The Lullaby Sung Over Us

A Christmas Eve Sermon in Two Parts...

Last February, our family went to visit the Holy Land. We stood in the town where Elizabeth greeted Mary and the child in her womb leapt for joy, and walked the streets where Joseph led the donkey through the darkness with his pregnant wife.  We looked up at the same sky that was filled with angels on the night Christ was born, over the very hills in Bethlehem where the shepherds were keeping sheep.  I brought back olive wood crosses for the congregation carved by people who trace their Christian ancestry back to those same shepherds, and we used them to pray with during Lent.

I say that because tonight, we cannot gather here apart from the poignant pain, violence and anguish people are suffering in the very place where Christ came into the world to bring peace to us all.  We belong to each other, all of us. All of us. And Christmas is shallow and stupid if it doesn’t have something to say to the real horrors of life, and the evil we human beings can do to one another.  

 

I have no more energy left for polite cheer, sentimental tradition and shallow “good will.”  If this all doesn’t mean something bigger and more powerful than death and destruction, then it’s just a mockery of those who are suffering, and I’d rather skip it.

 

So I want to begin tonight by saying, that it does. That what happens here, and all over the world this night, is a strange, subversive and upside-down power.  We’re here tonight to claim that God comes not with might and muscle, to destroy enemies and rule by force, but in weakness and vulnerability to be loved by we who love one another, to be killed by we who kill one another, and to take all the world’s suffering into God’s very being, so that nothing – not the worst that can happen – can separate us from love.

 

This Advent we’ve let Lullabies lead us. They’re sneaky, lullabies, unlike their gentle and sweet sound, lullabies’ power is fierce and grounding, linking us to the ancient song of joy that the universe still sings, giving shape and structure to our hope, and keeping us connected to God and each other because lullabies come from love, and trust in love, and lay over the tired beloved a blanket of love.

 

So all through Advent, we’ve been singing. We’re singing to stay connected to hope, to seek peace and justice, and to remember that this whole world and everyone in it belongs to God.  We’re singing to counter despair, cynicism, and meanness, to stay soft and open to the world that God loves, ready to be used in the service of love.  As we sing tonight, I want us not to be the one bearing the message, but the ones hearing God’s lullaby sung over us.

 Tonight we are here to receive the God who comes in. God comes into this moment. And in this moment when God comes in, we are joined together with all those who’ve gone before—from those we’ve each loved and lost, to those who lived these moments thousands ago that we’re recounting this evening, through all those in the centuries in-between, the ones who wrote these carols from the 4^th to the 19^th centuries, and all those who sang them through the world’s wars, storms, and tragedies, along with quiet and contented Christmases gone by, to all those who are singing them around the world this very day. We’re all connected, and we are all held in the love of the One whose story we this story we sing and tell tonight. 

 

So we receive that gift too, in whatever way it appears. Tears, laughter, ambivalence, silence – it’s all welcome here, as we, and they, and God, celebrate God breaking the barriers of life and death and coming into this life alongside us, with us, and for us.

 

Now, to prepare our hearts to receive, I want to turn to the carols, or, as we are hearing them tonight, the lullabies, themselves. 

 

A few years ago, when the world was feeling particularly exhausting, I was driving down the freeway with carols playing on the radio, and the line jumped out at me, “a thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.” And I felt such longing arise in me that it brought tears to my eyes. Yes! I thought. I want this.

 

Because these songs that have been sung in the world for centuries, have become the background sound of shopping and movies, we’ve largely stopped hearing the words of truth and comfort about who God is and what God is doing. 

 

So we are going to pause a moment and prepare ourselves to really hear the words of these familiar carols. We are going to listen to the cosmic lullaby that is coming at us in many tunes tonight. 

For the next couple of minutes you’re invited to page through the bulletin with your highlighter and highlight some lines that resonate with your soul – a few messages you need particularly to hear, lines that ignite longing, or hope, hunger, or gratitude. Anything that has energy around it for you or jumps out at you, highlight it now. 

 

And then we’ll begin.

Following Lessons & Lullabies...

