This morning is a gift from God, and the dawn’s new light is a summons to be greeted with gratitude and thanksgiving. We give thanks that we can:

See the forms of creation,

Hear the call of creation,

Smell the fragrances of creation,

Taste the sweetness of creation,

And touch the warmth of creation.

We give thanks for the life we’ve been given; for the love that graces our days; and for the chance to assist in creation’s unfolding.

We pledge to walk together in the ways of truth and affection,

As best we know them now,

Or may learn them in days to come;

That we and our children may be fulfilled,

And that we may speak to the world,

In words and actions of peace and goodwill.

It is as though the cold and barrenness of this time of year ignites a yearning within to reconnect with humanity, with family, with those who brought us into the world and those who nurtured our growth. This time of year is the time of holiday, of custom and ritual whereby we connect to deeper things of the spirit.

Thus, we light these candles to remember the spiritual traditions out of which we came, which brought us into the world and nurtured our growth.

For we are spiritual children of both Jewish and Christian lineage.

From our spiritual ancestors the Jews we were bequeathed the revelation that God’s activity in this world is freedom, and all who seek that liberating spirit, seek to walk towards truth and towards God.

And from our spiritual ancestors the Christians we were bequeathed the revelation that each human being bears a divine likeness, and like Jesus, all souls are to be loved for that divine kinship; for God is love and they who love dwell in God and God in them.

Every moment of our living is a preparation for the next.

Every moment of our living is a leaning forward towards the future.

Every moment of our living is a hope for the love that tomorrow might bring:

A love for which human beings, as conscious creatures, are fashioned for;

A love that ushers us into a larger and broader sphere of existing.

A love that sets us free.

Every moment of our living is a chance for each of us once again to seize the moment to manifest love and liberate it into the world.

That all who would be born and live might do so in a freedom bequeathed by a love for all souls.

On this third Sunday of the holiday season we pause to light a candle for the love that endures beyond our capacities to arouse or extinguish it, a love that endures throughout all seasons and is ever-present and abiding amongst men and women and children even in the darkness. For it is love that sets humanity free.

O God, let the gracious spirit of Jesus, the spirit of the little child, enter our lives and bless them; that duty may become touched with beauty, and justice be fulfilled through love. At other times we ask that we may do our tasks with consecration and patience; today we ask for more: that obligation may be changed to opportunity, and duty done with joy. At other times we ask that we may walk uprightly; today we pray for grace to bow ourselves to others’ needs. Let our ears hear the cry of the needy, and our hearts extend love to the unloved. Give our hands strength, not to do great things, but to do small things graciously. Let our gifts today be not a sacrifice but a privilege. Let us accept kindness with humility. Heal the wounds of misunderstanding, jealousy, or regret, that scar our hearts; and let the gentler air of the Christmas spirit touch our lives, as though the cold of winter were touched by the kindlier breath of spring. As the old year dies and the new year rises, grant us peace with the world, and peace in our own hearts; and that at last, all souls may have sweet joy and rest.

-Francis G. Peabody (adapted)

During the Christmas Eve service this year, like other years, we will recall the stories of the birth of Jesus recorded in the gospels of Luke and Matthew, there having been no accounts constructed in the gospels of Mark and John.

In the gospel of Luke, it is written:

In the gospel of Matthew, it is written:

This Advent season we have been looking inside these two different stories to try and see and understand deeper dimensions to them. They were pieced together from various elements of the two different worlds of the two different editors whom we call Luke and Matthew. Both stories were written at least twenty years after the Gospel of Mark was written down, as the entire Gospels of Luke and Matthew date from the 90’s A.C.E. It is a curious thing to scholars that a full sixty years after Jesus’ death there is interest in devising circumstances to his birth, when during the intervening years spiritual communities of Jews and Gentiles together had arisen declaring that his death had not extinguished the spirit of unconditional and universal love his life and teachings embodied.

Matthew was a Jew writing to a Jewish audience, and so there are clear Jewish themes in his account that arouse the interest of Jewish eyes. There is a baby in distress, children in grave danger, Mary and Joseph fleeing to Egypt, all recalling the Passover and Exodus stories in ancient Judaism’s collective memory. Luke was a Jew writing for larger audience influenced by pervasive Greek culture, and so there are clear Hellenistic themes in his account that arouse the interest of classic Hellenistic eyes. There is a virgin birth, the appearance of a godly messenger in human disguise, even Mary’s philosophical introspection, pondering these things in her heart, all of which could be found in the Greek literature and popular culture of the day.

