Readings: Genesis 21: 8-21, Matthew 10:26-31
Well, nativities
surround us, and they are amazing with all the stories that they bring – of
travels, of family traditions, of summer, and of the birth of the child in whom
our hope is placed. And it does feel
kind of funny peculiar to those of us who have only ever known Christmas in the
midst of the summer. But perhaps placing
the shepherds, angels, wise men, manger, new baby in the middle of winter may
bring new insights to what can become a predictable story. And isn’t it lovely to consider anew the birth
of Jesus separate from the hype and pressure of December?
For me there is an
added poignancy because the memory of Easter is still so close. Having time to consider the nativity in the
shadow of the cross in this way brings a new perspective to our understanding
of birth and death – not that we don’t understand the connection of cradle and
cross every Christmas but somehow this allows it a bit more reality – for me
anyway. And then the reading today about
Hagar and Ishmael brings an equally challenging perspective on what is the
sometimes our all too familiar nativity story.
Another mother and son fleeing for their lives, seen as a threat but
protected and blessed by God, the same God we worship.
So often in this
time of winter we are invited by the readings to grapple with the hard
questions of how to live life as people of the way. One thing is for sure - we
can no longer live as bystanders to the story of Jesus – it becomes our story
too. We are it. Sure we are not alone but in the end we can
no long be detached, we are an integral part of the story of grace and love
that is the birthing of Jesus in this world.
That, to me, is
what the nativity brings to me today – not that Jesus was born, but how it is
we respond to the gift of the new born, what if means for us to also be born
into a world of pain and joy, love and compassion – what is it that we bring
and share as we kneel in awe before the gift of God to us – the child born in
the manger.
So listen to
this story, called “The Giving” by Joy Cowley[1]
and see ourselves in the
With such
eagerness we carry out our gifts towards the place of the newborn King. We are
like guests hurrying to a wedding, and I cannot help but note that my golden
gift is as large and as finely wrapped as any I have seen.
At a
point in the road, not far from the stable, I am stopped by an angel who wants
to know what I am carrying. She is tall, quite stern, a security guard, I
suppose. It pleases me to tell her that the package contains the treasure of a
lifetime to be given to the Holy One.
“Open it,” she
says. “What?' Do you know how long it took me to wrap this? Or what the
wrapping cost? If you're an angel, you'll already know the contents.”
“Open
the parcel,” she says, folding her arms and firmly straddling the path. I am
reluctant but have no choice. Still, once the wrapping is removed, there are
some fine treasures to display. I point them out to her. A lifetime of regular
church attendance. Tithing for the poor. Hours spent visiting the sick and
comforting the bereaved. A mountain of cakes baked for fundraising stalls.
Letters to the newspaper on moral issues. Marches for peaces, for justice, for
the right to live. No one could be ashamed of such gifts. They are indeed fit
for a king.
There is no
expression on the angels face. She looks at each in turn and says, “What else
have you got?” “What do you mean – what else?” I am angry at her lack of
enthusiasm. “Do you realise what sacrifice went into these?”
“He
does not need sacrifice,” she says. “Come now there must be another gift?” I
hesitate. “Well yes there is. But what I have just shown you is my finest gold.
The frankincense – if I can call it that – is quite ordinary, hardly fit for
the occasion.”
“Let me see
it.” With some embarrassment, I take from my luggage a plainly wrapped
parcel, hastily tied with gardening twine. It is clumsily put together and when
I pull the string, the contents spill out over the path. Nothing spectacular. A
sandcastle built with one of the children. A blackened saucepan from the
birthday dinner that miraculously survived a small fire. A teddy bear and a
small tractor found when making the big bed. Silly ghost stories told on the
beach under a full moon. Patti at her first communion, wanting to know how
Jesus got from her stomach into her heart. The holiday tent fell down. The pear
tree we planted on the grave of the pet mouse.
