Christmas Eve 2003
Rev. Gary Cox
--
University Congregational Church
I love Christmas. I love this time of year. Oh, I know that as a minister, I’m supposed
to lament the secularization of Christmas—the commercialism, the tinsel, the
bright lights. But it seems to me that
the power of God is no more evident than in the fact that at this time of year,
even those who are fervently antagonistic towards Christianity—even the most
convicted of atheists—are a little nicer in the days and weeks leading up to
Christmas than they are the rest of the year.
We all are. And that makes this time of year special,
even to those who give little thought to the child whose birth we celebrate
tonight. Maybe it’s the memories. For most of us, this time of year brings
forth the best memories we have. The
people we’ve loved and who have passed beyond our reach are never more present
to us that in the Christmas season.
Almost everything we see, everything
we hear, everything we smell triggers some precious memory, lights some corner
of our mind that remains in darkness for most of the year. We hear a particular song—Silent Night, or
Deck the Halls, or any of a dozen other melodies that have been etched upon our
consciousness, and we are transported to another time and place. And in that magical place we see the warm
smile of a beloved grandparent; we hear the hearty laughter of aunts and
uncles, separated from us now, perhaps by distance, perhaps by less bridgeable
chasms.
It seems we are actually there, so
long ago, in some cherished room, beside some elaborately decorated Christmas
tree around which so many are gathered.
We once again witness the ornery shenanigans of cousins whom we haven’t
seen in countless years; and then there are, of course, the brothers, sisters,
parents—people who live in our memories with such power and with such
poignancy, we normally dare look at those memories with only a fleeting
glance. To stare at them directly is too
beautiful, and too painful.
Of course, I love this time of year
for reasons other than fond memories, although those memories in and of
themselves would be quite sufficient to make this my favorite season. But we celebrate something more than memory
here this evening. We celebrate the
birth of Jesus.
We are a Congregational Church, and
that means we are all expected to think for ourselves. I should not, and will not, tell you how to
think about the birth of Jesus. I will
not tell you how much importance you should place on the arrival of Jesus into
our world. I will not tell you how you
should understand the relationship between that innocent baby, born in poverty
to a young and unwed teenager, and the Creator of the universe. But I will tell you something of what it all
means to me.
I believe in revelation. I believe that God chooses to be revealed to
us in many ways. When I see a flock of
birds soaring across the sky, against the colorful backdrop of a winter sunset,
I see something of God in that. When I
see blankets of snow laying across the frozen ground and recall that the seeds
that will feed us in the coming year are beneath that merciless ice, waiting,
waiting—I see something of God in that. When
I see a mother hold her child in her arms and look into her child’s eyes with a
love that the word “love” scarcely beings to convey—I see something of God in
that.
And when I look upon that child who
would grow into the man we call Jesus of Nazareth; when I see him lying in that
manger; when I see him surrounded by animals; when I see him looking up at his
mother, who was probably no older than 14 or 15; when I see the man, Joseph,
standing beside the manger and claiming the child as his own, based solely on
his faith in God and his faith in his new wife; when I see the life that child
would lead in the years to come, with all its truth, and with all its pain, and
with its ultimate destination on the horrible hill called Golgotha; when I see
that child as a grown man hanging from a cross, wearing a crown of thorns and
being the object of ridicule and laughter; when I see people experiencing Jesus
more powerfully after his death than during his ministry; and when I see a
world 2000 years later with countless thousands of churches holding countless
millions of people, worshipping our Creator through the life and death and
continuing presence of what we must never forget started out as a helpless
baby—when I see these things, I see something of God in that.
We are told that Jesus loves us, and
I believe it’s true. I believe that it
is impossible to define God, but the closest we will ever come is to say that
God is love. And while those of us in
the modern, theologically liberal church have a natural tendency to enjoy
wrestling with theological questions, not tonight—not tonight. Tonight, we join our voices with witnesses
from across the world and from across the ages, and we say, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth
peace, goodwill toward men. For we
celebrate nothing less than our salvation.
We have been saved, healed, rescued: rescued from meaninglessness;
rescued from hatred; rescued from doubt, rescued from despair; rescued from
darkness.
Everything is okay, now. We know it in our hearts. And the memories that enchant the season—all
those glorious and excruciating memories from Christmases past—they serve as a
reminder. We are reminded that the days
of life are short, and they pass by quickly.
We are reminded that there is no time to waste on selfishness,
resentment, anger. We are reminded that
we have too little time to love the people God has placed beside us, so we
should love them recklessly while there is still time.
And as we recall all the wonderful
people we have loved—those beside us still, and those who have passed beyond
our reach—we take from this evening a great comfort, a great hope.
Our God is the God of all time; the
God of eternity. And just as our loved
ones live in our minds, in our memories, they surely live in the mind of God. None are forgotten. Never. Even as we have loved them, in the past and in
the present, God loves them forever.
To each of you I wish the most
joyous of Christmases. May the love that
was born in that manger, so long ago, light your way through this life, and
through eternity.