an even deeper and more poignant meaning. This year, the darkness has seemed particularly aggressive in its efforts to overcome the light. It seems every time we turn on the news there is another shooting – a movie theatre in Colorado, a Sikh temple in Wisconsin, a school shooting in Connecticut... Even this morning, a house fire in Webster and four firemen shot, two killed. Darkness is making a pretty good showing in these situations, and it leaves us with more questions than answers. “How could this happen?” “What can we do about it?” And perhaps most bitingly, “Where could God possibly have been?” Where is that light that is supposed to be shining in this darkness?
It’s not just in these large-scale tragedies, of course, in which we experience
darkness. We experience it in the midst or in the wake of divorce, and the feelings
of guilt, or failure, or grief that go with it; we experience it in the need to make
decisions that seem to have no right answer; in the loss of people from our lives, or
loss of jobs, or loss of identity; in watching your children or grandchildren walk
away from the faith you raised them in, that is so important to you and who you
are; in hurtful words; in dreaded diagnoses; in watching people suffer from hunger,
neglect, emotional or physical abuse... The darkness that permeates our world
makes it so difficult to believe that there might be a light shining that could
possibly overcome that, yet it makes it all that much more important to believe just
that! We need that light to creep in, to wiggle in, even when there seems to be no
possible way it can.
That’s how it was, that first Christmas night, of course. The part of the Christmas story with which we are most familiar shares with us the nicest parts of this story. It leaves out the bits about why this light shining in the darkness was so important. The Roman occupation. The hundreds of years of feeling like God had abandoned God’s people. The year that Emmanuel, God-with-us, was born, the earth was ripe for a savior. They were living in a land of deep darkness, just like the people in our reading this evening from Isaiah. And into that darkness, God creeps in, wiggles His way into humanity and into a manger in a stable in a quiet, dark little town, so that this darkness would no longer be quite so dark. And in the dark streets of that little town of Bethlehem, shined the everlasting light.
That’s how it was, that first Christmas night, of course. The part of the Christmas story with which we are most familiar shares with us the nicest parts of this story. It leaves out the bits about why this light shining in the darkness was so important. The Roman occupation. The hundreds of years of feeling like God had abandoned God’s people. The year that Emmanuel, God-with-us, was born, the earth was ripe for a savior. They were living in a land of deep darkness, just like the people in our reading this evening from Isaiah. And into that darkness, God creeps in, wiggles His way into humanity and into a manger in a stable in a quiet, dark little town, so that this darkness would no longer be quite so dark. And in the dark streets of that little town of Bethlehem, shined the everlasting light.
Will God do that again this Christmas? Do we believe that this will happen,
that the light of Christ will creep in beside us, finding its way into a nook or
cranny, and shining away the shadows of fear? Will God’s light come into the
darkness of tonight’s world, into the hearts of people who have stopped believing
that war and violence will end, that food will come, that a government will change,
or that relationships can be mended?
Restoring the hope and the belief that this will happen starts with opening our hurting hearts to the mere possibility, making them as vulnerable as God made Himself when He became a helpless child, completely dependant on a teenage girl and her terrified fiancé to take care of him. But how do we do that? How do we make our hearts vulnerable when there is already so much in this world to fear?
There was a picture floating around Facebook in the past couple weeks, a quote from Fred Rogers, better known as “Mr. Rogers.” He is quoted, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.” As we strive to make our hearts vulnerable enough to see the light of Christ, looking for the helpers is certainly a place to start, because Mr. Rogers’ mother is right: there are always helpers. And there are so many other signs of hope. There are policemen who buy warm socks and boots for a homeless man on the streets of New York City. There are nurses who take an extra moment while they are giving out meds in a nursing home to actually sit down and just be with a patient. There are elementary school teachers who sacrifice their own lives to save the lives of the children in their class. There are small churches who stuff over 150 stockings with everything from socks to toys to dental hygiene products and distribute them to families in need. There are kind people who take in friends and strangers who have lost their heat and power in a super-storm so they can have a warm meal and a place to charge their phones. There are people who stand up to bullies, who defend the weak, who dedicate their lives to making positive changes in this hurting world of ours.
Restoring the hope and the belief that this will happen starts with opening our hurting hearts to the mere possibility, making them as vulnerable as God made Himself when He became a helpless child, completely dependant on a teenage girl and her terrified fiancé to take care of him. But how do we do that? How do we make our hearts vulnerable when there is already so much in this world to fear?
There was a picture floating around Facebook in the past couple weeks, a quote from Fred Rogers, better known as “Mr. Rogers.” He is quoted, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.” As we strive to make our hearts vulnerable enough to see the light of Christ, looking for the helpers is certainly a place to start, because Mr. Rogers’ mother is right: there are always helpers. And there are so many other signs of hope. There are policemen who buy warm socks and boots for a homeless man on the streets of New York City. There are nurses who take an extra moment while they are giving out meds in a nursing home to actually sit down and just be with a patient. There are elementary school teachers who sacrifice their own lives to save the lives of the children in their class. There are small churches who stuff over 150 stockings with everything from socks to toys to dental hygiene products and distribute them to families in need. There are kind people who take in friends and strangers who have lost their heat and power in a super-storm so they can have a warm meal and a place to charge their phones. There are people who stand up to bullies, who defend the weak, who dedicate their lives to making positive changes in this hurting world of ours.
In the story we hear tonight, the Christmas story, there is a lot of fear. A
young couple making a long journey – probably about 80 miles – by foot. An
unwed teenage mother, about to give birth to her first child, in a stable with no
family to help her except her scared fiancé. A group of shepherds in the hills
confronted by a host of angels. There are lots of reasons to keep our hearts safe
from all these fears, to shut ourselves away from it. But the angel says to the
shepherds, “Do not be afraid.” Listen. Look. Be open to hearing this good news of
great joy. To you is born this day, a Savior. You will no longer be in darkness. A
light has come to scatter the darkness. And what do the shepherds do? They
believe it. They tell people that they believe it. And after they have greeted this
babe, this light shining in the darkness, Luke tells us, they return to their everyday
lives back in the hills, “praising and glorifying God for all they had heard and
seen,” giving thanks that when they were able to open their hearts, their ears, their
eyes, to the possibility that such a darkness-shattering light could be true, they had
indeed been transformed.
Let us pray. Christ, our light: When the world was dark and the city was quiet, you came. You crept in beside us. Do the same this Christmas, Lord, and open our hearts, eyes, and ears to see your light in the darkness. Amen.
Let us pray. Christ, our light: When the world was dark and the city was quiet, you came. You crept in beside us. Do the same this Christmas, Lord, and open our hearts, eyes, and ears to see your light in the darkness. Amen.
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