When our son Owen was born, the nurse handed Andy the tiny, swaddled child, red-faced and crying. Andy instinctively began bouncing him, and then spontaneously sang what was to become Daddy’s bedtime lullaby over Owen for years to come, “Owen dear, do not fear, do not fear, your Daddy’s here. You might be sad, you may be scared, but you’re not alone.

It is a fearful thing to live and one day die.  As my young nephew quipped to his mother, “I did not consent to being born.” We just begin, and one day, quite regardless of whether we consent to it or not, our earthly life will end. And from our first breaths, we already sense how precarious all this is. Even before we can say so, we already feel scared, and we feel sad, and we feel alone. 

Being human is fundamentally, existentially, terrifying.  If we’re not currently afraid, we undoubtedly have been, and we most certainly will be again. We are united in this human experience with Mary, with Joseph, with the shepherds, and the vulnerable Christ Child. With Palestinian children, and Israeli grandmothers, with Russian moms and Ukrainian dads, with all who suffer starvation and war, and all who are trapped in depression or entombed in addiction, with beloved ones whose minds and memories are slipping away, and with all those whose bodies are ravaged by illness, with those teetering on the threshold of unknown, and those grieving the loss of what was. All people, throughout all time, are, very often, afraid.  

Two thousand years ago, a child is born into a time of upheaval and strife, under the shadow of an oppressive empire, into an insecure and unstable moment, in a less than ideal delivery room far from home. Ready or not, the child comes.  His parents welcome him in pain and joy, acutely aware of their perilous circumstances.  

And what a dangerous thing it always is, bringing a child into this heartbreaking world, filling our hearts with love, and guaranteeing our lives will know loss and sorrow and so will theirs.  

Two thousand years ago, in the darkness a new mother sings a lullaby over her newborn son.  She does not know what lay ahead for him.  Shushing his cries as she bounces him in her arms, in her own mixture of wonder, exhaustion, and fear, the young mother gazes into the face of her tiny son and sings, Jesus, dear, do not fear. Do not fear, your mommy’s here. You might be scared, you may be sad, but you’re not alone.  

And in the way of human children, our God is welcomed in.

"The crux of our Christian faith is this mind-boggling story that the Almighty crept in beside us. Came into this world as a helpless baby, into the arms of those he came to save, to share this life with us, to be with us. And then Jesus dies, taking all that separates us from God, all destruction and brokenness, even death itself, into God’s very being. Then Jesus rises from the dead. And the power of death and division is shattered by the unquenchable light and incarnate love of the world. And there is nothing, nothing, nothing that can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus."

There is nothing stronger than this. No army can defeat a mother’s love for her child. No technology or weapon is stronger than the bond between true friends. There is no terrorist or demagogue, no corruption or evil, no illness or suffering, of any kind, that can stop love.  All over the world, through next door neighbors, and kindergarten teachers, and great uncles, and little sisters, and strangers reaching out to help each other, the transformative power of love leaks between the cracks, and spills over the edges, and rises up between us with healing and tenderness, and even in the midst of terrible bondage, love sets us free.   And as anyone who has lost a loved one can tell you, not even death itself ends love. Love cannot be stopped. 

While nations rage and powers shake, in every place at every moment, love is breaking through, people are sitting with one another in their suffering, celebrating with each other in their joy, listening, seeing, sacrificing, embracing, joining God right where God already is. God’s love is embodied. We are part of that love. We are held in that love. This is God’s way.  From love we came and to love we will return. And in between, when we love, we are joining in the greatest force on earth.

Like a lullaby in the darkness, love holds us fast. This doesn’t make it feel any less like darkness.  But in that darkness, the light shines.  Because into that darkness God comes.  

Do not fear! The angelic chorus proclaims over the whole world, Do not fear, your God is here! You might be scared, you may be sad, but you’re not alone!

PRAYER

Holy One, we entrust ourselves, 

those we love dearly, 

all those we belong to throughout the planet, 

and the very world itself, 

into your arms, you who holds us all in love. 

Help us receive your love and care, 

and let your love shape our living.

