Christmas Eve Sermon 2023

Meditation 1: The Annunciation

Will we say Yes to God?

In the orthodox church, in the east, they have a special title for Mary. She is “theotokos” – the God Bearer. For so she is – dignified above all humanity – for the honor of bearing the Son of God within her, her womb now becoming that generative place where God would grow within this humanity.

But she is “God-bearer” not only for her womb – as if it were some rental space for God to occupy. She is theotokos for that spirit, her own spirit, that – when called – would say, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me, according to your word.” For that is a spirit worthy of bearing and raising the son of God, of bearing and raising the son of Mary – Jesus, the Christ: fully human, fully divine.

For such is the “fully human, fully divine life” – that perfect union of our will with God’s will; our action with God’s action; our love with God’s love.

Who’s to say what Christ knew of his divine, eternal origin? Nothing in scripture suggests any such memory in him. But what he most certainly knew and remembered was this life he lived, being first formed (as are we all), by the nurture of his parents. For Jesus, this was Mary, and Joseph, whose love and nurture, joining with God’s love and nurture, would form Christ for this world.

Like with any parents, there’s no way Mary could know what was to come. What she knew was this: God is to be trusted – not only with our minds – but with our bodies, too, and the whole of who we are.

And as the message came to Mary, to align herself with God’s intentions for the love and healing of this world, so the angel’s message comes to us, that we, too, would be Christ-bearers for this world.

Will we say “Yes” to God.

Meditation 2: This Visitation

Will we be a community that grows in faith for one another?

Embedded in this story of Christ’s incarnation lies this one profound, extraordinary hope: God, in Christ, meets us where we are. The eternal God takes on flesh and blood and joins us in our humanity. And so, in Christ, we are assured: God knows sorrow and God knows joy; God knows hunger and feasting; God knows laughter and tears; God knows the needfulness and joy of intimate, human companionship. Everything we know of our humanity is known and shared and honored by God. And, if our God should so choose to live amongst us, as one of us, then such a way of living must, in itself, be holy, for God is holy.

And Christ’s inaugurating posture of “meeting us where we are,” is the defining feature of his entire ministry. Everything he did was initiated by this spirit of joining. So likewise, it becomes the hallmark of our journey of faith, as we seek to live the way of Christ, enfleshing the Kingdom of God in this world. Whatever else that kingdom includes, it must include this: we join one another – where they are – with compassion and companionship. This life is not to be lived alone: in isolation or fear or the perpetual burden of self-sufficiency. We are called to be as Christ: seeing one another and joining one another as companions, friends, and helpmates. We are called to be as Mary was to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth was to Mary: two women with the most unlikely of pregnancies, who came together in solidarity and support, being for the other the companion they each would need.

When you came to church this evening, you received a candle, whose holder bears this same message: “God in Christ, meets us where we are.” It is St. John’s gift to you, to keep as a token of God’s eternal promise, that whatever you are, whatever the circumstances of your life, God is with you – the light that shines in the darkness. And the darkness will not overcome it.

As the service ends, and the lights turn down, the time will come again for us to sing “Silent Night.” When the candlelight is passed to you, may it be as God, in Christ, coming to you in love. Tip your unlit candle to receive that light: a kind of bow before God who is gracing you. Then turn, and hold your now-lit candle upright for your neighbor: a sign of your joining with Christ to meet this neighbor where they are.

For this is God’s yearning for us: “Will we be a community that grows in faith for one another?”

Meditation 3: The Nativity

Will we come and adore Christ our Lord?

There’s a chair I sit in, in my living room. It’s my prayer place. My reading place. My glass of wine at the end of the day place. A few weeks ago – after my step-father’s death, when my siblings and I were sifting through the remnants of our parent’s lives and possessions – I brought my mother’s nativity set home with me. And I also kept the little urn of my mother’s ashes that my step-father had kept. And, with Christmas approaching, I set up that nativity on the chest opposite my chair. And there amongst the animals and shepherds and magi, I included my mother’s little urn – she now part of that holy procession: all God’s creatures, making their way to adore the Christ child. And for the past few weeks, as I’ve sat in my chair – praying, reading, drinking wine – I keep watching that scene. There’s a deep comfort in seeing my mother there, so near our Christ.

It speaks of a hope fulfilled I once felt most keenly.

It was at Cynthia and my wedding. We were the first to share communion – but not just the two of us alone. On either side of us, stretched out along the rail, were our parents and step-parents and god-parents. And why that mattered so much, why it wove itself so intricately into my memory, was that – in this life – that assemblage of parents had not yet found peace with each other. There were ex-spouses at that rail who had betrayed and hurt each other and with whom there was no longer any communication or goodwill. There were parents jealous of the god-parents’ affections for their child. There were those who had not yet come to know and trust God’s love and mercy. But there they all were, together with us, kneeling, hands outstretched to receive and consume the life and grace of Christ, our host.

It became a promise for me – not only of my own family’s redeeming – but of this world’s. For so the Eucharist promises us, week after week. It’s a foretaste of that heavenly banquet where Christ is the bridegroom, and we are the bride, and all are assembled together – free and forgiven – joining in the feast.

And now, gazing at that nativity scene, with my mother’s little urn so near the manger, I feel the promise of that wedding Eucharist fulfilled. Six of the eight parents who joined us at that rail so many years ago, have now – like Christ – known death. And – like Christ – we trust they have found their place with him at the Wedding Supper of the Lamb. They are now in the nearer presence of Christ, surpassing us in the journey of sanctification.

For on this night, as we enter again into the memory of Christ’s birth, we celebrate the hope of all that was set into motion this night:

• that God has joined us where we are;
• that compassion and forgiveness overcomes all evil and sin;
• that the union of God to earth and to earth to God shall overcome all warfare and estrangement of every kind
• that the resurrection of Easter is but the first new beginning for all who have died.

So on this night, shepherds and angels, starlight and animals, the living and the dead, are all in procession to the holy creche where God, in Christ, Emmanuel, is with us.

Will we come and adore Christ the Lord?