Christmas E=
ve
2005
Richfield UMC
Elizabeth Macaulay
There is a collective indrawn breath on Christmas Eve.
It
is as if the world stills. It
pauses, and there is time and space for the shimmer of wonder, unwrapped in=
our
midst. Palpable.
That
wonder shines in the candles and that wonder shines in the eyes of our chil=
dren
and that wonder dances in the light of the stars and that wonder stretches =
and
claims the place in our hearts so hungry for - what? What longing is it that is so well=
fed
on this night?
It
is the longings we seldom slow down enough to pay homage to. The places in our heart that ache =
to
welcome
Wonder. Awe.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Mystery. Hope.
On
this night, for a moment, the world breathes in and breathes out the song of
the angel. An ongoing song of=
good
news reminding us that:
To
us. In our midst. To the world. In a stable. Wonder was given flesh in a tiny
baby. And that bundle of
swaddling-wrapped holy promise has been passed from hand to hand, from
generation to generation until we find ourselves on this night thousands of
years later. Celebrating the =
birth
and holding out our arms to welcome it.
On
this night we take the time to search our hearts. Is there room in the manger within=
our
hearts for this birth to occur? Can
we still the voice of the worried innkeeper that lives with us each - the v=
oice
that tells us over and over again that we will never have enough to spare -
enough room, enough money, enough time, enough spare anything - to afford t=
he
space for wonder to live?
On
this night we imagine that we do have that space. That we will welcome the baby and =
bow in
homage, offering the gifts of our life and our hope. We feel the stirrings of our call =
to be
midwives of the ongoing birth of the Word which became flesh and dwells amo=
ng us. Even us.
In
every person. In every
situation. In every breath of
wonder and anguish both. God =
is
given birth.
Will we make room for the wonder of this birth?
Four
years ago I came to know a family through the church that I served. The first Sunday I met them, they =
held
in their arms a boy, eight months old.&nbs=
p;
He was brown of skin and his eyes danced and his parents clearly lov=
ed
this boy with all the wonder their hearts knew how to muster. They had traveled to South America=
to
adopt him. His name was Samuel
Alejandro and his soul was a singing wonder.
A
week later I got a phone call from them.&n=
bsp;
Their son Samuel had been put down for his nap and had never
awakened. He died, of Sudden =
Infant
Death Syndrome. He died on 9/=
11, a
day when all of us knew the terror of our finitude. Samuel’s parents learned that
terror in a so personal and wrenching way.
They
wondered if I could help them through this time. Of course I would try; scared and
inadequate I would try. And s=
o we
went through the impossible work of planning a funeral for a baby and sitti=
ng
in a house so recently alive with Samuel’s presence and talking about
what it means that life can change so very quickly and the loves in our life
can be gone from us so instantly.
The
process of planning for his service was difficult, and it was complicated g=
ift,
in the midst of so much grief.
Because his parents had a network of people who loved them and becau=
se
they had a faith that they leaned upon and because they were people who were
willing to be human in their grief, there was a healing sort of ground in t=
he
midst of the anguish.
They
inspired me with humble awe, did Samuel’s parents. I wondered at their grace. While drinking coffee in their hom=
e I
noticed a plaque over their kitchen sink. A family mantra of sorts that seeme=
d to
be the angel’s song that had been sung in their lives long enough that
they were able to hear and feel the message even in the most horrific of pa=
ins. The plaque said “Give
Thanks”.
And
so we did. In the midst of the
great grief shared in the days leading up to his funeral and in the funeral
itself, we gave thanks for the gift of that baby Samuel and the ways in whi=
ch
he had been blessing in his too-short life.
The
memorial gifts requested were perennials with which to create a living gard=
en
to memorialize Samuel. A colo=
rful
blanket of thanks that would live on and on as reminder of his beauty. Reminder, too, of the ongoing pres=
ence
of life, even when it seems so little obvious. Spring happens, and creation procl=
aims
hope.
A
week ago, I received a Christmas card from Samuel’s family. On it are the lights of two faces =
- his
brother and sister, four and =
two
years of age, Victoria and Tomas.
Samuel’s
family has grown even as it marks his absence and the flowers bloom yet and=
how
can it be anything else but a wonder that out of the gnarls and
incomprehensible aches of life there is this bundle of swaddled life awaiti=
ng -
life awaiting Samuel’s mother and father and sister and brother and l=
ife
awaiting us each, if we will but open our hearts and reach out to receive a=
nd
welcome it?
The gift of Emmanuel - God with us. It is the gift we celebrate on this
night.
On
a long ago night in Bethlehem, in the midst of the most grim oppression
imaginable, a people locked into the pain of hopelessness had delivered into
their midst the very presence of God.
In the form of a baby born to common folk. A child who would grow to preach t=
he message
that grace and healing and living our thanks is the vision for ALL of
God’s people.
We
are called, on this night of in-drawn breath, to know that we are a part of
that ongoing birth. We are a =
part
of the gift of incarnation, the bringing to life of the vision of God.
We
are handed the gift of the Christ Child, and asked to nurture that gift so =
well
that it lives within us each.
Jesuit paleontologist Teilhard de Chardin sings the message=
of
Christmas through these words:
“God’s name is holy, but it is up to us to sanc=
tify
it; his reign is universal, b=
ut it
is up to us to make him reign, his will is done, but it is up to us to
accomplish it. Little by litt=
le,
the work is being done.”
It is being done, as we reach into the promise that is our
life, and share the precious stuffs that are ours to give -
(Whether we are like the boy sharing what he had - bread and
companionship - on a Christmas night)
(Whether we are like the shepherds, who had the audacity to
open their hearts to the hope laced song of the angels),
or whether we are like the family who taught their pastor m=
uch
about life, loss, and faith.
Let us live the gift of Emmanuel by giving thanks, by being
open to wonder, by joining in the way of hope.
The gardens await our planting. May the work of Christmas be done.=
Amen