Christmas Eve 2011

11:00 p.m.

“Promises, Promises”

Rev. Elizabeth Macaulay

We gather on this night to give ourselves over to an under-used spiritual discipline:  We have gathered to adore.

To adore him, that baby born thousands of years ago in a cold shed.  That baby who grew to share heart with the world and invite us through that heart to put down, as poet Mary Oliver speaks it,  our sharp instruments and take up our imaginations.

A savior, who calls us even now to pay attention; because angels sing yet.

Thousands of years ago, the angels sang to a bedraggled and weary band of shepherds.  And they paid  attention.

Would that we, who share some of the same realities of those long ago listeners, would open our imaginations to wonder.

Like the shepherds of long ago, we are caught up in the work of getting by.

The economy is challenging so many of us.  We are looking for work or stuck in work that doesn’t feed our souls and we know what it feels to huddle in the darkness of fear and cold.  We feel near immobilized sometimes by the huge of our smallness.

Do we not?

We read newspaper accounts of people rising up who insist upon a godly vision of justice.  People across this nation are occupying our civic consciousness.  They are speaking words taken almost verbatim from the song sung by Mary, the mother of Jesus in Luke 1:  a song about the poor being heard and filled.  A song about those who wield power unjustly being leveled.  A song detailing God’s vision for a time when sharp instruments are laid down and God’s people open their lives to the wonder of abundant hearts open, one with the other.

The justice-building teachings of Jesus are being chanted by women in Egypt.

They are tired of the oppression that binds their beings.  In a recent demonstration, a number of women were beaten because they had the audacity to say “no more” to unjust civic structures.  One woman, in a culture that is adamant about cloaking women in order to 

The image of violence unleashed spread like wild-fire around the world.

And the women marched again.  

The New York Times reported it in these words:

When core activists called for a march Tuesday evening to protest the military’s treatment of women few could have expected the magnitude of the response.

The crowd seemed to grow at each step as the women marched, calling up to the apartment buildings lining the streets to urge others to join them. “Come down, come down,” they shouted in an echo of the protests that led to Mr. Mubarak’s ouster in February...

Along the sidewalks beside the march, some men came out to gawk and stare. Others chanted along with the women, “Freedom, freedom.”

“I came so that girls are not stripped in the streets again,” said Afaf Helal, 67, who was demonstrating for the first time.

The women who would not be silent in the face of brutality and oppression.

The women who called to others to “come down, come down” and join them on the street.

The men who joined in the chant for freedom,

The people of this nation who call us to remember what our faith has to say about caring for the poor.

They are the song of the angels, sent to a world sore afraid.

They are imagination given voice.

I was out for coffee with a friend Friday morning and found myself in the presence of a modern-day angel-song.

It was early.

The restaurant was mostly empty.  It is one of those local South Minneapolis places that I love, because regulars are greeted by name and known.

I walked in and saw a man of about 80 sitting at a table alone.  On his table was a bag that was clearly a Christmas gift with his name on it, and in front of him was a stack of newspapers.

I observed him chatting up the wait staff who clearly knew him and claimed him as kin.  People trickled in and some greeted him by name.

Clearly he was in a place where he was known and beloved.

Ten minutes after I got there, he made an announcement to those of us gathered - whether we knew him or not.

Quick!  He said.  Look out the window!

And there, in the East, was a sunrise arrayed in the most vibrant pink I have seen for a long time.

Look!  He said.  Isn’t it beautiful?

It was.  We were silent, taken in by the splendor in the sky and the gift of the messenger who wanted to share the good news.

We were no longer isolated barely awake city folk facing yet another harried day.

We were people wrapped together in bands of swaddling wonder.

We are here tonight to celebrate this enduring and wonder-full news:

The Word became flesh, and dwelt among us in Jesus and dwells among us yet in the imaginations of our hearts.

What this means is, in the words of Richard Rohr, the angels continue to sing this good news:

God says “I am going to be with you whether you know it or not, ask for it or not, or enjoy it or not.”

So let us embrace this gift, beloveds in Christ.

The angels sing yet - in occupied city squares and foreclosed homes.  On city streets in Egypt.  In hushed coffee shops in South Minneapolis.

In the manger of our attention-paying hearts.

O come, O come, O come,

let us unwrap and adore the gift of the Christ.

Amen