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“All Is Well” A Meditation for Christmas Eve by the Rev. Dr. Hilary J. Barrett Preached at Pleasantville UCC, December 24, 2017 Luke 2:1-20 “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.” (Luke 2:10) 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;1 It’s my earliest memory of Christmas. I am four years old and my Dad is sitting beside my bed reading to me on Christmas Eve. 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; I loved to think of a house so still even the mice were sleeping. It was magical enough just to have Dad in the house again. Since he had left – a couple years before – he wasn’t usually allowed in the house. But he and Mom had struck an uneasy truce so he could read to us on Christmas Eve and we could fall asleep, with visions of sugar- plums dancing in our heads. For a few brief moments, all was well. The world was as it should be. We were all together in one place. I will never hear the words of that Christmas poem without thinking of my young father there, sitting beside our beds, earnestly reading to his little girls. 1“Twas the Night Before Christmas” by Clement Clarke Moore. Barrett – 1 – There’s another little girl I know with a powerful Christmas memory. Her father read a different story to her on Christmas Eve. It was the one we heard here tonight: And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. Her father was a pastor, and when he sat beside her bed to read the Christmas Story, she knew that all the Christmas services were over, and all the many important tasks set aside for a while, and now – and finally – she had her Daddy back. And all was well. And it was really Christmas after all. This is a night of memory. More than birthdays, even, I think we tell time by Christmases. The Christmas photos some folks manage to send out each year. The cards and letters we receive from friends we still love but never see anymore. The moment we glance around the room or across the Christmas table and take in what a difference a year has made. There is no other season like this one to transport us across the miles of memory. This is a night of memory. We look around the room or down the pew and we wonder how our kids got so big, and how everybody else got so old! And then, there are the Communion of Saints, who surround us with so great a cloud of witnesses. On a night like tonight, the room seems full with the absence of those no longer with us. Our lives become populated with the memory of those who have crossed over. There is no time we do not miss them. But at Christmas – when the veil between the worlds grows thin – that’s when we miss them the most. This is a night of memory. A night where we tell a story we've heard before – and yet are ready to hear again. A story about a young mother and a worried father; a fretful journey, an unlikely birthing room, and a world that would never be the same. Babies are born every day, of course. But it isn't a baby’s birth that brings us all to this place tonight. It’s something more. It’s how the Word becomes flesh that compels us. It’s how Barrett – 2 – God comes to dwell among us that fascinates. It’s the Incarnation, the en-flesh-ment of God in the world. That’s what keeps us coming back year after year to hear a story we’ve heard before; to sing songs we’ve sung before; to gather with people we love; to mark the passage of time and to look for the traces of God’s enfleshment in our lives. The gospel writer, Luke, does a brilliant job telling the story. He has a wonderful flare for the dramatic. He reminds us of the big names of the day the movers-and-shakers and opinion-makers. Augustus and Quirinius, an Emperor and a Governor. But then he directs our gaze in an entirely different direction to show us where God was really at work bringing about the salvation of the world. Not in the throne room of Herod, or the Oval Office of Caesar, but in a little village about five miles outside of Jerusalem. The real story of God’s work of salvation was happening in the shadow of the most powerful Empire in the world – to a bunch of nobodies like Mary, Joseph, and a few shepherds summoned from a field outside Bethlehem. The real story of the Word becoming flesh was happening in a way so small it’s hard to imagine it could make any difference in the world at all. But that’s the way our God works: making a difference with small things. So many of us spend our lives trying to make a difference. We don’t need to be famous. We don’t need to win awards. We just want to feel like we’ve done our work well. We just want to feel that we’ve been faithful to what God has asked of us. That we’ve done the best we could. And that, perhaps, that best effort has indeed made a small difference. Sometimes we are able to see the difference we make. Oftentimes, we are not. My guess is that, most of the time, the really important things we do in this world are invisible to us. The Word becomes flesh in ways so small you could hardly imagine they would make any difference at all. I have seen the Word become flesh and I have marveled to watch it dwell among us full of grace and truth – when one person ministers to another, like sitting beside a child’s bed and reading a Christmas story. Like that person you reached out to in love and kindness, who will forever remember the words you spoke that day, or the way you cared for them in that situation. Like the student you went the extra mile for, because there was something about them you just Barrett – 3 – believed in. Like the time you decided to forgo that meeting because it was more important to stay home with your kid and listen to them when they needed to talk. The Word becomes flesh in ways and moments so small and hard to notice we barely believe God can make anything out of them at all. There is a story in the rabbinic tradition that speaks of these small miracles that occur between human beings. It goes something like this: There was once a wise teacher. A crowd had gathered around him to hear him teach. Instead he asked a question. “Tell me” he said, “When you are waiting and watching for the morning to come, how can you tell when night has passed and day has come?” The crowd thought hard. One man said, “I think it is when you can look at the distant hills and can tell whether the animal you can see there is a sheep or a dog.” “That is a good answer,” said the teacher, “but not the one I was thinking of. Another man said, “Perhaps, then, it is when you can look at a distant tree and tell whether it is a palm tree or a fig tree.” “Another good answer, but not the one I was looking for.” “Well,” said the crowd, “what is the answer then? How can we tell when the night has passed and the day come?” “You can tell when the night has passed,” said the teacher, “when you can look into the eyes of the person next to you and see that they are your brother or sister. Because if you can't see that they are your brother or sister then the night will never pass and darkness will never give way to light.”2 The Word becomes flesh, when we can look into the eyes of the person next to us – stranger or friend – and know they are our brother or sister. The Word becomes flesh when, for a moment, every broken thing is made right. The Word becomes flesh, when the light breaks forth like the dawn and all is well – even for a moment; – even in the shadow of the Empire. 2 Source unknown. Barrett – 4 – Tonight we gather to hear a story we have heard before, to sing songs we have sung before, and to pass the light from one to another. It’s a ritual that has been taking place for hundreds of years. Tonight we gather to celebrate the birth of one born two thousand years ago, and to hope for the One who is reborn in our hearts every day. To see how the Word is made flesh in a most unlikely place – a King born in a stable; a Savior born under the watchful eye of farm animals; a Child upon whom the world waits in hope, born to an unwed mother.

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