s i n g

All the kings of the earth will praise you, O Lord,
when they have heard the words of your mouth.

They will sing of the ways of the Lord,
that great is the glory of the Lord. — Psalm 138

King David embarrassed his wife when he sang and danced before the Ark of the Covenant, entering the holy city of Jerusalem in triumph. And as if upending the hope of a repeat performance in that same holy city, Jesus wailed from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.” 

It’s near impossible, though, to imagine a Crucified Lord having breath enough to sing, let alone speak, from the cross, and yet that’s precisely what the words in our gradual hymn suggest, asking, “Did not Jesus sing a psalm that night when utmost evil strove against the Light? Then let us sing, for whom he won the fight, Alleluia, alleluia.”

By way of song, we lean toward the light of God in the hope of mercy.

We sing and cry that hope in all our prayers, including the Lord’s Prayer, a prayer Jesus gives us in today’s gospel reading.

Until Russell and I came to St. Paul’s three years ago, I’d never sung the Lord’s Prayer with any regularity. It took me a while to catch on. But now that I have, I’ve come to enjoy it. By way of song, the prayer itself feels new to me: liberated somehow, as if something anchored and secure suddenly broke free to move in a new direction.

Change, as the song goes, is good. Or can be. And music always changes things, both around us and within us.

Singing has liberating force. I think the Lord’s Prayer does, too: it means to give you the liberating assurance of God’s merciful providence. It means to make your whole body sing with it.

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like a refugee

Our gospel reading tonight begins right where the story of the three magi ends in the Gospel according to St. Matthew. If you’ll remember, the magi offered their gifts to Jesus in Bethlehem, and then, warned in a dream not to return to King Herod, they left for their own country by another road.

It’s then, in the immediate wake of that departure, St. Matthew tells us how the Holy Family also left Bethlehem: they left not to go home but to enter into exile in Egypt because an angel warned Joseph in a dream that Herod sought to destroy the newborn child Jesus.

It’s an abysmal world the Church holds onto, lest we decorate our understanding of Christmas with too many lights: a story from hell set firmly within the nativity narrative itself.

Our collect tonight is a prayer with so much heart. Its words tell us God wonderfully created us and yet more wonderfully restored our dignity: the dignity of human nature itself. This big-hearted prayer goes on to petition that same Creator, asking that we might share in the life of the one who humbled himself to become one of us.

Not everyone believes Jesus is the son of God. Not everyone believes God was born the son of Mary. Not everyone believes the Holy Family fled to Egypt in order to protect the life of God among us. But the Incarnation itself has it everyone —  at all times and in all places— is changed by its gracious reach because the Incarnation of God made one of us asks us to value the dignity of human nature. And to believe in, and honor, the dignity of all people.

Tonight, we bring that big-hearted belief alongside the Holy Family in St. Matthew’s Gospel. There, we find Joseph, Mary, and Jesus on the run, heading toward the hope of safety in Egypt. There, we discover that in the wake of his birth, Jesus became a refugee, dependent on the care of his parents, themselves dependent on the welcome of strangers.

By way of that turn, we’re asked to embrace the fragility of the Incarnation: how through it, God in Christ shares our vulnerability and our need for dignity, and is mysteriously caught in our own need for compassion, mercy, justice, love. This fragility is right there at the very beginning. It isn’t something waiting to reveal itself at the Cross. It’s right there at the birth.

It’s there when the magi come with their gifts, there when they head home by another way, and there when the angel comes to Joseph and tells him to “get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child to destroy him.”

Take the child. Flee. And remain until it’s safe to go home. God is there in those words: speaking through the voice of an angel. And also there as the subject of those words: the child without voice utterly dependent on the merciful care of human hands.

Herodian powers still rifle the world today. Death-dealing powers are at work all around us, powers that imagine they can ignore or destroy human dignity. Those powers are potentially both outside in in the world around us and right here within us.

According to singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen, “Every heart to love will come, but like a refugee.” It’s an old Jewish idea: the notion that you learn to put your whole trust in the love of God by way of exile and heartbreak because when you’re on your own, separated from kin and country, it’s all you have.  And very often I’ve brought that idea alongside moments in my spiritual life when I could do nothing but take flight with Jesus.

Mind you, there is that  in this story. But the deeper ground, I think, belongs to actual refugees in flight. It’s they  who can tell us about that long-ago flight into Egypt. They  who can speak for Joseph and Mary and the voiceless Christ caught in time.

