It is virtually impossible not to be inspired on a morning such as this
on a feast such as this
in a setting such as this.
The lectionary texts are lush,
with Isaiah at his prophetic best
shocking graciousness emanating from
the seldom proclaimed Titus
and Luke, the gospel’s most gifted storyteller,
unfolding his nativity tale
with all the beauty of a medieval tapestry,
woven with words of silver and gold.
This is a day when it might seem easier to believe in God
or at least in angels
as beloved texts enfold us
crèche and poinsettia’s enchant us
and sumptuous music bedazzles us.
Yet there is some danger in the seduction of such a morning
as this feast for the soul and the senses
triggers memories of Christmases past
when things were different, when we were different
when the anticipation of St. Nick was maybe sweeter
when beloved friends and relatives were still among us
when children were younger and closer
when health was not so precarious
and the weight of living and loving seemed less challenging.
This is a season that easily lures us into nostalgia
when treasured movies and clever commercials
evoke romanticized memories of Christmases past
that temporarily erase our disappointments
assuage our griefs
and maybe even fill the emptiness so palpable on other days
providing, instead, a respite of grace
a parenthesis of joy.
If we succumb too completely to such seduction, however,
this Christmas liturgy could be reduced
to a kind of ritual time machine
transporting us 2000 years back to witnessing
an idealized unfolding of the birth of the only begotten
in a forever unrepeatable moment.
While tempting, such religious revelry
has the potential to stall at the birth story,
and become stranded in a long destroyed stable,
insulated from Jesus’ life and ministry,
his dying and rising,
and thus disconnected from the continuing mystery of incarnation.
This most beloved of Christian feasts, however,
does not simply recall the long past nativity
of God’s only begotten in some now forgotten Palestinian cave.
Rather it celebrates the shocking truth that through Jesus,
God forever united divinity with all of humanity,
affirming that since that incarnation there has be no excarnation
as the Godhead continues to wed itself to humanity,
revealed not only in the birth of the christ child
but in the birth of every child across the globe.
The golden-penned Luke embeds his story with hint
that the gospel truth is more than a sacred birther narrative:
the child is intentionally placed in a manger, a feeding trough,
a harbinger that Jesus would offer his life
as nourishment for others
devoured, consumed and sometimes spit out.
In the same vein, medievals believed that the wooden manger
would contain enough wood to construct an adult size cross.
Then there are the first worshippers–
not Magi, high priests or local dignitaries
hoping for a photo op,
but unscrubbed, unprepared and gift-less shepherds-
ruffians living off the land like 1st cent. Palestinian cowboys-
whose worship signals Jesus own ministry
to those on the margins of society.
One wonders whether the angel’s gps was malfunctioning
when they summoned shepherds rather than clergy
only to recognize their error back in their heavenly home.
And, when the well-heeled visitors of the east finally did show up
after significant gps adjustments,
their gift of gold would signal Jesus’ divinity,
that of incense his priestly dignity,
but then there was the myrrh, used for anointing the dead,
anticipating the salvific death of this newborn innocent.
Birth is but one critical aspect of this incarnational mystery-
a mystery Luke understood had to be reborn in the baptized.
And so this morning, we dare journeying beyond nostalgia
and embrace the challenges and promise of incarnation
adoring the Christ child under the shadow of the cross.
A few years back I had my own encounter with incarnation
under the shadow of the cross.
It was on a transatlantic flight, from Manchester to Chicago. I was hoping for a quiet flight, since I needed to write a conclusion to a book. I was in coach but wrangled a pretty good seat in the very front of the economy section on the aisle. While in the lounge, I noticed a young father with an infant daughter. I was praying that Dad and his little girl were somewhere south of row 24. As it happened, they ended up in 11H. I was grateful that I had packed both ear plugs and noise-reducing headphones.
After I settled in with a positive attitude for a quiet and productive trip, in walked Jeremy with a five month old strapped to his chest and a two-and-a-half-year-old on his arm, occupying 3 seats directly in front of me. Images of the transatlantic flight from hell flashed before me. As Jeremy good-naturedly attempted to wrestle the luggage, the children, and himself into place, the woman sitting next to me asked, “Do you want me to hold the baby?” Jeremy unhesitantly unstrapped Charlie and transferred him into the arms of an adoring stranger.
