Your Christmas Gift

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
December 24, 2009; Christmas Eve
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(Luke 2:1-14) – In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid; for see-- I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger." And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

"Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace among those whom he favors!"
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At this summer's General Convention of the Episcopal Church, I spent long hours with a committee doing that tedious but necessary work of turning ideas into words that can open new life, new possibilities for our church. That kind of work is hard and honorable work. It often produces good results, but the process is as ugly as making sausage. Keep our friends and representatives in Washington in your prayers as they spend their time and talents in that hard work of turning ideas into words that can open new life, new possibilities for our nation, especially when it looks like making sausage.

In our shared committee work this summer, I was especially drawn to one person who sat directly across from me. Jeffrey Lee is the bishop of Chicago, and is remarkably centered, wise and generous. He makes me glad to be part of a church with such fine leaders.

This year Jeffrey's son Jonathan turned 21. Jonathan's reaching maturity now, as a strong, strapping young man, brought back memories for Jeffrey of Jonathan's birth 21 years ago. Jonathan was born prematurely, two months early. He weighed only two-and-one-half pounds – so tiny that Jeffrey could hold him in one hand like a teacup. Jonathan was lucky; he avoided so many of the difficulties of premature babies – he could breathe pretty well on his own; his parents could take him out of the warm, Lucite-box with all of its wires and tubes, and, from time to time, they could hold him, tightly bundled.

But Jonathan was born with one "circumstance, problem, or what some people might call a handicap." He was born without a left hand.

Jeffrey says that he's not one who remembers his dreams regularly, but he had a recurring dream during those days as they watched and cared for tiny Jonathan. In his dream there appeared a little blonde haired boy in an Easter suit – beautiful and perfect, with two hands. The image occurred repeatedly in Jeffrey's dreams, and became a companion for him on his journey, as Jeffrey speculated about what his son's life would be like. What will he be able to do? What will he not be able to do? How will the other kids treat him?

About a month after Jonathan's birth, Jeffrey was scheduled to preach, and he decided to tell some of this story, and to share the sense of grace that he had received from his dream and his interpretation of the dream's meaning. Jeffrey sensed that this dream image had been the fantasy version of his prefect son, the fantasy that had gestated in his mind all of those months while they waited on their child. The dream was telling him to let go of that fantasy, and to "receive the real gift of the child he was given." The child he was given was good and was to be loved just as he is. After all, in Jesus, God emptied the divine self to take on our imperfect humanity, in order to raise it all up into God's fullness of life.

Jeffrey and a good friend were in the habit of exchanging sermons with one another. Jeffrey says that this friend is one of those blessed people who knows him better than he knows himself. The friend wrote his own sermon telling about Jonathan's birth, about how his friend Jeffrey was dealing with it – about the dreams, about the interpretation. Then the friend said, "Jeffrey's wrong. It's not a perfect-fantasy Jonathan in the dream. It's a perfect-fantasy Jeffrey." Jeffrey realized, "He was right."

It seems that Jonathan's birth opened up something profound in Jeffrey's own self-consciousness and opened him to an important healing journey. Jeffrey realized that Jonathan was just fine. It was Jeffrey himself that God wanted to heal.

Most of his life, Jeffrey had believed that if he were only "smart enough, good enough, elegant enough, capable enough, hard working enough, enough enough..." that he would be okay, he would be acceptable, he would be safe. That belief is an ancient curse.

Most of us absorb the message that we need to be fixed, and that the responsibility is on us to fix ourselves. It's a lie. We are not projects to be fixed; we are mysteries to be lived. But most of us grow up getting messages that tell us that we can and we should fix ourselves. If we believe those messages, we will be deeply damaged. That belief is the big lie; the ancient curse.

The curse is amplified when it is falsely projected upon God, as if God is the cosmic CEO, and we dare not present ourselves without polishing our resume, cleaning up our act and perfecting our interview techniques before going through that door. Some of us were raised with deep suspicions that "God really is that demanding, angry judging figure behind the smoke and mirrors of Oz."

The story of Jesus unmasks that lie. In Jesus, we see God poured out into our human life – our earthy, human life with all of its flaws, limitations, tragedies and evils. God embraces it all, and gives back only love.

The Christmas story: A refugee family, outcast among the animals, their child born under suspicious circumstances – is God's version of a triumphant divine entry into our world. The Jesus story: A Jewish peasant who gets convicted of blasphemy and treason and is painfully executed in a public hanging before he can grow old – is God's embrace of our failed humanity. What does God do? Nothing but love - love expressed as compassion, mercy and forgiveness. Then God makes new life happen out of our suffering and wrong – resurrection.