Attune our hearts to the infinite and unbroken lullaby, 

sung by the Spirit over all the earth, 

embodied in God-with-us. 

Amen.

The Lord is Come! (Aka, God's non-compliance)

To use this as a take-home service for Christmas Day, follow the red.

Isaiah 9:2-7 

Luke 2:1-20, Matthew 1:18-25

John 1:1-5

I have a stupid tree this year. It looked so great at the lot, the guy held it up and it was glorious and full, the perfect tree. We debated between two, and finally chose this one for being even more perfect than the other one.

But we got it home, and it turns out it doesn’t sit right in the tree stand. It has this thick branch too low down but hacking it off would leave a huge bald spot on the bottom so we left it on. And it was too tall, so we had to saw off the tip of the top with a meat knife and jam the star on the sticky, prickly nubs.  The lights just didn’t go on well; they are clumped in some parts and missing in others, and a few days after its arrival it became the setting of an epic stuffed animal battle so there are bent branches and still the occasional stuffed dog or hamster forgotten deep in the branches. But even if all these things were fixed, it turns out that the trunk itself has a weird bend in it, so it leans dramatically to the side no matter how much time we spend rearranging it, and we’ve spent far too much time rearranging it.

Usually this time of year I love getting up in the early morning and turning on the tree. I will sit by the fireplace, the room lit by the tree’s soft glow, and feel peaceful and hopeful.  This year I wake up and sit with my coffee glaring at this belligerent mess, brazenly slouching against my wall like it’s trying to pick a fight. I wanted to love this tree, even ironically, but I can’t muster anything but irritation for it.  It is not cooperating with my plans.

Apparently I expect Christmas to make me feel cozy, sentimental and serene. But to be honest, I’m not sure Christmas can take the pressure this year. And my tree leans defiantly in my constant sightline as an irksome reminder that things are not quite right.

Today people are going to sit around not quite perfect trees, eating not quite perfect food, opening not quite perfect gifts, having not quite perfect conversations.  And between the joyful moments of laughter and connection, for lots of reasons, lots of people will also be feeling mixed up, anxious, and sad, and then they’ll chide themselves for not being in “the Christmas spirit,” even though the weather isn’t really in the Christmas spirit either.

Christmas is not cooperating with our plans for it.

But guess what? Neither does the first Christmas, actually. 

And neither does God, almost never, in fact.

So let’s step out of a shallow dependence on holiday cheer, and into a different story, one that has very little to do with a jolly version of Christmas contentment -  God’s story of deep darkness pierced by unquenchable light, of expectations thwarted and salvation glimpsed, of love born into in a tense and weary world.

Read Isaiah 9:2-7 

Read "When the World was Dark"

Write on a bit of paper, Where do I want God to come in?  Collect and set aside.

(Read Luke 1:26-38)

We all belong to God, and we all belong to each other. This isn’t trite and shallow: a plea to “just be nice,” or a campaign slogan lying in a muddy puddle under people’s departing feet.

It is the very lifeblood of it all. 

And it looks like this: Mary, Don’t be afraid; You belong to God.  So does the whole world and everyone in it.  Because this is so, God is coming to share life with us, to set us free from everything that tells us otherwise.  And you, Mary, are going to be part of this.  Don’t worry about how it will happen; it will break every rule, because God loves to do impossible things. And because belonging to God means we belong to each other, you wont be alone  - even now, in fact, your impossibly old and undeniably pregnant relative is part of this too.

(Read Matthew 1:18-25)

And then there is Regular Joseph with his regular life, comfortably stretched out before him, predictable and planned, now suddenly shattered.  She is not mine after all, and I am not to be hers. Dear, brokenhearted Joseph, resolving to quietly, in the least harmful way, sever ties, pick up the pieces and start over. 

Don’t be afraid, Joseph. Don’t be afraid to belong to her. God is coming share life with us, to set us free from everything that divides us from God and each other. And you, Joseph, are going to be part of this. God will come as a helpless baby in need of belonging, and you are to love him as your own son.

