A simple story

At the center of this holiday lies a very simple story.  Around it swirl all the commercial and sentimental excesses of the season. At the center of the story are simple people whose world is careening violently out of control. At the center of their story lies a baby.  All the others - Mary, Joseph, the magi and the shepherds - do everything in their power to protect a newborn child.

Epiphany, by Janet McKenzie

They are not “saints,” these people. Not at this time, anyway. Later generations will call them so, but they would dispute the claim. They are ordinary people living through extraordinary times. They don’t know -- and they can’t see -- whether their decisions will lead to security or ruin. Only their faith, their wits and their community keep them from total desperation.

There is, of course, another dimension to this story. It’s the part that’s true but can’t be verified; that’s real, but can’t be observed. It’s as “factual” as a well-written poem and as “reliable” as the harvest moon. It can be encountered only indirectly as the story develops, or from the future when these days are recalled.  This is the “Eternal” or “Divine” dimension present in every moment of every life.  It slips in through dreams and stars and official proclamations.

Because the people in our story are spiritually attentive, a unique and holy child is born. Because they do not count the costs to themselves, an infant is protected who becomes a blessing for humanity. Because this child survives, Divine Love reveals a human face. In this child the Holy One tenderly caresses and strongly embraces all creation. In this child we see and celebrate the truth about our truest selves. 

 This is so extraordinary and so cosmic that we still do not fathom its meaning. It is so intense and so mysterious that we barely catch glimpses before we turn away. And yet it is only a baby, and a very simple story. 

What is Christmas?

This is Christmas.

A shimmering, snow-covered, winter wonderland

A picturesque village

Children skating, dogs barking,

A warm home,

Good food,

abundant, savory, filling, delicious food

Waiting for the family to gather

Surrounded by family and friends

Tree trimmed and lighted

Stockings stuffed and hanging

Presents wrapped and waiting

Chocolate everywhere

Favorite football teams running across

Wide screen high-def screens

This is Christmas.

A quaint New England church

Steeple rising

Bell ringing

People gathering

Greeting each other

The sanctuary filled with worshipers

    wrapped in warm clothing

Candles flickering

Choirs singing

Young people reading
    the ancient story once more…

Sumptuous music

    filling the airways

Rudolph, Frosty, and Bing's White Christmas

Renaissance songs and medieval chant

Drummer boys and Calypso beats

Bells ringing and coins clanging in kettles

Carolers singing to homebound friends

Marimba, cello, violin, solo, choir and organ

All of this is Christmas.

Telephone conversations with friends

    and family far away

Notes and cards and Christmas letters

Messages and photos text-ed

Status-es, links and videos post-ed

Tweets and sweets abounding

So connected now

So many friends
   (some I never met)

So much goodwill

This, too, is it Christmas.

Children underfoot

    Impatient, eager and filled with expectation

Memories too of my children when they were children

And my childhood too

Cookies and milk for Santa

The Lionel train that whistled beneath the tree

    endlessly blowing smoke over the lighted houses of Plastic-ville

Grandmothers and grandfathers

    uncles aunts and cousins

    so many that Christmas always took two weeks

Mother and Dad now gone

Cousins too,

 so far away in miles and years and memories

And this is Christmas.

Elegant and primitive nativity scenes

And living ones too -

 Outside, in winter,

 With smelly mules and sheep and cows in dirty straw

 Mannequin angels suspended overhead
Joseph and Mary and the shepherds
   and wise men shivering in the cold
The plastic baby Jesus wrapped in beautiful rags
   and uttering not a sound

Perhaps here is the meaning of Christmas.

Or does it have to do with

Soldiers in barracks and foxholes

In planes above

In submarines below

In outposts and command centers

and hospitals too,

And their families anxious or proud

 waiting for their safe return

And some families, grieving

And some soldiers learning to walk again

And some without sight or hearing

And some with other disabilities

And villagers too, and city dwellers

    In Iraq, Syria and Afghanistan

    Egypt,  Somalia and Nigeria

    Jerusalem, Ramallah and Mogadishu

    Ferguson, and south Chicago too

Caught in endless crossfire

    Hands up, don't shoot

Homes and neighborhoods destroyed

livelihoods threatened

Fearful of strangers

Fearful of neighbors

Fearful even of us…

Is this Christmas?

Children in Liberia,

    orphaned, fending for themselves

Young men and women in Juarez and Medellín 

But also DesPlaines, Arlington Heights

    and Barrington

 Trying to free themselves
    from unspeakable burdens

People sleeping in the hallways of O’Hare

Sharing the meager food they possess

Beggars hawking newspapers at Olgvie,

at the corner of Madison and State

Hustlers and hopeless behind prison bars
    and those imprisoned by their addictions.

