HOPE IN WINTER SERMON
A few weeks ago, I was visiting Sean, Jen, and Kiera. We’d just
finished dinner and Kiera was winding down for bedtime. I felt so
privileged to behold their nightly ritual, which included, of course,
the obligatory bedtime story. When Jen told her to pick out a book, she
grabbed one called CHEWY LOUIE, about a little dog that just
can’t quit chewing.
And I chuckled to myself when I heard Sean moan, “Not that one
again!” because I can remember my own mother saying exactly the
same thing to me when I was a child. But there was no escaping it, then
or now. Jen dutifully took up the book about the puppy, and began to
read.
But that incident made me wonder: Why IS it that Kiera—and I, and
millions of other children—want to hear the same stories again
and again?
We could very well ask the same question about our lessons tonight.
They have not changed in the fourteen plus years that I’ve been
at this parish, and in the history of Christian worship, they go back a
good deal longer than that. Why? Why do we leave the warmth and safety
of our homes to trek out into the night to hear the same stories again
and again? What is this mysterious force that is stronger than couch
inertia?
We do it because we love this story. We want to hear this story because
it is filled with wonder, and magic, and hope. But we also want to hear
it because this story is a part of who we are—religiously,
culturally, historically, and personally. We read it for the thrill of
a good story well-told, for the sentimentality evoked by the season,
but we also read it tonight as an act of worship.
I love Lawson’s definition of worship. Worship, he says, is any
act that serves to connect us—to the universe, to one another, to
the deepest part of ourselves, and to God. The telling of this story is
an act of worship because it connects us to a larger reality.
In telling this story we are connected to the past—and to all
those who have come before us who have also told this story, whether
whispered in musty catacombs or proclaimed in medieval cathedrals.
But it also connects us forward into the future—to all those who
are to come who will also tell this story, for the very same reasons we
are.
Likewise, telling this story connects us to people all around the world
who gather this coming week to tell this story to one another—our
sisters and brothers in faith, regardless of their actual religion.
We also tell this story to remind us of our connection to both heaven
and earth, to the God who is named, Emmanuel, “God is with
us,” who said, “Lo, I am with you, even to the end of the
world”—the God who entered into the thick of things at a
very dangerous time, and who has never left us, regardless of how dark
the times might seem.
And we also tell this story to connect us to the divinity that lies
inside of us, like a gestating baby, waiting for us to come to term, to
give birth to the gift entrusted to us, a gift meant for the whole
world—a gift meant to bring light into darkness, and hope in a
time of despair. A gift that only we can bring forth, a gift whose
Advent even God awaits with hopeful eyes.
It’s a veritable fiesta of connection! In our souls, of
course, we already know all of this. But sometimes, it’s good to
be reminded. Just like we already know these stories. But sometimes,
it’s good to be reminded—that God has not left us, that the
sun and its light will return to the wintry world, and that we are not
alone. Indeed, we are connected in all directions to the very love and
hope that we proclaim in this season, that we’ve been singing
about tonight, and that we’re about to sing about again! Let us
pray…
God our companion,
Through Jesus you have taught us
that you dwell not in some heaven far away,
but beside us, and among us, and within us.
Help us to know, and believe, and proclaim
this truth, so that the wonder and joy and hope that we know
Might touch others as well, and nudge us toward that time
When all people shall dwell in peace and charity;
through him who became human,
so that humans might become divine,
even Jesus Christ. Amen.