Erl Purnell Sermon

cChristmas Eve ~ December 24, 2006 ~ A sermon preached by The Rev’d Erl G. Purnell at Old St. Andrew’s Church, Bloomfield, CT

Isaiah 9.2-4, 6-7; Psalm 96; Titus 2.11-14; Luke 2.1-14

Years ago—I think I was still in the Navy—a Christmas card arrived. It was one of many. I usually slice open all the mail and then go back and take out the contents. The card I’m remembering was the last in the pile that day.

On the outside face of the card is a beautiful yellow-gold border. The image in the center is simple: a colored line drawing. The scene, no surprise, is of the stable of Jesus’ birth. My view, and so yours, too, is from a hill somewhere nearby, say 200 yards away. As we stand there—you and I—we see just below us the gentle, sloping roof of the small barn and a doorway.

Another hill is in the distance behind the stable. On that distant hill are tiny figures that I quickly translate into sheep and shepherds. Oh, and a big, kindergartener-quality yellow-gold star—the same yellow-gold of the card’s border—hangs in a blue-black sky accompanied by a few dozen normal sized star-specks.

The scene evokes the Nativity perfectly, that night so long ago where Luke tells us Jesus is born “in a manger, because there is no place for them in the inn.” Don’t know where the inn might have been. The artist focuses only on the animal barn, the miniscule sheep and shepherds, and the star.

I open the card. On the inside is the same image that’s on the outside of the card, only we—you and I—are slightly closer to the structure, maybe 150 yards away now. The sheep and shepherds, too, are just a bit bigger. And, the star … the star now has radiant beams of star-light jetting into the heavens and to earth, all around the place where the child lays.

There is one more addition. It is an absolutely elated Joseph. He is standing outside the door of the stable in a brownish robe, hands raised to the heavens. We see his face beaming. You can see the scene, right? Joseph, the star, the sheep and shepherds making their way to the manger.

The caption at the bottom of the card declares in Joseph’s delighted, proud first-time father’s voice, “It’s a girl!” … A surprise, well, yes? Be that as it may.

The Christmas Eve Collect declares, “O God, you have caused this holy night to shine with the brightness of the true Light.” Jesus—this lovely child, the true Light of God—shines with an unsurpassed brightness. And, what a surprise! The angels announce the child’s birth, Luke tells us, because there is “good news of great joy for all the people.” They are overcome with joy and sing, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom God favors!” Amazed shepherds come to see the babe and they “glorify and praise God for all they have heard and seen.”

In my sermon two weeks ago, I spoke about HOPE. HOPE walking across slick beach stones after John the baptizer’s impossible expression of compassion, forgiveness, and love; HOPE smiling through cyberspace in real-time computer images of my granddaughters; HOPE for a new beginning in this fractured nation’s heart. HOPE, though very little HOPE, sprinting for safety in Darfur.

And I asked, “Dare we HOPE? Dare we HOPE for relief from oppression and hatred? Dare we HOPE for a bridge across the morass of misunderstanding? Dare we HOPE for a change in direction so we don’t get to where we’ve been headed? Dare we know in the bones of our often frightened and tired Souls that something precious is coming?”

At this Christmas season—indeed always—the answer is YES! Yes, we are bold to HOPE even when darkness surrounds us. HOPE in the midst of the storm comes in prayers, holding to the truth, being people of character, knowing the Holy Spirit is among us though we may not understand that at the moment of despair.

For on this Holy night, to us a child is born, the Prince of Peace. And in the birth of Jesus—indeed in the birth of every child—HOPE comes to life. Luke signals at the outset of his gospel, that HOPE is among us in the person of this child, this precious child, Jesus, born in a stable and laid in a manger. HOPE. This HOPE—this Jesus—is more valuable than fine gold or frankincense or myrrh. The HOPE that is Jesus is ours to spend wisely, often, and generously.

And last Sunday, after returning from two days of retreat at Holy Cross Monastery in West Park, NY, I told you about the focus of my meditation: What if I live without fear—without fear of being hurt and without fear of scarcity? I listened to the monks chant Psalm 62 and I knew the presence of Christ was with me.

For God alone my soul in silence waits;
from God comes my salvation.

In addition to knowing that I am always safe with Christ beside me, so too, I let go of any lingering insecurity about not having enough, about the insidious plague of scarcity that infects so many of us. An at-one-ness with Christ overcame me in the Monastery. I knew in my Soul that there is only One-ness. There is no separateness. And, if there is only One-ness, separation and scarcity do not even exist.

I was surprised by what the retreat gave me. It wasn’t what I went for or what I expected. Rather, the Spirit gave me exactly what I needed, just as God always gives us what we need most—and especially Jesus. As I waited with HOPE, the Christ gift of at-one-ness gently overcame me. I didn’t have to do anything. Nothing. There, surrounding me—and surrounding me still—is the HOPE of Christ taking away all sense of fear and showing me in his very face that I cannot be hurt and that separation and scarcity do not even exist.

Do you know Ron Hansen’s brilliant 1991 novel Mariette in Ecstasy? It’s about the complexity and beauty of human existence. At the end of the book, Hansen has Mariette observe, “We are afflicted in every way possible, but we are not crushed; full of doubts, we never despair. We are persecuted but never abandoned; we are struck down but never destroyed. Continually we carry about in our bodies the dying of Jesus, so that in our bodies the life of Jesus may also be revealed.”

And this, my friends, is what the Christmas miracle is all about—that the life of Jesus may be revealed.

Listen now to a final letter Mariette writes to Mother Philomène: “And Christ still sends me roses. We try to be formed and held and kept by him, but instead he offers us freedom. And now when I try to know his will, his kindness floods me, his great love overwhelms me, and I hear him whisper, Surprise me.”

Happy Christmas to each of you and all of you. May the spirit of Christ be in your hearts and minds and bodies so you, too, are the Light of Christ in this wonderful but broken world. Blessings & Peace.

Amen.