St Stephen's Day: The Cost of Christmas

Jeremiah 26:19, 12-15
Psalm 31
Acts 6:8-7:2a, 51c-60
Matthew 23:34-39

On Christmas Eve I spoke of the dynamic of light and darkness; of that light of which we only catch a glimpse, but which nonetheless transforms us into people who consistently witness to the narrative of light in the midst of seemingly pervasive darkness. While, in the darkness of the their world and the darkness of their lives, Mary and Joseph, the shepherds also have the true light revealed to them, they still must return into the dark. The shepherds more overtly into the dark night and the dark fields of pasture; Mary and Joseph into the darkness of fear, flight and exile as they must flee to Egypt in order to escape Herod’s violence. The light transforms their perspective, defines a new narrative, but they have to live still in the darkness while they work to let the light’s truth shine in the world.

If only they could simply have remained undisturbed at the “manger throne”, lost in “wonder, love and praise”, as the old hymn goes. In our celebration of Christmas we also may want to remain there. We like the high, the buzz – even nostalgia – of the light: “peace on earth, goodwill to men”, and all that. We get that high and fuzzy, warm feeling, and we feel we have arrived somewhere – at Christmas; and that’s good isn’t it? In fact, the days following Christmas Day have very little significance for many Christians; and yet Christmas Day is only the beginning. It is only the start of the Christmas cycle, and the full meaning of Christ’s coming into the world is not revealed on that one day, but in the Church’s observances and celebrations throughout the season’s twelve days. As Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and even the wise men find themselves in the darkness once again after their encounter with the Christ-light, so the Church in her wisdom takes us into the dark again. She does not allow to remain passively in the light encounter, but in the days following Christmas Day plunges us into all the violence, prejudice, injustice that darkness affords. Just three days from today the Church commemorates Thomas Beckett, killed within his own cathedral church for defending the Church’s rights and dignities over and against the king. In two days time, we recall Herod’s horrific massacre of all the “children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under” (Matthew 2:16) in the hopes of extinguishing the Christ-light altogether. Tomorrow she celebrates the feast of St John the Evangelist in whose gospel we find written those marvellous words telling of “the light [which] shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5), but who on account of the darkness of fear, victimisation and persecution will eventually find himself exiled to the island of Patmos at the whim of the Emperor Diocletian. And then there is today, the feast of St Stephen, the Church’s first martyr. All this is Christmas too; and yet think for one moment of sending a Christmas card depicting any of these events? Most people, even most Christians, want the light only, without having to encounter the dark; we want the warmth of the light without having to carry it into the cold darkness of the world. But the Church does not give us that luxury, or much time to bask in the radiance of the light; instead she immediately takes us into some pretty dark places and reveals to us the cost of being light in the world, being light in the darkness. Through her feasts, she takes us into the darkness so we can learn how our ancestors in faith were lights in the darknesses of their own generation, but also how we can be lights in the darknesses of our own.

Being light in the world means speaking the truth, especially when no one wants to hear it. It means being willing to suffer for the right, as well as defending those whom the darkness has robbed of voice and dignity. It means being willing to enter into the places that are dark in order that we can transform them by our witness to light. It means we allow the darkness to challenge us into shining only more brightly, but also to proclaim that its deeds and words are not the final deeds, the defining words. It means that even when we see and feel the darkness overcoming us, we do not give it the final victory by succumbing to its forces, but continue to oppose it even if only, like Stephen, by praying for those who live and work with darkness as their defining narrative.

Christmas that ends on Christmas Day is no Christmas at all, but enculturated comfortableness that allows us to escape the season’s real meaning for Christians. Light has come into the world, and that light is costly to those who collaborate with it, like Mary, Joseph, the wise men. It is costly for those believe in and proclaim it, like Stephen, John, Thomas Beckett. It is costly even for those who simply get in the way of the darkness, like the Holy Innocents slaughtered by Herod’s men. And yet all of them are blessed, all of them are remembered and celebrated, revealing as they do the true narrative of creation, the true purposes of God: light, the light that shines in the darkness and which the darkness does not ultimately overcome.