The whole Christian message that begins with the announcement of the savior's birth this night, is the message that God loves us before we are even able to love ourselves. God pours out God's divine life into Jesus, and into every human life, and sees us as beautiful, perfect, in our Easter suit. God loves us through our doubts and failures; and even when we crucify him, God does nothing but love. When we need encouragement, God is the encourager. When we need forgiveness, God is the forgiver. When we need vision, God is the light.

We don't need to be fixed anymore than baby Jonathan did. We don't need to become something we aren't in order to be God's beloved. We are God's beloved. Period.

In the birth of Jesus, God the Holy Trinity goes into some divine committee work to turn the idea of God's love into the Word incarnate that opens up new life, new possibilities for everyone on earth. God invites us into a liberated life as God's beloved children. Just be who you are, regardless of the flaws. Do the best you can. Immerse yourself moment by moment into whatever life presents you. Let things be. Things are as they are whether one accepts them or not. So they may as well be accepted.

Some of us have one hand; others are inconveniently pregnant; some are forced to live with animals; sometimes we get crucified. The story of Jesus tells us that God is in all of it, loving and healing throughout. Let it be, and do your best. That's enough. We don't have to become the perfect blond-headed child in an Easter suit, because God already regards us that way. God loves you and me, as the old hymn says, "Just as I am."

So relax. Enjoy life. Let the child that is Christ in you be born today and reborn every day.

Here's your Christmas present from God: You are loved just as you are. You don't have to be smart enough, good enough, elegant enough, capable enough, hard working enough, enough enough... God loves you here and now, just as you are. Unqualified, eternal divine Love given freely to every human being. Unwrap that gift for yourself. It's yours for the claiming.

Merry Christmas!
________________

Listen to Bishop Lee's fine meditation at
http://www.episcopalcafe.com/video/2009/12/jeff_lee.html
It is one of many resources on the excellent web page episcopalcafe.com
________________________________________________________

The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church is to explore and celebrate
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

For information about St. Paul's Episcopal Church and it's life and mission, please contact us at
P.O. Box 1190, Fayetteville, AR 72702, or call 479/442-7373
More sermons are posted on our web site: www.stpaulsfay.org
Visit our web partners at www.explorefaith.org

A Blue Christmas Sermon

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
Monday, December 21, 2009; The Feast of St. Thomas
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(John 20:24-29) – Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with the other disciples when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord." But he said to them, "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe."

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe." Thomas answered him, "My Lord and my God!" Jesus said to him, "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."
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Some of you may remember when my seminary classmate Barbara Crafton came to St. Paul's to do an Advent Quiet Day for us as a Tippy McMichael lecturer. I got the idea for writing regular email meditations from her popular "eMo's" as she calls them.

Barbara lives in New Jersey with her husband Richard Quaintance, nicknamed "Q", and with lots of cats, birds and flowers. She wrote yesterday following the big snowstorm that blanketed much of the northeast.

Here's what she said:
It was looking like snow yesterday, all right, and it was sounding like it on the radio, so we weren't surprised when it started coming down, nor when it got deeper and deeper every time we got up at night and looked out the window. This morning it was lovely, a thick frosting of white on every branch, the bamboo out back bent down to the ground under the weight of it.

What about church? The choir has been rehearing Advent Lessons and Carols for weeks, and Q and I were both to read. Would anybody but singers and readers attend? Well, if not, then not -- we would just have to sing and read to each other. But a small band of hardy souls filtered in. Most parishioners with children were coming for the pageant later today anyway, when surely the roads would have cleaned up a bit. And the simple service of ancient words and beautiful singing did what it always does, sweetly slowed our spirits so that we could feel our hope focus on the joy soon to come upon us again. Every year, the same: the infant Christ, every time. As long as I live, and no matter what happens, he will never weary me.

This year, a terrible sadness in the little church: a baby girl was stillborn on Friday. Her older sister and brother were in the pageant today, and there was the heartbroken father, come from the hospital to watch them. Oh, yes, life must go on. The other children need what they need, deserve all the love and regard they can get. This great sorrow doesn't change their sweetness, or alter the absoluteness of the claim they have on their parents. But he sat and watched as an angel gave Mary her baby. At least the Baby Jesus got a chance to grow to childhood, and then to adulthood. His little girl won't do that. He left with the children as soon as the pageant was over, out into the snow, their voices like flutes: When is Mommy coming home? And his still, silent little one on his mind as they walk, the cut-off little life that was not to be, so sudden, so wrong, so full of nothing but nevers. Never to be in a Christmas pageant. Never to see snow. Never to hold a little hand and walk out into it in wonder. Never. Nothing but nevers.

