A Sermon for Christmas Eve

A week ago, the church staff gathered for lunch and a white-elephant gift exchange. We drew numbers, and when it was our turn, we each selected a gift, which was wrapped or boxed or bagged in some attractive, beguiling fashion. The fun was in the surprise of what was inside of the box or bag. Kilpy got a pair of over-sized grizzly-bear slippers. Amelia got a sweatshirt with pictures of Jesus and Santa, with the words, We saw that. I got a champagne party bag, which included a bottle of bubbly and a pack of cocktail napkins imprinted with The Four Stages of Life:

          The first stage: You believe in Santa;

          the second: you don’t believe in Santa;

          third: you are Santa;

          finally: you like look Santa.

You get the idea: silly gifts, which make one smile and laugh.

When I was a kid, giving, and especially getting, gifts was a serious business. Every year I made my lists, with the help of the Sears Christmas Wish Book. I was like the obsessive boy in Jean Shepherd’s The Christmas Story—you know, Ralphie, who so badly wanted a Red Ryder BB gun.

Finding the right thing that will make someone happy, and keeping vigil for its timely delivery, can be stressful and fraught with disappointment. When it’s not stressful, giving gifts feels good. Very good. We delight in giving and receiving gifts. When I ask people about their family’s traditions around Christmas, the one common denominator is exchanging gifts.

I wonder where it all comes from—this universal impulse to give and receive gifts. I’m sure there are theories that explain this urge in terms of evolutionary biology, some dreary explanation that would suck all the joy out of our exercising generosity (we exchange gifts to build kinship to strengthen our prospects for survival). Bah, humbug!

But I expect that we who are here in this church on this night, we who hear again the message of the angel and in heart and mind go even unto Bethlehem to see this thing which has come to pass, and the babe lying in a manger—we are here because we yearn and long for something greater than us, which defies explanation, to grace our lives and surprise us.

It has been a year. Each of us, I am quite sure, has felt some sadness or grief, some worry or fear. Medical reports, financial statements, election results, headlines, a loved one’s silence, an empty seat at the family’s table, a catalog of uncertainties, things outside of our control, senseless violence, wars, destructive storms and the unmistakable signs of climate change. Any of these might overwhelm those ordinary graces that sustain us and we count as blessings—any of those woes might depress our spirits and rob us of joy.

In the face of these forces, losses, and events, our Christmas traditions—like giving gifts—might seem thin, flimsy, like the tinsel on a tree. But how else are we to express the hopes and fears of all the years? “Unless we hang out ridiculous little colored lights, light candles in the windows, put up holly and mistletoe, recreate the fantastic scenes of shepherds and a stable, hoping and believing even if only half believing that there is a beyond come to live with us, share our life and conquer its death.”^[1]

We give gifts because the experience of Christmas is the gift of a child, who is the face of God, who looks at us with such tenderness. We look at him, and we see God smiling back at us, cherishing us, even as we cherish the Christ child. And so, we give gifts. We give gifts to each other to express our love and care for each other.

I believe there is in every gift a little bit of Christmas, even if the gift is given out of season. A gift is a token, a way of cherishing another. Our words don’t seem adequate, our expressions awkward. But we are moved and inspired to acknowledge and recognize that those to whom we give gifts are children of God. And when they receive our gift, they know themselves to be beloved. Ultimately, the gift we give to each other is belovedness. God cherishes us, and we cherish each other.

Here’s a thought for your consideration: Maybe the strange and unexpected gift of this night is doubt, which might begin as doubt about angels, and the virgin birth, and this whole fantastic story of Christ in a manger—is it true? But if we allow our doubt to become a question, by asking is it true, our understanding may grow and deepen, as we have a conversation, which will lead us to the love of God. The gift of this night is that we may doubt the ultimacy and victory of pain, suffering, death, and injustice. And so we tell the ancient tale by candlelight, with pageantry, carols, and a plate of bread and a cup of wine. What else would we do?

John Betjeman wrote a poem called “Christmas,” which concludes this way:

And is it true?  And is it true,

This most tremendous tale of all,

Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,

A Baby in an ox’s stall?

The Maker of the stars and sea

Become a Child on earth for me?

 

And is it true?  For if it is,

No loving fingers tying strings

Around those tissued fripperies,

The sweet and silly Christmas things,

Bath salts and inexpensive scent

And hideous tie so kindly meant,

 

No love that in a family dwells,

No carolling in frosty air,

Nor all the steeple-shaking bells

Can with this single Truth compare—

That God was man in Palestine

And lives today in Bread and Wine.

If we ask the question—if we ask is it true?—we open our hearts to an answer, which might just be the message of the angel, who said to the shepherds in the deep of night on some godforsaken edge: “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.”

May it be so, my beloved; may it be so. Amen.

The Rev. Gregory Bezilla

^[1] Edmund A. Steimle, “The Beating of Unseen Wings.”