What is Christmas for them?

Firefighters, police officers and rescue workers

    living with the disabilities of their heroic deeds

Firefighters, security personnel, pilots,

Diplomats, aid workers and healthcare providers

    paramedics, physicians and nurses

    and so many more

    on duty this very night

    away from home, away from family

    so that home and family

and others will be safe.

Where is their Christmas celebration?

Is it the recollection of a birth,

    even a sacred birth,

    2,000 years ago?

Is it the celebration of a promise made

     when the world was fresh

with possibilities?

Did it take place long ago

    in a little town called Bethlehem

    to Mary and Joseph, to shepherds, magi and angels?

   (And to Herod, Pilate and and other less savory characters?)

Was Christmas then, or is it now?

Did it happen long ago?
May it happen tonight?

Is this a moment in sacred time?
Will it give birth to us?

What is Christmas?

Christmas is a sacred opening

    through which God births each of us
    and names our ancient destiny:

With Mary, we are called to be God-bearers

    in our world today.

With Joseph we are called to protect

    all that is holy and fragile.

With the shepherds we are invited to bow low

    before the wonder of the commonplace.

With the magi we are summoned to follow faithfully,

     trusting God to lead us aright.

With the angels we are called to herald good news

of great love for the earth and everything upon it.

With all the inhabitants of ancient Bethlehem

     we are summoned to join

     the poor, the meek, and those who grieve,

     to take our places among

     those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,

     and those who simply hunger and thirst,

     those who are merciful and pure in heart,
     and those who work for peace upon the earth.

This is Christmas:

When we hear the summons,

when we answer the call,

when God’s spirit comes upon us,

when Christ’s truth becomes our truth,

when God’s love flows through us without inhibition.

Then we will know the meaning of this night.

Then we will see even in ourselves this babe in Bethlehem:

    A lowly Child whom the ages call 
    Wonderful Counselor, 
    Prince of Peace.

    

This, I believe, is Christmas.

Easter Below Zero

It was five degrees below zero - Celsius! - as we made our way to the Cathedral. I was a guest of the mayor of Novosibirsk, the third largest city of the Soviet Union and the capital of Siberia. The all-night vigil was beginning. Falling snow was packed hard underfoot by thousands of Russians who, like me, had come to worship and welcome Easter’s dawning. Many carried torches and chanted great Orthodox hymns. They formed a huge mass of devotion that swirled reverently around that ancient building all through the night. Later, when I was comfortably seated in the center of the second balcony, I heard their chanting; it flowed into the rich liturgy unfolding around me. The church’s interior also was jammed with devotees who were crowded together, shoulder to shoulder. Many carried lighted tapers as they swarmed below amidst radiant icons and thickening clouds of incense.

It was April 1-2, 1990. The USSR was imploding. The country was in the throes of economic collapse. Shelves were bare. Jobs were scarce. During the day, these same Russians stood for hours in long lines and sub-zero temperatures to get even a little food. Their government was reeling from the aftermath of Chernobyl, and reaping the consequences of decades of deceit and broken promises.


Their world was falling apart. They lived Lent – not by “giving up chocolate”, but by enduring betrayal, suffering, and the death of everything they knew. Now they gathered expectantly at the cathedral. Though the night was long and dark and very cold, something new was afoot. When the sun peaked over the horizon and into the cavernous church, a loud cry went up, “Christos voskrese!” and it was answered by a thunderous “Voistinu voskrese!” from every direction. “Christ is risen!” “He is risen, indeed!”


Perhaps our own prolonged and bitter winter, the economic difficulties faced by so many of us, and the stressful news from all sides, bring these memories to my mind now. Like our Siberian counterparts, we too need a spirituality that empowers us to live confidently in the midst of troubled circumstances. We too seek a way that touches our hearts, honors our intellects, and emboldens us to live conscientious lives. We too want to believe.




“Christ is risen!” “He is risen, indeed!” My Russian friends were not mouthing meaningless religious platitudes to celebrate a cultural holiday. They were not arguing historical fact or fiction. They were making a heartfelt affirmation. Their backs were against the wall, but they believed – or wanted to believe - that life is stronger than death, and that goodness will ultimately triumph. They were choosing hope over despair, and faithfulness over bleak futures or empty lives.


This, finally, is why we worship on Easter. In the midst of the lives we live, we want to know redemption and resurrection. We want to experience real life and genuine hope, and the deep joy of a meaningful life.





Let us give thanks for the return of spring and longer days, for birds and blooming flowers. But most of all, let us join together to give thanks to the Lord of Life itself, and for God’s continuing and transforming presence in all circumstances.