Beyond the expense of presents, time spent at the mall and long hours in the kitchen, is Christmas costly to you? Is the light revealed in the darkness of that Christmas night a challenge for you to be a light in the darkness of world, or is it merely a comfortable, warm glow centred around your nearest and dearest? Is the darkness in which we often find ourselves simply something to escape and from which to steer clear, or something to encounter, engage with and transform? No matter how often we may celebrate Christmas Day or pay lips service to what it means, it is only when we observe the season in its fullness and accept for ourselves the risky and dangerous challenge it offers that will ever be able to say “Glory to God in the highest heaven (Luke 2:14); “blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” (Matthew 23:39)

Christmas: The Narrative of Light

Isaiah 9:2-7
Psalm 96
Titus 2:11-14
Luke 2:1-20

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; and those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them a light has shined.” (Isaiah 9:2) Can any remember a time when they were in utter darkness? The sort of darkness in which one’s eyes never get accustomed, because there is no light at all: deep, deep and utter darkness. I remember being in such darkness myself twice. The first as a boy, and not far from here in the Crystal Caves of Sequoia National Park. The second, far more recently and at another national park, this time in Ireland. Located in Country Meath (on the eastern side of Ireland), Newgrange is megalithic passage tomb built in about 3200 BC. These passage tombs can be found throughout Britain and Ireland, and as their name suggest are long passages cut into earth. They end in a round chamber within which were laid to rest the most notable in the community. The one at Newgrange is distinctive, however, because it is constructed in such a way that a light box above the main entrance allows “sunlight to penetrate the passage and the chamber at sunrise around the Winter Solstice.” At just the right moment in the morning, as the sun rises a “narrow beam of light” passes through the light box. The sun’s light enters the chamber and slowly “moves” – as it were – down the 60 foot length of the passage. As the sun continues to rise higher the beam reaches the chamber and widens so that “the whole room becomes dramatically illuminated. After 17 minutes the sunbeam leaves the chamber and retreats back down the passage”. Each year there is a free lottery in Ireland to win a place within the chamber at the solstice. However, if you visit at any other time the effect is re-produced artificially. I experienced the latter, and it was still incredibly powerful. Standing in the darkness of the chamber, I felt the light as a living thing moving towards me along the floor of the passageway, ultimately enveloping me and all in the chamber with me in its glorious brightness. Eventually it receded back, and we were once again left in darkness. “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” (Isaiah 7:2)

How this was all calculated, planned and constructed over 5000 years ago still challenges scholars and engineers. So too does the exact reason why; but surely it must have something to do with making palpable the reality of the presence of light even in the most abject darkness. Certainly, the place and the experience mediated by it are symbols of the underlying but often difficult-to-apprehend truth that the real narrative of creation is not darkness, but light. As we gather tonight, it seems that we are telling fundamentally the same story. The child born in the darkness of this night, in the dark obscurity of a cave – the Grotto of the Nativity in Bethlehem is after all a cave – this child is the embodiment of God’s promise of light; indeed this child is Light, the true light coming into he world, the light which enlightens everyone. (cf. John 1:9) At the same time, like the light in the chamber at Newgrange, only a few witness the Christ-light – Mary, Joseph, some shepherds, a collection of animals, and later the wise-men – and all too quickly the light recedes to a hidden place, seemingly conquered by the darkness of political power as Herod fears for his throne, and by the darkness of violence as small children are massacred in the hopes of discovering the one who it is believed will overthrow the government altogether. The light recedes, but it is not conquered; those who are witness to it never forget its grace and truth. They learn that the underlying narrative of creation is not the seemingly pervasive darkness in which they often find themselves, but light – the light of grace, the light of Christ, the light of God. The shepherds’ dark doubts are transformed into joy and praise, and, as Garrison Keillor reports in his re-telling of the Christmas story: “life would never again be the same for them; there was always a light in their hearts and it would never be dark night for them again.” For Mary also, the darkness of uncertainty and most probably worry, become quiet acceptance and contemplation in the presence of the Christ-light. She treaured all she heard and saw, and “pondered them in her heart”. (Luke 2:16) As an adult Jesus willingly entered into a world of darkness and dark forces – political and social – which oppressed, disfigured and determined the lives of many, but his life was lived in such a way that the light was his defining narrative, and so he could say with confidence, “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12), and he could tell his followers that they too were the “light of the world.” (Matthew 5:14); light shining in the darkness which the darkness does not overcome. (cf. John 1:5)