This very loss was mine, too, years ago. Just at this time of year, too: Christmas Eve, it was. People who have known it can help each other through it, if only because we know that nothing makes it go away and so we don't try to do that. Sometimes people try to spare us -- they don't mention it, try not to talk about babies to us, afraid it will "remind" us. But go ahead: remind us. It's not as if it's slipped our minds.

Such a terrible time of year for such a thing to happen, many people told me at the time. Oh, I don't know about that. This is a time of year when people are kind, when hope is in the air, a time when we are not afraid to love. This is a time of year when the past is hallowed in our imaginations, and we think with love of all those who loved us, all those whom we have loved. And this is the time of Mary, who loves her son as we love ours, even now, after all these years. Take care of my little one, I have said to her many times, until I get there myself. A foolish thought, I suppose, but who cares? This is a time of year when it's okay to be foolish, okay to cry, when it's not especially conspicuous to be a little blue. Oddly, this is a time of year when the dead seem very near us, and comfortingly so.

It will not always be this bad. It is now, but it will change as time goes on. You'll never forget -- why would you want to forget? -- but the loss will become part of your life and your life will become possible again. Not the same, but possible. And it will also be joyful again, later on, as absurd as that claim seems in the days immediately following such an unthinkable loss. I do not say all these things to the stricken mother and father, not all at once. There will be plenty of time for talk as time goes on. (1)
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This is the first Christmas for my family since the death of Kathy's father earlier this year. He was the patriarch, and the glue for that half of our family. Our son Gray is named for him. We're trying to change all of our holiday traditions now as we figure out new ways to connect without his home, without his presence. He feels so absent. It's hard. But when we serve some pulled-pork shoulder like he always did, and turn on some football on the TV, we'll feel his presence and his absence. And we'll use a recipe that was a favorite of Kathy's mom, Claire, whose been gone from us for so long. This is a time of year when the past is hallowed in our imaginations, and we think with love of all those who loved us, all those whom we have loved. Our tables becomes communion tables with food passed down to us from the souls of several generations.

Life is hard. It is also beautiful. Chuck preached compellingly Sunday of the earthiness of that first Christmas, Mary with her awkward pregnancy, and the child Jesus with his untimely birth among the livestock.

Today is the darkest day of the year, the winter solstice. We tell the story of St. Thomas today, the apostle who missed Easter, who was out of step with the others' joy. He was grieving when they were partying. But Jesus came to him. Late, it seems, but truly. And he knew it was really Jesus by the presence of the wounds, the marks in his hand and side. It was still true that Jesus had died. The facts of the past are never changed. The wounds are still there, but now they don't haunt so much. They were given new meaning. Hope was resurrected in Thomas. "My God," he whispered.

We bring our wounds, our losses, our disappointments, our worries, our doubts, our hurts to this holy place tonight. We whisper, "My God," and ask for help. God honors our grief. God hears our hearts. The wounded healer reaches out his marked hands to us, and invites us to continue our life in hope.

Oh, yes, life must go on. There are other children of God who need what they need, and who deserve all the love and regard they can get. We are all children of God who need and deserve all the love and regard we can get, especially in the face of our deep losses. You'll never forget -- why would you want to forget? -- but the loss will become part of your life and your life will become possible again. Not the same, but possible. And it will also be joyful again. In this holy place, may we receive like children the gift of God's infinite, healing love. And may we look toward the future with hope.
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(1) Barbara Crafton, The Almost Daily eMo from Geranium Farm.org, Sunday, December 20, 2009
________________

The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church is to explore and celebrate
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

For information about St. Paul's Episcopal Church and it's life and mission, please contact us at
P.O. Box 1190, Fayetteville, AR 72702, or call 479/442-7373
More sermons are posted on our web site: www.stpaulsfay.org
Visit our web partners at www.explorefaith.org

"You Brood of Vipers"

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
December 13, 2009; 3 Advent, Year B
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(Luke 3:7-18) – John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our ancestor'; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire."

And the crowds asked him, "What then should we do?" In reply he said to them, "Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise." Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, "Teacher, what should we do?" He said to them, "Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you." Soldiers also asked him, "And we, what should we do?" He said to them, "Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages."

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, "I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire."
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The Lights of the Ozarks shine each night. Holiday music fills our air. People are decorating their homes and throwing parties. We're wearing bright clothes and holiday cheer is in the air. And we come to church to hear: "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?" What's up? Somebody doesn't seem to have the holiday spirit. How many Christmas cards have you received with an image of a gaunt, grizzle-bearded man in desert rags, saying "Season's Greetings from us and John the Baptist: 'You brood of vipers! The axe is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Merry Christmas!"

The church does this to us every year. The church insists that you can't get to the joyous birth at Bethlehem without going through the fiery prophet in the desert. Every Advent, in the midst of the exuberance that marks this time of year, the wisdom of the church throws John the Baptist at us.

