Christmas 2019 [Set I]

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 9:2-7 and Luke 2:1-20

And so, here we are. We have made it to Christmas. And I wonder, how are you? Really, how are you? Exhausted is a valid option.

The Church of England’s Christmas theme for last year, this year, and next year is ‘Follow the Star.’ It is taken, of course, from the journey of the Magi. And that journey was calculated, was navigated, was at least in part undertaken, by night. A learning to walk towards Jesus, wrong turns included, in the dark. Starlight falls on the earth continually, but we only see it in darkness.

I know almost nothing about the heavens, other than that they are beautiful. Earlier this year, Stuart and Angela lent their cottage in a dark sky forest to my family for a week’s holiday. Far away from city light pollution, the forest park promises the stars. But in the event, clouds blew in every evening, and in the whole of the time we were there, I did not see a solitary star. It was good to get away for a break, but I came home a little disappointed.

The prophet Isaiah declared, ‘The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined.’ And in that light, joy takes the place of a burden. Joy like that of the harvesters. Harvest, of course, was a time of hard work, the whole community working together with common purpose. Joy, and hope: for in this light, something has not been completed but begun. The boots of the tramping warriors and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire; but, for now, what we see is a baby, whose authority shall grow continually, extending well-being from that smallest of beginnings.

How are you, this Christmas? Chances are, for at least some of us this year, and all of us over time, that you are living in deep darkness. I’m thinking of the parents who have shared with me their concern for their children, because their children suffer from anxiety or anger, or have chosen to reject their family. I’m thinking of those young people, too, just as much in need of light to shine on them.

I’m thinking of those who in recent days have confided in me that they are nursing cancer or dementia, a deepening darkness within, as the light of this life slowly sets. And those who journey through life with them.

I’m wondering, what cruel warriors tramp their boots over your life in these days, splattering their garments with your blood?

Not every one of us will identify with that first-hand this Christmas, but we know darkness to be at the very centre of both our experience of life and also the Christmas story.

Yet also at the heart of the Christmas story is a homecoming. The child, descendant of David and heir to his throne, is found in the tiny village that proudly proclaims itself the city of David. Joseph has recently brought his wife Mary from her father’s home in Nazareth to his father’s home in Bethlehem — and incidentally, by cultural tradition the final stage of the journey in which a groom accompanied his bride from her parents’ home to his, was conducted at night [see Jesus’ parable of the wise and foolish virgins]. The shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night — heirs of David’s childhood task — see the glory of the Lord shining around them, and are sent into Bethlehem, to find a child in a manger.

These journeys by night are a homecoming, to the promises made by God. A homecoming to joy that gives us strength to face warriors in the present; and to a sign of hope for the future, a sign of God’s peace, that though it be not so right now, all shall be well.

The gift of Jesus, the one in whom God-is-with-us in the darkness, is given just when we needed it. That is why you are here. You have followed the star and found the Christ-child. His story, the story of the Magi, your story, our story does not end here. Like the Magi, the shepherds, the holy family, you do not need to walk alone. It takes a community to carry one another’s burdens, and to share the weightiness of star-lit wonder.

This Christmas, welcome home. Come in. We’re glad you made it.

Christmas 2019 [Set III]

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 52:7-10 and John 1:1-14

And so, here we are. We have made it to Christmas. And I wonder, how are you? Really, how are you? Exhausted is a valid option; as is excited: and they are not mutually exclusive.

The Church of England’s Christmas theme for last year, this year, and next year is ‘Follow the Star.’ It is taken, of course, from the journey of the Magi. And that journey was calculated, was navigated, was at least in part undertaken, by night. A learning to walk towards Jesus, wrong turns included, in the dark. Starlight falls on the earth continually, but we only see it in darkness.

I know almost nothing about the heavens, other than that they are beautiful. Earlier this year, Stuart and Angela lent their cottage in a dark sky forest to my family for a week’s holiday. Far away from city light pollution, the forest park promises the stars. But in the event, clouds blew in every evening, and in the whole of the time we were there, I did not see a solitary star. It was good to get away for a break, but I came home a little disappointed.

The prophet Isaiah speaks of a messenger who brings good news. A description of the angel who comes to the shepherds in Luke’s Gospel, or of John the Baptist preparing the way in the Prologue of the Gospel According to John. And Isaiah declares to God’s people, ‘Listen! Your sentinels lift up their voices, together they sing for joy.’ And while I have no doubt that the image Isaiah has in mind is of watchmen on the city walls, as I wonder at his words, I wonder whether the stars in the bright sky looking down might not also be joyful sentinels? Pinpricks of light in the darkness, of joy and hope in the night.

How are you, this Christmas? Chances are, for at least some of us this year, and all of us over time, that you are needing the Lord’s comfort. I’m thinking of the parents who have shared with me their concern for their children, because their children suffer from anxiety or anger, or have chosen to reject their family. I’m thinking of those young people, too, just as much living in need of good news.

I’m thinking of those who in recent days have confided in me that they are besieged by cancer or dementia, which will eventually bring their glory to ruins. And those who journey through life with them.