We all know the extent to which we live our lives in the dark: in the darknesses of fear, in the darknesses of uncertainty, in the darknesses of regret. Many in our world live their lives in the darknesses of violence, hunger, poverty, oppression. Yet, the message of creation and of creation’s God, the message of Christmas is that darkness is not the defining narrative. The defining narrative is light; light hidden, light obscured perhaps, but light nonetheless. The call of the Christian life is to expose that light wherever it is covered, shine it in the darkest places of our world; it is to encourage it when it is but a dull spark, kindle it into a great shining blaze and carry it to those who “sit in darkness and in the shadow of death”. (Luke 1:79) It is always and everywhere to give the lie to the narrative of darkness, and ever witness to the the deep and true narrative of light, no matter how dark things may seem. Those of us who have seen and know the truth about the light must follow the example of the shepherds who on having experienced themselves the Christ-light go out into the darkness bearing its truth, glorifying and praising God for it. (cf. Luke 2:20) Indeed, “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” (Luke 9:2)

Not unlike those who this solstice stood within the chamber of Newgrange and who began and ended their experience within its dark recesses, so we began our service tonight in the dark and we will end in the dark. However, there as here light has been revealed to us. In different ways we have experienced the same story, the true narrative of the light – the unconquerable light, the inextinguishable light, the light which darkness cannot ultimately overcome. More specifically as we celebrate this holy feast of Christmas we know that we have encountered the light of Christ, the light of the world and as Christians we know that no matter how dark things may seem, no matter the darkness of our world or of our lives, it will never really be dark night for us ever again. Even as we walk in darkness we know the truth, we know it is not the final word, the defining narrative. “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light (Isaiah 9:2); “the light [that] shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it.” (John 1:5)

Advent 4: Waiting in Hope

Advent 4 (A) (2010)
Isaiah 7.10-16
Psalm 80.1-7, 16-18
Romans 1.1-7
Matthew 1.18-25

Traditional wisdom tells us that “hope springs eternal.” And if Advent is about anything, it is about hope. Its color, blue, is more specifically the blue we see in the sky just before the sun rises. Advent is about our waiting in darkness for the dawn to break upon us from on high (cf. Luke 1.78); and as we wait, we wait in hope, knowing that the sun will rise. Hope and waiting are intimately connected. If we are hoping, we are waiting for that hope to be fulfilled. If we are waiting, we are hoping that our wait will be vindicated. Spanish makes the connection between the two more clearly, as the words are etymologically related. The Spanish “to wait” is esperar, for “hope” esperanza. Some years ago I was leading an Advent study group, and we were discussing what might be the most appropriate image to describe the nature and feel of Advent. We came up with a maternity waiting room in a hospital; the place where family and friends gather as they await the birth of a new baby. There one finds all the expectation and hope which should surround Advent. That waiting carries with it a sense of danger and trepidation – fear for the well-being of the mother and the child to be born; but also joy and excitement that a new life is coming into the world. The waited-for baby carries for those around her a sense of hope, and all the sense of possibility new life brings.

So it is no accident that today we are reminded of this image. “Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.” (Isaiah 7.14). “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel” (Matthew 1.23) Although referring to two different babies, both Isaiah and Matthew use these similar words to express a sense of hope in the new possibilities which a coming child represents. While the passage from Isaiah has often been understood as speaking directly about Jesus, the majority of biblical scholars do not now agree with this view. Raymond Brown the renowned Roman Catholic New Testament scholar says that the prophets of the Hebrew Scriptures “were primarily concerned with addressing God’s challenge to their own times. If they spoke about the future, it was in broad terms of what would happen if the challenge was accepted or rejected.” Isaiah was addressing his words to King Ahaz at a time when the kingdom of Judah was under great threat by the rising empire of Assyria. It was in fact under so much pressure that King Ahaz in desperation had sacrificed a child of his to one of the pagan gods hoping to assure his safety and that of his kingdom. He repented of this act of faithlessness and violence and so, the prophet Isaiah offered to him a sign. He places all his hope on the next generation, on the child which is in the womb of Ahaz’s wife, on the next king: “Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.” (Isaiah 7.14). The hope in the prophet’s words is that in the birth of this new child God will make fully known the divine purposes for Judah and the world; that God will make God’s self present in a new and distinctive way, a way which will renew the disastrous kingdom and all of creation. The words of the prophet are the words of a firm faith and hope in the God of Israel to save his People.