(Read Luke 2:1-7)

A hugely pregnant Mary and a stressed out, worried Joseph make the trek to Bethlehem, one little, inconsequential family among the masses, traveling under orders of a powerful empire that dominates the people’s lives.  But when God’s celestial army assembles, instead of wiping out the oppressive enemy in the blink of an eye, it forms a giant choir, and belts out God’s persistent, undermining promise of peace on the whole earth to all who belong to God and each other, into the stunned and terrified faces of simple shepherds in a nowhere place. Don’t be afraid, the angels will joyfully holler. You are going to be part of this too! Go and see!

God doesn’t play by the same rules as you and I do. The world wants strength; God comes in weakness. The world values status and power, God chooses the ordinary and unnoticed.  The world praises shiny and slick, God prefers broken and real.  God chose to come in scandal and shame instead of honor and admiration.

Nobody in the Christmas story got to keep their armor. Their illusions about where their strength or purpose or value or identity come from have to die, because really belonging to each other means that all that separates me from God and from others has to die in me. It means all that buries my true self and yours, all that makes me feel like I have to earn my esteem or defend my worth, and all my reliance on things in the world to guarantee me security and stability, that dies.  It all gets taken away to make way for the real. Zechariah, Elizabeth, Mary, Joseph, Shepherds, Magi, all of them get reduced to their simple humanity before they are brought into the Kingdom of God with the words, Now Don’t be afraid!

(Read Luke 2:8-20)

A different story is unfolding, even now, within and through your life, this life, this world. In this reality, everything seems upside down; shepherds become preachers and virgins are mothers, and in a dark and smelly stable, with no doctor or place for them in the inn, the God of the universe lays aside invincibility to be born as a defenseless human baby.

  

The Kingdom of God is here, grown up Jesus will later say, It’s right here. Among us, within us, between us. Hidden and backwards, it comes in weakness, asking us to let go of all that we use to protect ourselves from our most basic humanity and divide us from each other. God’s Kingdom is seen when we step out of our strength and stand with someone else in their brokenness. When we name our own brokenness and need and let someone stand with us. That’s where Jesus already is, already has been, always will be. That’s where we can feel that primal and permanent belonging, to God and to each other, that we were made for and are returning to.

Sometimes we call it love.  And nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. Darkness is real, but Love is the deepest reality and the final word.

(Take out the papers you wrote at the beginning. Read them one at a time, For each one, say, "God is with us in this."  Or, "Into ______ God has come.  Response: God is with us.")

Right into the very mess of it, God comes. 

Into a tense and weary world braced for worse, God comes, thwarting expectations and upsetting plans, threatening power with undermining peace, and piercing the darkness with unquenchable light. 

This is the story you belong to. 

Now, don’t be afraid.

Amen.

Be Not Afraid (aka, What if-?)

"Let not your heart be troubled, Be Not Afraid.

Heaven and earth have been gathered, Be Not Afraid."

- Advent sending song and Christmas Eve welcome song, LNPC 2014

Christmas Eve at LNPC, photo by Maggie Cochrane

John 1:1-5

Imagine you are God, and you love this gorgeous world you’ve made, and especially you adore all these creatures made in your image, to care for each other and this world.

Imagine you’ve made it all to work together in this crazy, intricate, symbiotic relationship, where nobody is able to do it alone, and everyone needs each other, and all have a part to play, and the animals and plants and human beings are interconnected in this giant web of teeming, joy-filled life that fills you with delight.

Only, the humans get afraid.

Afraid that maybe you won’t accept them the way they are, and you’ll want them to do or be something different first.

Afraid that maybe the person on the left and right might actually be better, more important, than they are.

Afraid that in fact there isn’t enough to go around, so they’d better grab what they can even if it means someone else doesn’t get any. 

Afraid that someone will take what is theirs or hurt them, so they start taking what is others and hurting others instead. 

Maybe they get so afraid that they start putting up all sorts of walls between themselves, these walls even get inside themselves, so the parts of them that seem weak or ugly, the parts that make them cringe and cry, the hopeless, helpless parts, they tamp down and bottle up and cover over and make themselves appear stronger, better, more sure than they really are because it is dangerous to be weak, and terrifying to be vulnerable. 