Life can feel under siege at times. But even ruins can break forth into singing, in response to the message of salvation.

Not every one of us will identify with that first-hand this Christmas, but we know darkness to be at the very centre of both our experience of life and also the Christmas story.

The words with which John begins his account of the Gospel are breath-taking. They echo the account of creation, and are universal in their scope, unmatched in their eloquence. And for me, in recent days, they were given a new dignity and authority as a friend who lives with terminal cancer read aloud:

‘What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.’

The gift of Jesus, the one in whom God-is-with-us in the darkness, is given just when we needed it. That is why you are here. You have followed the star and found the Christ-child. His story, the story of the Magi, your story, our story does not end here. Like the Magi, we learn to journey on together in light of the grace and truth we have received, in a world that desperately needs to be filled with witnesses to grace and truth. And though the world might not understand the weightiness of star-lit wonder, nor will it overcome the light.

This Christmas, may you hear again the joyful song of the sentinels. God comes to save, comforting those who mourn and setting the captives free. May this be medicine for your soul. And may you join the song, until the whole world hears it. The sound of singing in the night. Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will to all people.

Fourth Sunday of Advent, 2019

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 7:10-16 [and Romans 1:1-7] and Matthew 1:18-25

The very first time my dad took me, along with my younger brother and sister, to the cinema, it was to see E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. It came out, in the UK, the day before my brother’s eighth birthday. I was ten years old, the same age as Elliot, the boy at the heart of the film; our sister, slightly younger than his little sister, Gertie.

E.T. is a magical story of the friendship between a lost alien, accidentally left behind by his fellow extra-terrestrial botanists, and the boy who discovers him, and keeps him safe until he can be rescued and reunited with his family. It is also the story of a boy who is lost and alone in the wake of his parents’ divorce. And this story is inspired by that of the director, Steven Spielberg, whose parents divorced, perhaps also drawing on his disorienting, vulnerable experience of being a Jewish kid in a predominantly Christian community. And beyond all that, it is the story of anyone who has ever felt alone in the world and in need of a friend. Sitting in the dark theatre, we were all caught up in the swell of John Williams’ spellbinding score; we all rode our imaginary BMXs into the air and across the backdrop of a full moon.

At this time of year, the Big Thing is the Christmas advert. John Lewis, Sainsbury’s, and a starry host of other retailers invest cinematic sums in telling us a story that will tap deep into our collective memory, tug hard at our heartstrings, and pull us in. And this year, in the Christmas advert for Sky, E.T. returned, looking for Elliot. Who is the same age as me: no longer ten, but now forty-seven. Initially, E.T. mistakes Elliot’s son for Elliot — much to the boy’s terror — before his old friend, running to respond to the screams of his children, sweeps in. And, much to the bewilderment of my children, I and my whole peer-group cried unashamedly.

That’s the power of story; and the power of a trigger, whether it be the silhouette of a bike crossing the moon, a Christmas orange, or a young woman with child.

Permit me to tell you three seasonal short stories.

A teenage boy lies afraid in the dark, wiping away bitter tears. He is four-day’s-journey from home, sleeping in the guest room of his father-in-law’s house. Their families, his and Mary’s, had arranged the marriage — it had seemed good to them, too — and as they lived far apart, Joseph had left his father and mother, like the patriarchs of long ago, to serve for a season Mary’s family. There was always work for a builder. He could be happy enough here. He loved his wife, who, day by day, was becoming less of a stranger.

Husband and wife though they were, they had not yet, well, you know. As was the custom, marriage was contracted before the girl reached puberty; consummated then. But Mary had confided in him. She was with child. Alone, far from home, betrayed — Joseph was angry, and, beneath the anger, afraid. Afraid, and young though he was, he was a good man. He would not accuse Mary of adultery; instead, he’d pay the price to her father for divorcing her for not having found favour in his eyes. It was, after all, only money; he’d already lost something far more precious to him.

That night, in the dark, in fitful sleep, an angel came and told the boy a story, to give him courage, to think again. To rise, and step into God’s future. And the story went something like this.

Once there was a young woman, with child. A son, she was sure that she was having a boy. But she was afraid. Everyone said there was going to be a war. All Jerusalem was consumed with dread. The king in Samaria had joined forces with the king in Damascus to march against the king in Jerusalem, and the whole population wasted away for worry. Her husband, wise beyond his years they said of him, went to the king. Told him that snake-heads would be crushed — that, if king Ahaz didn’t believe him, he should look: should look and see the woman and her offspring, the sign of God’s ancient promise, being fulfilled again, in their days. That he really ought to look, because if he didn’t, what he feared now would be the least of his worries.

The king lay on his couch, turned to the wall, refusing to eat or drink, too weary even to long for the sleep that kept running away from him. Dread does that, withers the ability to make choices, to act on them. Even the choice to lift a spoon to the mouth. Even to pay more than half attention to whatever it was Isaiah was saying, whatever tale he was spinning, going on about his pregnant wife and ancient stories from Eden. How did it go again?