The angel
seemed interested. She looks closely at everything and smiles. Then she picks
up four shoes and a bottle of fragrant oil. “What about these?” My
embarrassment intensifies. “My husband and I - we – we massage each other's
feet.” The angel puts them back. “Beautiful ,” she says. “All of it a beautiful
gift.” She stands tall again and looks at me with clear eyes that seem
as deep as forever. “Now for the third package.” I shake my head. “I'm sorry,
there is no third gift.”
“Everyone has
myrrh to offer,” she says. “Not I, Myrrh is the bitter herb of death. It has
not been part of my experience. You see, I have been extraordinarily lucky. I
don't seem to have the problems that plague other poor souls. My life has been
just one blessing after another.”
“Myrrh
is the herb of death – and resurrection,” said the angel. “it is necessary for
Advent journey. Without it the stable is empty.” I don't understand what she's
talking about. “Sorry,” I repeat. “Gold and frankincense, yes, but myrrh, no.
Now will you please stand aside and let me pass?”
“Why don't we
look?” says the angel, indicating my luggage. “All right then. Look!” I throw
it open at her feet. “See? Not a drop of myrrh in sight!” “What's this?” she
says. “What's what?” She is pointing to a half-hidden bundle wrapped in stained
newspaper. “I don't know. I haven't seen it before. It must belong to somebody
else.” But as I say it, my stomach clenches and my skin turns cold. “Open it,”
says the angel. I step back, “No. I can't. It's not – not mine-“
“You know you
must open it,” the angel insists, and her voice is soft. My hands shake as I
pick up the package and begin the unwrapping. Yes, it is all there. I thought I
had forgotten these things, or put them away forever, but no, they are present
and as alive as ever. The childhood cries that went unheard. The playground
taunts. The teacher who disliked me. The struggles and the rejections. The pain
wells up as real now as it was then, and my vision begins becomes blurred. I
want to put the parcel down.
“Please
continue,” says the angel. I already know what will be in the next layer. The
hurt of the child within the adult. Bereavements. Losses. Failures. Feelings of
inadequacy. Criticisms I could not handle. Recurring nightmares. Unspoken
fears. I'm crying now, and I can't go on. “How can you call this a gift!” I
shout at the angel. “It's all so – so ugly!”
“No, no!” she
says. “It is the unborn resurrection, and resurrection is the beauty of God!”
the next layer is worse. It reveals all the hurts I have inflicted on others,
from careless gossip to deliberate betrayals. There are angry words that
could not be taken back, judgements that shut out people who did not share my
beliefs or lifestyle. Arrogance. Intolerance. Condescension.
I sit down in
the middle of the path. “Come,” said the angel. “There is only a little more.”
But she is wrong. There is no more. The last layer of wrapping reveals nothing
but darkness. Every part of my life has been surrendered and now there is
simply a tomb, this emptiness. “You are very close,” the angel says. I don't
reply for I am lost in the darkness. But wait! In the depth of the night, I
discover a light that grows as I gaze at it.
“What
do you see?” the angel asks. The light is increasing and seems to be a living
presence. My heart rises like a phoenix. “It's - it is – a star!” “The truth of
myrrh,” said the angel. “Keep looking.” The light expands to fill my being with
a beauty that is both as new and as old as eternity. How could I have not known
this? I gaze in wonder, hushed with awe. For there, in the centre of all its
brilliance, is the newborn Christ.
We'll have some
space now in silence to stop and reflect on the story we have just heard. And
then take an opportunity to have a look at the nativities that are shared
around this church, and as you do, think on the gifts that you bring – the joy
and the hurt, the doing and the receiving, the iced up parts and the in the end
the light that you both know and bring in the name of Christ. And we remember we bring to the one who sees
all our gold, frankincense and myrrh – all of our good, bad and ugly and still
loves us as we are, yet loves us too much to leave us that way. Amen.
[1] The Giving by Joy Cowley from Home Grown
Stories edited by Hugh Kempster, Auckland, Lifespring Resources for
Ministry, 1996 p. 1
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