Maybe they start devising ways to tell who is better than others, and who is not worth even considering, who can’t be trusted and who should be shunned, who is most a threat and who is most a target. 

And all this is so frightening that they set up some systems and beliefs and procedures to bring some clarity to what is expected, and how to get there, how to avoid what is harmful and chase after what can make them more secure and less scared, and pretty soon they are living completely dictated by it all and disconnected from you, each other, even themselves.  And while it’s exhausting, and overwhelming, and all-demanding, at least it’s familiar, and the rules of the game, while harsh, are at least clear, so they persist, and the lies dig deeper and the fear gets bigger and so it goes.

Imagine you try to get through to them.  To tell them it’s not like this. To tell them they’ve got it wrong. That you already love and choose them, that they already belong. And that you don’t want them to be strong and independent, you want them to be real and interdependent.  That there is enough for all, and that they all need each other, and nobody is better than any other, and it’s all meant to work in connection and not division. 

Imagine that you try to show them that their sadness is as welcome as their happiness, and their anger is a gift that points them to truth, and that no matter what they do, even when they lose sight of what’s real and hurt others or themselves, none of that can separate them from you because you heal what’s sick and mend what’s broken and welcome home what’s lost.  That the point of it all is to be connected to you and one another, and to join in life in the world you love.

You try to tell them in gift and abundance, sharing all that you have and inviting them to share it with you.  And they turn instead to fear and suspicion, blaming each other and you and hiding from your love. 

They start competing and killing and destroying, and it gets so ugly, and evil, and feels so lost that you decide to wipe it all out and start over. But you love them too much to end it completely, and you see that they will not really change, so you decide that no matter how much they keep turning away from you and hurting each other, you will never give up on them, so you make promises and invite trust again. 

And while they keep on turning to fear instead of love, you choose one family, through whom to bless the whole world, one family who will live in connection to you and invite everyone else into that connection and love, your proxy, your community of welcome. 

But the fear creeps on and the division grows stronger and they declare enemies and battle and enslave each other, and so you send plagues and promises and part waters and provide in wilderness, and bring freedom and order, and describe for them what life in relationship with you and each other looks like: that you are the one who holds their life, and in your way all have enough, and nobody has to live in fear.  You tell the people they no longer are bound in the way of fear, but are free instead to follow your way – the way they were wired to live after all.

And they find themselves living between your way and the way of fear, returning again to the relentless pursuit of more and the acceptance of less, and the way of fear grows within them and spreads like cancer, continuing to divide and devastate, so you send messengers who speak in poetry and prophesy, and you send leaders who bring guidance and wisdom and honest songs of praise and lament, and who also fall themselves into the pursuit of power, prestige and possessions as their source of security, and so both succeed and also fail spectacularly to embody your message of love.

And on it goes, until you decide the way to communicate your true intent, the only way to undermine all the false beliefs they have created, and expose the powers they’ve erected to enslave themselves, the way to show them the love it’s all grounded in and leading to, is to embody it yourself. 

To come right into it with them.  

The loneliness, the isolation, the divisions and the deceit, the lies that bind them tight, and fear that keeps them captive to violence and discord, you will go there and join them in all of that.

But you’re not going to go in the way they would expect or respect. If the world wants power and might, you’re going to come in vulnerability and weakness.  If they venerate those with stature and prestige, you’re going to come to the poor and the overlooked.  If they think it is about what they can earn or prove, you will choose the unsuspecting ordinary, and you will come in unexplainable mystery. 

And instead of appearing to the confident and the respectable, you will hang out with the doubters and the stumblers, the ones who can’t fake it.   Those up against their own humanity will be nearest to your transcendence.  This is how you’re going to come in.

Into their fear, that keeps them in striving and struggle, you’re bringing peace.

Into their fear, that plots and plans and guards and hedges, you’re bringing hope.

Into their fear, that layers things in apathy, and seeks shallow pleasure in greed and consumption, you’re bringing joy.

Into their fear, that makes them hide in self-protection and lash out in hate, you are bringing love. 