Once, long ago, there was a man and a woman, and a story of such depth, so many layers. When the man looked into the eyes of the woman, he saw the very image of God: and it was a warrior, come to deliver. When the woman looked back into the eyes of the man, she too saw the very image of God: a husband to her, and a king over creation. But there was more. When the man looked at his wife, he also saw in her the faithful covenant people of God, the bride of a groom. And when the woman looked at her husband, she also saw in him the faithful covenant people of God, whom God fights alongside, and delivers. And, wider still, when the man looked upon his wife, he saw all of humanity, for she was the mother of all the living; and when the woman looked upon her husband, she too saw all of humanity, for we are all made from the soil of the earth.

And in the days of their innocence, before they were ready to reject evil and choose good, they were defeated by an enemy. But God stepped in. In time, the offspring of the woman — brought forth in labour, in a muddle of pain and desire, and under protection or covering — would crush the head of the offspring of the dragon, who would, in turn, strike the child’s heel. The man, too, would labour, would water the ground with sweat and tears; would return, at the last, to the ground from which he was taken, leaving the story to continue after him.

The frightened king in his palace in Jerusalem did not heed the story when he heard it. The young woman did take the story to heart: she did have a son, and weaned him, in peace, war averted, for now.

And the teenage boy, afraid in the night? He also heard, remembered, was caught-up in the story, as triggered by the sign. In the morning, he got up, went to his wife, and held her close. In the days that followed, they journeyed together to the home of his parents, in Bethlehem. And there, the woman gave birth to her son.

The great English writer and Christian apologist G.K. Chesterton wrote, ‘Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.’

And what of you? What dragons do you dread? What makes you afraid? Hear, again, the Christmas story.

Advent Sunday 2019

Lectionary readings: [Isaiah 2:1-5 and] Romans 13:11-14 and Matthew 24:36-44

Christmas jumpers

I don’t know about you, but I find it harder to get up in the mornings at this time of year. It is still dark outside when my alarm goes off at 6.30 a.m. and I know that it is cosy and warm beneath the duvet and noticeably colder out of bed. But the time has come to wake from sleep. And it is more than a counting of time, my watch having counted the seconds, minutes and hours since it was last 6.30 a.m. so as to set off the alarm once more. No, this is a time of opportunity: God has seen fit to give me this new day, filled with the promise that, whatever will come my way, we will meet it together. An invitation to experience more, and to embrace change. But my bed is so warm — even if lying in it for too long gives me back ache, even if my bladder and perhaps my rumbling tummy and maybe even my sense of adventure protest.

In our reading from Paul’s letter to the house churches of Rome, he urges them to shake-off sleepwalking through life. To do so now, not put it off until later. And he speaks of putting on the armour of light, and of putting on the Lord Jesus Christ. The word he uses suggests dressing someone else, or, that we do this to one another. I wonder whether anyone here has ever been given a Christmas jumper? Or Christmas socks? Or Christmas pyjamas? Or, perhaps someone gave you something tasteful to wear as a Christmas gift? That experience captures something of what Paul is wanting to convey, I think. It isn’t about doing it for ourselves, so much as clothing one another with dignity.

Paul contrasts this with feasting and drunkenness; with sexual promiscuity and deliberate indulgence in bad behaviour, to hell with the consequences; with a contentious spirit and boiling anger directed at others. In other words, he lists ‘any behaviour that a person finds temporary pleasure or relief in but suffers negative consequences as a result of’ which, if one ‘does not give up or cannot give up despite those negative consequences’ defines addiction, according to leading addiction expert Gabor Maté.

Maté’s thesis is that addiction is rife in our society and serves to numb emotional pain. The key question, he urges us, is not a judgemental ‘what is wrong with you?’ but a compassionate ‘what happened to you?’ That if we are to help people address the emotional pain that we all live with, we must begin by reverently listening to their story.

I don’t pretend to fully understand the parable Jesus tells in our Gospel reading for today, but it does seem to me to paint the picture of two people, indistinguishable in outward appearance or in a variety of common roles and work activity, where one is swept away in a moment and the other is left wondering what happened. It is a moment of crisis, where something that has been building towards this moment breaks. But the coming of the Son of Man, of the remnant community who have put on Christ, is just as unexpected.

The Old Testament reading for today, from Isaiah, looks to a day when God’s people will be ministers of reconciliation, peacemakers, enabling the nations to know true wellbeing.

And these readings come together in this season of Advent, in which our neighbours will come under great stress to spend money they can’t afford on Christmas, and drink to forget.

One of the things that delights me is that Alcoholics Anonymous have recently started meeting in our church hall, twice a week. Though not their usual nights, they’ll be meeting on Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve, because those are particularly dark nights, and they are a fellowship who know that they need each other to help each one to put on the armour of light.

But this is a hard time of year for many people, perhaps for you. It is also the season of longing and aching for the return of the king. As we wait, together — as we help one another to put on the Lord Jesus Christ — I’d like to play you a song, Until You Do. As we listen, and perhaps join in, may hope rise up within you, and give you strength to arise.