Yet, there are powerful universal themes to these stories, which account in part for their worldwide interest through the millennia. There is something in the nature of birth and children that tells us of the nature of God or the nature of what is at the center of existence. Year after year, century after century, these stories have been recited, and joy has arisen in the human heart. In the midst of the indifference, brutality, scorn, prejudice, hatred, neglect that human beings have initiated and fostered and engineered upon one another, joy has appeared in the human heart when these stories have been read. That may be the miracle of Christmas. Joy has never died over all the years of suffering humanity, kept alive in part by an image that is so common to our daily lives that it may pass unnoticed by us. It is something we have done a thousand times, and yet how many times have we done this and confronted its deeper meanings. We may come into the presence of joy and a saving glory in the midst of darkness, and know it not. For joy is the not absence of darkness, but the presence of something larger than the darkness, lasting longer than darkness, something ever present which darkness cannot consume or extinguish.

Now I remember coming into many rooms where the young child was.

I remember lo those many years ago, coming into the room where a nurse held my child and showed all of us new parents how to bathe the new life entrusted to us. And they came into the room where the young child was.

I remember coming into this room a few weeks ago and seeing young mothers and fathers holding their babies. They were here to have their children Christened by this church, and thereby by this communal act, be welcomed into the fellowship of all souls that is the human family. They were here to have their young children named and presented to you, O wise men and women, who will, by your interest and affection, herald the joy of new life entering into a world of uncertainty and fear; and by your words and actions, did pledge to those new parents that there would be help and assistance along the way. And they came into the room where the young child was.

I remember, well over twenty years ago, coming into a room at my seminary in Chicago, and seeing all the students and faculty and staff and spouses and children gathered to support a professor and his wife who had just learned a few days before of their grown son’s own suicide after he had murdered his wife. The grief and pain and darkness that day were as incomprehensible as anything I had experienced up unto that moment. I remember a tiny boy, the son of one of my student ministerial colleagues, who was running around the room that day, laughing and reaching his arms out to be picked up by any willing open arms. I remember bending down on one knee obligingly, welcoming him into my arms, and rising and squeezing and rocking back and forth to his delight and my salvation. And they came into the room where the young child was.

I remember over twenty five years ago coming into the visiting area at a state prison to see a friend, and, while waiting for him, watching the prisoners talking with their family members who had brought their children to them. I remember seeing them talk with their children, and remember the regret and the guilt and the longing on the faces of the men as they talked with their children and said goodbye to their children. And they came into the room where the young child was.

I remember coming into a hospital room in the emergency ward and standing with a mother as she identified the body of her son who had drowned earlier that day. And they came into the room where the young child was.

I remember coming into the hospital room of a child who had survived an early morning Christmas fire in her home. I remember it was a month or so afterward, and she had been flown over 500 miles south to a burn hospital, uncertain of surviving, and I was there to see her and bring her a giant card that the children of the church had made for her. I remember coming into the hospital room where she was immobilized by being strapped to metal bars, lying on a waterbed, in order that her skin might regenerate and she might survive. I remember the sound of the shaking of the metal bars as she was overcome with joy at seeing someone she knew, and seeing the greetings from so many who had not forgotten her. And they came into the room where the young child was.

I remember coming into the sanctuary of the church almost a year later and seeing her walking, with a slight limp, and smiling, with a slight scar, and telling me that in a few months she would return to her beloved soccer field. And that this morning she was returning to the church to stand up with the children’s choir and sing with them, although she’d only been able to practice the carols they would sing, in a hospital room with the cassette tape the church had provided her. And they came into the room where the young child was.

And just this morning I came into this room as you have done. And they came into the room where the young child was. And though it is true that this is not a church building, and this is not a sanctuary, and this is not a holy place designated as such by the activity that occurs here each weekday, or by a culture that calls such places churches, and synagogues, and temples. It is true that to us who do not have a place to call our own, it is as though for the time being there is no room at the inn and we worship here in this “stable.” Still, where there is the sight and sound of children there is something deeper present. It is a joy that is so profound that it might escape these world-weary eyes, and might find this world-weary heart impenetrable. But that joy abides. It may be that the miracle of Christmas is that joy has never died over all the years of suffering humanity, though it may pass unnoticed by us. We may come into its presence and saving glory in the midst of darkness, and know it not. Joy is the not absence of darkness, but the presence of something larger than darkness, lasting longer than darkness, something ever present which darkness cannot consume. Joy is a light in the world that is never extinguished, and we light candles to be reminded, when we would forget to open our eyes to see, our minds to believe, and our hearts to love. Joy is kneeling beside a manger to look at what is covered up in there.

AMEN.