And Then . . . . An Angel Sneezed

I remember Christmas in California, Missouri, a community with a lot of civic pride and hope.  We did "Christmas California Style" on a Sunday night in December.  The event was a curious merging of  expression of community spirit, public piety, and commerce.  The city park became our little town of Bethlehem for that night of celebration.   There were carols echoing in the night.  There was light in the darkness.  There was a moment of ecumenical togetherness amid dogmatic divisions.  We braved the winter winds to welcome Christmas.  Almost everyone went to the park to keep Christmas together.

For several years, the United Church of Christ was asked to do the live nativity during the city's celebration.  We had a formal schedule and had several shifts as I remember it.  One's knees can only kneel for so long at the manger.  Other costumed characters were ready to take the place of those who grew cold or faint.    For several hours, laborers and managers were together in costumes at the manger.  It was a holy time of togetherness with our focus on the baby in Mary's arms.

But one Christmas celebration was more special than all the rest for me.  That year, an organizer from our church decided everything needed to be absolutely perfect in our depiction of the nativity scene, as perfect as a glittery Christmas card.  We practiced posing as figurines in the stable.  We barely breathed.  We dared not whisper.  Youths were admonished about chewing gum and giggling.  This was to be a somber, sacred display. 

But then, just as a crowd of pilgrims came to view the nativity, an angel sneezed from up high atop a hay bale into the cold night air.  It was a high-pitched, Achooooo!  For an uncomfortable moment, the spell was broken because an angel sneezed.

Nearly a decade later, I still remember that moment when the angel sneezed.  Why?  Probably because I was identifying with that organizer who wanted everything to be just perfect.  We were trying so hard to live up to his version of Luke's Christmas story. We were all striving for perfection.  That angel's sneeze brought me to a deeper awareness.  Jesus was not born among stiff statues whose hearts were hardened like concrete.  Perfection has to do with being human--even as God became human, enfleshed for the likes of us.

Here's the humbling and hopeful thing about all of this:  When I'm tempted to be the perfect disciple and impose a rigid, frozen perfection on everyone around me, some angel will sneeze or hiccup or sing off key--and it will still be Christmas because God makes it so.  God still comes to save me from my illusions of perfection.  God moves me to laugh with old Sarah at a birth we thought incredible and impossible.  And, the scene will still be sacred and beautiful and a blessing.  It is so because God is in it.  God makes it so.  So, God, let your miracle happen again.  Let Christmas come anew!

Blessed Christmas!
 

The Risk of Relationship

I just finished addressing the Christmas cards, an annual ritual of the Advent season in our home.  Each year I wonder whether this will be the last year that I spend the time pouring over a list of names and addresses that I have maintained meticulously throughout the year.  It takes lots of energy to maintain that list and to hold all those people in my heart.  Our list has names of family members and friends--both near and far--who have been with us over many years.  Though we seldom see them, yet these are people who have shaped our spirits.  I cherish the memories as I address each envelope and sign each card.  A prayer ascends as the ink is applied and dries.  I remember the relationship in a profound way.  I am anchored anew in great gratitude and love.

But, it also occurs to me as I write each address that this holy time summons me to build enduring relationships for today.  Advent invites a new risk--the risk of relationship.  When God came into Bethlehem's manger, an amazing risk was involved.  Jesus was born a stranger in our midst.  He didn't know a soul, yet came to save every soul, every life and every creature, all of creation.  God risked a relationship of love. The Gospel prologue puts it this way, "He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.  But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God."  My Jesus lives and dies with arms outstretched, reaching up, extending out for embrace--for relationship.

My prayer tonight is that someone somewhere will discover in me the outstretched arms of the Christ and know that his, her, our lives are not intended to be lived in loneliness and isolation.  It's not really about the card, but the care--the openness to reach out, to be vulnerable, and to stay connected.  The risk of relationship . . . I have seen it modeled well in a little baby, the Holy Child of Bethlehem.  It is revealed in the God who always finds a way to be with us, to embrace us, and love us to new life.

Our God, come!  Please come . . . soon!

 

Ah, Advent!

The period from September through November has not been easy.  The speed at which things have appeared and disappeared on my desk and in my schedule has been disorienting.  Maybe my age is catching up, mortality is settling in.  As I write today, I remember Abe, an outspoken church leader with a big, generous heart.  He said once after Sunday morning worship, "Reverend, if you ever lose your mind, we're all in trouble."  I took that as a compliment in 1993.  Truth be told, I probably did lose my mind back in those days of parish ministry and still am in the process of losing (and finding) it again in this crazy thing called conference ministry.  I also recall a service of installation in one of our churches early in my ministry in New Hampshire.  It was during the reception following the service that a short, elderly woman peered up at me over her the rim of her teacup to ask, "Now, who are you and why are you here?"  Such is life as a Conference Minister in the Untied Church of Christ:  Who am I?  Why am I here?

All this is prologue to Advent.  Ah, Advent, the beginning of something wonderfully new.  The old is passing away; God's newness is near.  There is more to come than what I have previously experienced.  The lost things are secure and will eventually be found.  All will be revealed for what it really is.  God is coming to judge and to save, to set things right, and to bless the world with hope. 

Yesterday, as I worshipped with the Congregational Church of Hooksett, I saw a single  purple candle that was lit in the Advent wreath.  It was designated, "The Candle of Hope."  Somehow the flickering flame brought home for me the gift of hope.  Amid gray and cloudy days in my soul--and the soul of our nation--there is hope.  God is coming!  God is coming!  God is coming!

Help me, O Coming One, to bask in this Advent time, to allow it to challenge and to change me in profound ways.   Prepare me to receive your eternal life.  Move me to be a child of your grace.  Grant your church space to reflect, to lay down all our preconceived notions and opinions as we listen long for your Word.  Keep us alert and awake,  so that we may be surprised and rejoice at your appearing .  O God, come!  Amen.