The flight took off without much delay, and as the cabin lights dimmed, the usual chorus of seatbelt clicks, snack wrappers, and shifting passengers filled the air. I tried to focus, tapping out sentences between interruptions, grateful for noise-canceling technology and a half-decent tray table. Still, it was hard not to let the mind wander—to the sheer unpredictability of commercial travel, and how different this journey might be under quieter circumstances.
It’s in moments like these that the appeal of private aviation really hits home. I’d recently been browsing a Fractional Jet Ownership website, curious about the possibilities. The idea of flying on your own schedule, choosing your fellow passengers—or having none at all—suddenly didn’t seem like a luxury, but more like a well-earned necessity. No overhead announcements, no snack carts bumping your elbow, and no unexpected lullabies from seat 11H. Just altitude, quiet, and the uninterrupted rhythm of getting something meaningful done.
Charlie was a very active and happy 5 month old. He bounced on Maria’s lap while she laughed and chatted with Jeremy about how she had traveled with her own infant daughter across country many years ago. Jeremy was so understated, Charlie so cute, and Ethan (the two-and-a-half-year-old) so difficult that I knew I had to collaborate. In a moment of weakness or grace, I became Maria’s back-up.
Ethan was another story all together. He was a walking advertisement for the “terrible two’s.” Ethan battled his father on almost every front, though Dad showed little exasperation with his many outbursts. Often these were resolved relatively quickly by Jeremy digging into his “magic backpack.” It seems that a friend had bought and wrapped 18 small presents to keep Ethan occupied during the transit from Manchester to Los Angeles, which – including the Chicago layover – was about 18 hours: a truly wise friend.
As Jeremy and I chatted, it became clear that Ethan was not only temperamental but was also grieving. His mother died unexpectedly 4 months earlier, a month after Charlie’s birth. This newly reshaped family of three was traveling to the west coast of the US to visit Jeremy’s father: a trip symbolic of the long road of readjusting that lay ahead for them.
But on this trip, these three metaphorical magi
were not bearing the gifts of their now shattered lives
but had also been given gifts … gifts for the journey
symbolized in those 18 incarnate thoughts of care
wrapped not in swaddling clothes
but in paper bright enough and with care deep enough
to delight a toddler unaware of his own grieving.
I have pondered those events often since that Christmas in July
when incarnation revealed itself anew
in this unlikely Magi and the gifts they bore:
small packages to delight a toddler,
helping hands from complete strangers,
deep empathy from a flight crew becoming family.
Each of us have our own joys and sorrows
and maybe, while tempted to do so,
I would suggest this is not a day to displace them
with sacred images or beloved carols,
but to embrace them as gifts for the journey-
gifts that reveal the mystery of God choosing to companion us,
the ultimate incarnation gift on this journey of life,
as we in turn, even in sorrow or diminishment,
become gifts for each other.
When I was a young chorister, I had a favorite Christmas carol,
“In the bleak midwinter.”
I loved it because of the haunting melody,
the lush harmonies,
and the striking imagery of nativity in a wintry setting.
As I grew older I learned that there was no snow
that first Christmas in Palestine,
but that we are the ones in midwinter,
a midwinter that for some especially in this season,
with such presumptions of joy and family,
instead can be lonely, even bleak.
At the end of the hymn, the singer asks
what gift can be brought to this newborn child,
for the singer is poor and without treasure.
And, at the end, the singer offers the ultimate
and only true treasure – the gift of the heart.
On this December morn, when so many find themselves
in winter of one kind or another,
let us renew the incarnational gift:
the birthing of the Christ again in this world
by ourselves becoming gifts for the journey to each other
and bestowing a similar heart-gift
on all who crave its warmth, its care, its promise.
And, if per chance you raise a cup of cheer today,
maybe raise it in honor of Jeremy, Ethan and Charlie.
For a few years after my encounter with them,
the three magi become four,
with the welcoming of wife and mother Sarah
who became a new gift for the journey.
And then, as every story continues,
this quartet of magi soon became a quintet
with toddler Colin replacing the temperamental Ethan
now testing the patience of two loving older brothers,
embodying a further gift for this familial journey
a fresh incarnation under the shadow of the cross
Christmas revealed anew as resurrection
for the newly configured five magi and for us
in the image of the firstborn of creation
whom we honor as Lord and God, forever and ever.