Matthew too wishes to express the same hope in the child born of Mary, and as he is writing down the story of Jesus this passage from Isaiah comes to mind. A passage that perhaps had been turning round in his head for a long time. It is not identical with that of Isaiah. The Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures with which Matthew was familiar had translated “young woman” into “virgin”, and while Isaiah says she “is with child”, Matthew writes that she “will conceive”. Nevertheless, it is fundamentally the same passage, yet in this new context a whole new generation of Jews found a source of hope in the coming into the world of a new baby. Matthew, writing some forty years or so after the death and resurrection of Jesus saw Jesus’ coming as somehow a fulfilment of the words Isaiah had spoken about the son to be born to Ahaz and his wife. Encountering the Jesus story with the eyes of the faith, he voiced the early Christian conviction that in the rabbi, Jesus of Nazareth, surely God is with us; and so have Christians believed down the ages.

Now, the child in the womb of Ahaz’s wife did not exactly usher in the reign of peace and justice Isaiah had hoped for and anticipated in his words. Judah was eventually overrun by the Assyrians anyway. And if we are honest Jesus – the one whom we confess as Son of God – did not fully usher in the hoped for kingdom; and while we work for its mainifesation, we continue hoping and waiting for that full revelation of God’s kingdom and God’s purposes. While we work for the kingdom certainly, in some way we also continue living in that delivery waiting room, living in anxious and joyful expectation; and we can continue to do all this because of one word in the Scriptures. A word which appears only three times in the whole Bible – two times in the book of the prophet Isaiah and one in the Gospel of Matthew; a word which we have heard this morning spoken twice – Immanuel. A Hebrew word which means “God with us.” We continue to wait, and wait with hopeful expectation, because we believe that God is faithful, and we believe the promise of that word – Immanuel, the promise that God is with us. If we did not believe then we would stop hoping. We would stop waiting. We would have packed it in long ago. But we do believe. We believe that God is with us in the words of the prophets preserved through the ages. We believe that God is with us in a particular and distinctive way in the person of Jesus of Nazareth. We believe that God is with us working out the divine purpose in the world. We believe that God is with us here and now when we gather in fellowship and praise. We believe that God is with us. And that belief gives us the courage to hope and the strength to wait for the fullest manifestation of God’s promises, even in the face of the darkness and the tragedy of the world.

This Friday night we will gather here again, to begin our Christmas celebrations – to celebrate the birth of Jesus in history, yes, but more importantly, the everlasting reality that God is with us; that Immanuel – “God with us” – is not simply a title for the Christ, but the underlying reality of our lives. The fact that God’s promises and God’s kingdom have not been fully revealed does not daunt us one bit, diminish our faith or deter us from action. Those who gather in the maternity waiting room of a hospital know that life is difficult, they know that the child they await will be born into a world of violence and prejudice – a world that is far from perfect. Yet that does not daunt them in their hope or make them any less joyful when the child is born. They bring to their waiting a clear hope in human life and in the potential possibilities of a new human life. How much more should we wait with hope, not just in life, but in the Lord of all Life? In one sense Friday night we will end our waiting, yet in another sense we continue to wait for the full revelation of God’s kingdom; but we can wait in hope. For as Paul writes to the Romans, “hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us” (Romans 5.5), in other words because God is with us.

It is true that for human beings “hope springs eternal”. We may not always get it exactly right. Ahaz’s son did not usher in the world where the lion lay down with the lamb, and the imminent return of Jesus which his earliest followers expected did not materialise. But that did not and does not shake hope. It did not shake their hope, and it does shake our hope. We continue to wait and to trust God’s abiding presence. Hope seems to be an indestructible aspect of the human make-up, maybe even genetics. And maybe, just maybe this persistent sense of hope instilled in us, this willingness and ability to wait in hope, this strong inclination to trust in the potential offered to us by new possibilities, is the best evidence of all that “God is with us”.