Yearning for Christmas

December 30, 2007

First Sunday after Christmas
Isaiah 63:7-9; Hebrews 2:10-18; Matthew 2:13-23
The Reverend Cathy S. Gilliard

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I had a somewhat different take on Christmas this year. It was, I don’t know, sort of surreal in a way. I was in the midst of it but it was as if I was on the outside looking on. I got to thinking about all the busy-ness of the season and all that we put into it.

And I concluded that perhaps we need this season of Christmas more than we care to admit. We need the hope inspired by a time when everything can potentially go well. The wonder and waiting and yearning for Christ to come again into the world and into our lives. The retelling of the story of Mary’s courageous response and Joseph’s willingness to do the "right" thing, and the baby Jesus born in a manger in Bethlehem’s stable.

We yearn for the light. Every day, at some level, we awaken and hope that today will be better. We hope for food, for work, for companionship, for an end to brutality and hatred, for common sense and tolerance. We yearn for the Messiah. We might not give our yearning that name, but I believe that humanity’s yearning - all of it, the wailing and wishing, the eagerness and the edginess - is somehow bound together into a single reaching for the light.

At its best, Christmas, even with all the commercialism and the rat-race of it, offers the kind of interruption from our normalcy that is unlike anything else. A change of pace; a shift from the daily routine.

We need a season of merriment where joy is expected, a reminder that hope is possible. Peace is possible – in the world and in our hearts. We need the pageants and carols, tree decorating, and wreath lighting. And the smiles on our children’s faces on Christmas morning. We need to board planes, and trains, and take the long car rides if necessary. We need an excuse, a good reason to spend time with family even if we have to force ourselves to break bread and share stories recalling our roots and reclaiming our identity.

We need to catch the evening news and hear stories of the homeless finding shelter, food, and coats for the winter, and old men repairing bicycles and giving them to children who would otherwise not have a gift at all. It stirs up something wonderful on the inside of us.

We long to be remembered with thoughtful greeting cards and hearty well wishes. And to see pictorial updates and read the catch up letters from friends, hear news of the past year’s activities: weddings that have happened; babies born; deaths; fun vacations; graduations; reminders that the seasons of all our lives are changing but things are still well.

We crave the attention that gift-giving and gift-receiving invokes. Not so much the gift itself, because let’s face it - if we were honest, I suspect that most of us, at least for the most part, if we really wanted something, almost any gift at all, we could just go out and buy it ourselves at any time. But it is the attention, the thoughtfulness, the reminder that we are not alone. Somebody cares. We are remembered, loved.

What if Christmas became our normal? What if we put as much thought and intentionality into the people and things we truly care about all year long? Sent cards and notes that say, “I love you, best wishes?” Worked a little harder at being family? Taking some time to slow down just a bit? Exchanging the gift of gratitude and thanksgiving.

But Matthew does not allow us to romanticize about it. It is love story, but not nice and neat where two young people fall in love, have a healthy baby boy and live happily ever after. In this gospel there is no manger or inn, no trip from Nazareth, no shepherds abiding in the fields, no speech or song of praise from Mary. Instead, there is the horrific image of the holy family being displaced as refugees fleeing for their lives.

Matthew invites us into the hard work of the gospel. When King Herod heard that the promised Messiah was born he was frightened and, having been tricked by the wise men, he was so infuriated that he issued an order that all the boy babies under the age of two in and around Bethlehem were to be killed. Think about that for a moment. The King is threatened. He is angry. And the only way to solve the problem is to kill the innocent children.

I’m not sure why Matthew puts this in the story. Maybe it really happened - I don’t know. Everywhere we turn in Scripture this Herod is documented as a wicked and cruel man, capable of orchestrating such an event. Or it may be that Matthew wants to highlight a connection between Jesus and Moses, whose story also includes the escape from the killing of children. Perhaps Matthew wants to tell us something about the world into which Jesus was born, about the hostility Jesus encountered, and about pain that just does not seem to fit. He is telling us about pain inflicted upon innocent children whose mother, Rachel, would not be consoled; pain so deep it is difficult for us to comprehend it; yet pain, in other ways, that we understand all too well – even at Christmas – especially at Christmas.

I think there is nothing more arresting than the death of children. To be honest, I tried to skip this text because I just didn’t want to deal with it. Even the possibility of babies dying makes me shudder. When an older person dies, though it is difficult, one can think back over a lifetime of interactions and cling to the memories and times shared. But when a child dies, we grieve in a different way. We are left to grieve for the future that child will never know and the future we will never have with them. We grieve for the little league games we will never see and the dance recitals and Christmas pageants they will never perform - the graduations, the weddings and their own children. We grieve for the difference they could have made in the world. And we have to find a place to put all of those dreams and aspirations. That is why the valley of the shadow of death is so dark. The pain is so deep. The tears inconsolable. The recovery so slow.

It is as if Matthew took a page out of today’s New York Times or summarized a report on last night’s evening news. The babies are to be killed. He does not go into specific detail about the bloodshed. He does not write about swords, or tiny corpses, or soldiers prying crying babies from their screaming mothers’ arms. Matthew does not need to write about those things because with only the simplest allusion to the terror, we know it too well, don’t we? The images are locked in our mind. We have seen it. Heard it. This world’s tyrants rage and innocent people suffer and die.

The slaughter of the innocent defenseless children represents all the horror, the pain, the suffering, the terror in our world - the world into which Jesus was born. His birth did not happen at a time when everything was perfect or when people were feeling especially good about themselves or when no one went hungry. He was born into dysfunction. Chaos. Poverty. Trouble. The breaking in of the kingdom, a breaking-in that did not deny the pain or hurt of the world but that happened in spite of it. And we encounter the power that brought peace not apart from this world but in its midst. Embracing the message of Christmas does not demand denial of pain, global or personal, and it does not mean that everything will fit together. No, the truth of Christmas is this: even, and especially, for such a time as this, God is with us.

Sort of begs the question: where do we go on from here? It seems difficult to think about going back to business as usual. Having been stirred with hope and the confidence of God’s presence, how do we get back into the real world and keep the Spirit of Christmas alive?

Twice the message came to Joseph: get up, take, go. Get up, take the good thing that you have, and go forth with it. And Joseph got up, took Mary and the child, and went.

Matthew ends the gospel with Jesus’ commission to the disciples and to us: “Go therefore…” Go into the world - the real world of terror and pain. Hate and anger. Doubt and fear and uncertainty. Go! And as you go, live the good life of faith in the One who has come among you. Let your light shine. Bring joy to the world. Peace on earth. Love your neighbor.

I think we can do it! I really do.