John makes us uncomfortable. John cuts through the conversational niceties and gets to the hard truth. And people traveled from their Jerusalem comforts to hear him. People went into the wilderness to hear something unavailable in cosmopolitan Jerusalem, someone who speaks the truth.

It's risky to open yourself to deep truth. John's probing is like a surgeon's knife cutting into a tumor, or a skilled analyst penetrating our psychological defenses, or an honest friend telling you what no one else will.

There were good people who went out to hear John – nice people like us. He told them, "Do not be presumptuous before God. God sees through your pretensions. God is not impressed with your unearned privilege of place and status. God can create Episcopalians out of these rocks in the ground."

There were bad people who went out to hear John – sinners and tax collectors and prostitutes. People like us. And they heard him tell them, "I baptize you with water. You are washed clean. Start over fresh and pure. Begin again, and this time, be honest; don't cheat; share your good fortune with others."

Like every great prophet, John afflicted the comfortable and comforted the afflicted.

If you could endure the tirade about vipers and axes and fire – if you didn't leave but stuck around for the question and answer period, you would have heard some pretty straightforward advice. After the stormy sermon of fierce apocalyptic was over, people asked him, "What should we do?" John gave them specific, mundane ethical instruction. "Be generous. Be very generous. If you've got two coats give one of them away. Same thing with food."

The tax collectors asked, "What shall we do?" "Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you," he told them. The soldiers asked, "What shall we do?" "Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusations, and be satisfied with your wages."

I think it helps to know that in those days tax collecting and soldiering were unacceptable livelihoods for Jews. Their reputations would be comparable to today's prostitutes, or mafia thugs. The expected answer for a tax collector or soldier would have been, "Stop doing what you are doing! Change jobs! Get a real job; a moral job." In the Roman Empire, telling a tax collector, "Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you," is like telling a prostitute, "Don't rob from your customer's wallet."

This hard bitten, righteous prophet, who exposes sin and cries for repentance, is remarkably gentle on these outcasts. In fact, he's downright soft on these marginalized, semi-criminal types. Amazing. How rough he is on us good, upstanding Episcopalians, and how easy on the shameful.

John is a cold, sobering wet-rag to our Christmas preparations – exposing our pretensions, calling us good-folks presumptuous and proud. Challenging us, saying, "You're not so good as you think. Turn around. Look at your selfishness. Look at your pride. You can do better. You'd better do better. Be humble. Be generous. Be very generous. Or else!"

In so many ways, John's sermon is right on message with the words Jesus would speak some time later. Jesus also urged us to repent, and challenged us to forsake pride and to be generous. Like John, Jesus was harshest with those who were most confident of their own goodness, the presumptuous and privileged. Jesus also afflicted the comfortable and comforted the afflicted.

But there is one big difference. Motivation. John motivated with threats and fear. "Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire." Change or be destroyed. Do good or burn. John anticipated that the coming Messiah would raise the same message, only with exponentially greater threat. "I baptize you with water... He will baptize you with Holy Spirit and fire." John's expectations for the Messiah: "His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire."

But that's not what happened. When Jesus came, he preached the same moral expectations as John – be humble, be generous, be honest – but the motivation for such good behavior was not threat or fear. It was love. God loves you, Jesus said. God loves you with a divine heart. God loved you first, so love God back. And then, let that flow out. Love yourself. Love your neighbor as yourself. It's all about love.

No ax. No winnowing fork. No fire. Instead of creating threats and fear, Jesus soaked up the threats and fear into his own body on the cross, and gave back only love. Forgiving love. Perfect love, which alone can cast out fear.

You may remember another story – when John was in prison and sent to ask of Jesus, "Are you the one?" It was a sincere question. After all, Jesus wasn't chopping and winnowing and burning. Jesus answered, "Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offence at me." It was all about love. Healing love; forgiving love.

We are on the way to the manger. But before we get there, the church expects us to face a bit of tough love in the wilderness. Let John the Baptist get your attention. Answer his questions. How are you being presumptuous, self-centered, indulgent or prideful? How are you ignoring the poor or participating in systems that oppress the weak? Repent! Chop those snakes out of your life and burn them up. Begin again, and this time be honest; don't cheat; share your good fortune with others.

In your wilderness make a path. A path for a baby. The path of love. Prepare a place in your heart, by thoughts and deeds of generous goodness. Prepare a place in our world, by acts of justice and generosity.

You brood of vipers! God loves you so much.
________________

The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church is to explore and celebrate
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

For information about St. Paul's Episcopal Church and it's life and mission,
please contact us at:
P.O. Box 1190, Fayetteville, AR 72702, or call 479/442-7373
More sermons are posted on our web site: www.stpaulsfay.org
Visit our web partners at www.explorefaith.org