I could tell you about the search for spiritual refuge, how one day the allegorical road under your feet takes a sudden turn toward wilderness, how the road goes missing, and how you learn to keep walking, stumbling your way through unexpected obstacles until you find yourself heading toward the hope of home by another road.

I do not minimize personal experiences. God is present and at work at all times and in all places. But today, on the second Sunday of Christmas, I believe, the Incarnation asks us to pay attention to the external geography of this particular story in order to learn something about human dignity, a dignity not defined by addresses or citizenship or borders.

God, you see, humbled  himself to become one of us, landing divinity itself in search of refuge, landing divinity itself on the outside of power in need of human mercy.

What does it mean, I wonder, to believe in a god who lives among us in search of refuge?

And where would, and where does, the life of God – the goodness of God—find refuge in a world like ours, a world full of Herodian powers deaf to the cries of children?

According to the most recent reports of the United Nations, there are over 82 million people today who have been forcibly displaced by violence, political conflict, disasters, and persecutions.  The majority of these people in flight are “internally displaced”: defined as “people forced to leave home who remain inside the same country.” I think here of the victims of domestic violence or the victims of catastrophic fires or hurricanes.

Of the 82 million forcibly displaced, 26 million people – 26 million men, women, and children—are what the UN defines as “refugees.” Refugees, by the UN’s definition, are those forced to leave not only home but country as well, who must seek protection in another country: who get up, take the children and flee, in the hope of finding shelter in Egypt or Europe or America or anywhere that will welcome them.

Where would, and where does, the life of God – the goodness of God—find refuge in a world like ours, a world full of Herodian powers deaf to the cries of children?

For an answer, I remember how this parish chose in 2021, to turn Columba House into a shelter for refugees in transition from Aghanistan to America. Deacon Sue has been an inspiring part of that gracious work.

For an answer, I also commend the questions: Where? How? When?

Answers might well begin with confessing how we fail to value the dignity of all human beings. But surely the best answers seek more than spiritual penance from us. They seek actual shelter for flesh and blood people.

A few days ago, Pope Francis lifted up the story of the Flight into Egypt by way of an intercessory prayer addressed to St. Joseph.

I close with that prayer: ”St. Joseph, you who experienced the suffering of those who must flee, you who were forced to flee to save the lives of those dearest to you, protect all those who flee because of war, hatred, hunger. Support them in their difficulties, strengthen them in hope, and let them find [in us] welcome and solidarity. Guide their steps and open the hearts of those who can [and will} help them. Amen.”

g o o d n e w s

And so this is Christmas: when once again we join the shepherds keeping watch in the night. Some of you may remember how last year we met up with them outside in front of this church. We sat on metal chairs in the street and sang carols into the night watch, and at some point, a fire truck entered the story: the fearful ring of its siren announcing an urgency heading toward someone in trouble.

Always at Christmas, we live in a world on fire somewhere. And always at Christmas, the same old angel comes to tell us, “Don’t be afraid.”

It’s what the Angel said to Mary when he told her she would bear a child. And tonight, he says it again to the shepherds, Don’t be afraid, for see, I am bringing you good news of great joy for all people.

Angels only say that sort of thing to people who are already afraid. And, likely, you and I are among those people. Often afraid. Often angry about — and fearful of — what’s going on in the world around us. The Angel, though, asks you to see what’s really  there: the goodness of God half buried by your fears and worries. 

For days now, our puppy Andy has been digging holes in the backyard. He heads out through a dog door all neat and tidy, and returns to us covered in mud. Apparently, it gives him joy to dig and dig and dig, as if toward the heart of the world. He’s a puppy, after all, so he has no fear.

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s t a r – r o s e

O Flower, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air, dispel in glorious splendor the darkness everywhere.

I love those words found in our hymnal. I love the glorious absurdity of a single flower dispelling the darkness everywhere.

The flower the hymn sings of is, of course, St. Mary the Virgin, the once again soon-to-be mother of Jesus, who always shows up on the fourth Sunday of Advent.

According to Anglican theologian David Brown, “One of the principle ways [God] speaks to humanity is through the imagination” — a force that refuses to stand still, is always re-visioning things, sliding up and down the generations, in order to show you something true you’ve failed to see. Or something you’ve neglected to see, perhaps even tried not to see.

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