But you’re going to do it in upside down and backwards, foolish absurdity. 

You’re going to break the rules wide open.

And so the time arrives…

The congregation told the story of Christmas in readings, carols, drama and music, young and old together sharing in the telling, using Luke 1:26-38, Matthew 1:18-25, Luke 1:39-56, Luke 2:1-20.

So, there we have it.  Our foolish, absurd and glorious story, that God enters in to claim the world in love.  And we ended things there on a pretty big claim, a cosmic from the very the beginning promise, that the light has come that the darkness cannot put out.  And now it’s time to wrap it up neatly, so I guess we have a choice, tonight, you and I.

We can take this as a quaint, if not bizarre, traditional story, a sentimental habit, sing our carols, light our candles, and go home to the rest of our Christmas Eve plans.  Nobody would think twice about it, if that’s what we did.  It’s all that’s expected, really. The only real logical move with this story we pull off the shelf once a year to page through the faded pictures wistfully until the moment passes, and real life with real reality resumes, and we move on without a second glance.

But I want to suggest another idea. 

What if we don’t wrap it up and put it away? What if we linger in the what if of this preposterous story? Poke with our finger this astounding claim, that in Jesus Christ, God is with us?  What if there is a God whose love is so relentlessly for us, that God came into all this alongside us?

What if this were true?

What if God already loves and choose you and you already belong?  And what if you’re not meant to be strong and independent, but real and interdependent? What if there really is enough? And we all really do need each other? And it’s designed to work in connection and not division?  What if our sadness is as welcome as our happiness, and our anger is a gift that points us to truth?

What if, no matter what we do, even when we lose sight of what’s real and hurt others or ourselves, none of that can separate us from God, who  heals what’s sick and mends what’s broken and welcomes home what’s lost?  What if, the point of it all is to be connected to God and one another, and to join in life in the world God loves?

What if, in Jesus Christ, the whole trajectory of things is forever bent back toward God; all things are moving toward their completion, redemption, and wholeness, and you and I are held within this, so that even in the darkest times, when death is breathing down our necks, there is still something greater holding us fast, never letting us go?  What if we can, from time to time, walk the weak and foolish way of God, even in the midst of the way of fear that seems so big and powerful?

Sisters and brothers, picture for a moment that this is so:  that into our fear, that keeps us in striving and struggle, Jesus brings peace. 

“Not as the world brings”, he says, “Let not your hearts be troubled, nor let them be afraid.” (John 14:27)

Into our fear, that plots and plans and guards and hedges, Jesus brings hope, “a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul” calls the author of Hebrews. (Heb 6:18)

Into our fear, that layers things in apathy, and seeks shallow pleasure in greed and consumption, Jesus brings joy.

 You show me the path of life” sings the Psalmist. “In your presence there is fullness of joy...” (ps 16:11)

And into our fear, that makes us hide in self-protection and lash out in hate, Jesus brings love.

“Who will separate us from the love of Christ?” The Apostle Paul asks, “Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?”

“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:35, 37-39)

What an outrageous claim!

What if it’s true?

If it’s true, then it is possible that God is always breaking in like we’d never expect or respect.  If it’s true, then the Holy One is actually encountered, not in power and might, but in vulnerability and weakness, and not through stature and prestige, but alongside the poor and the overlooked.  Everyday, it’s possible that God does meet us in the unsuspecting ordinary and unexplainable mystery, breaking the rules wide open.   

If it’s true, then the place to find Jesus, really and truly and actually, isn’t with the confident and strong, but hanging out with the doubters and the stumblers, the ones who can’t fake it.  The place to see Jesus, the light of the world that the darkness cannot overcome, is up against our own humanity, the doorway to transcendence is right there, in our own raw, and unpolished lives, where God is with us, bearing our pain and sharing our joy, and we can see God with us when we are with and for each other.

And if it’s true, then in upside down, backwards, foolish and absurd ways, quietly and steadfastly, God is turning the world around.

So why not stay open to this Christmas moment for a little bit longer, and see what might come of it? Why not hold still in the what if of all this for a while more, and see if God shows up?