God in the unexpected

 

The Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

Christmas Eve, December 24, 2024

Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14(15-20); Psalm 96

In the name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. 

One of my favorite Bible professors in seminary frequently reminded us “Don’t confuse familiarity with understanding.” I think tonight’s Scriptures might be the easiest ones with which to do that. We know this story so well. There’s a census. Joseph and Mary travel by donkey. There’s no room at the Inn, so Mary gives birth in a stable. Angels come to the shepherds who are in awe, and go to visit the new baby. Mary treasures their words in her heart. 

It is a beautiful and familiar story. And with its familiarity we can lose sight of some of its most profound truths. We can forget the significance of how God chose to show up on this night. God did not make an appearance as a full grown man who could immediately begin his preaching and teaching ministry. God did not show up as a prince born in a palace. God did not come in any form that society would have recognized as powerful or influential. God came in the form of an infant. A helpless, innocent child who was completely dependent on those around him for everything - food, shelter, care, love, safety - everything. And God came to poor parents who were ostracized from their community for the scandal of Mary’s pregnancy. And God came precisely at the time of a census which meant Jesus couldn’t even be born at home or at an Inn. He was born in a stable. 

Any of you who have spent time on a farm know that barns are not always the cleanest of places nor do they have the freshest air. The peaceful tableau of a crèche scene or a Christmas card can sanitize out the muck, the smell, the close quarters, and the noise of the animals. 

So God came into the world in a messy way to the least likely of people. And then to whom did God announce this glorious event? The emperor in Rome? The local governor? The priests in the temple in Jerusalem? Anyone in a position of power and privilege? Nope. The angels showed up to shepherds grazing their flocks in the nearby hills. Poor laborers who had no social status to speak of. Again God showed up in an unexpected place, at an unexpected time to the least likely candidates. 

So what does all this mean of us? Other than hopefully helping us to feel a little more deeply the significance and the impact of the Christmas story - to not just nod and smile or stop listening because we know just how it goes. I actually think there is a profound lesson in this story for us, here, now, on this night in 2024. 

I learned a new word recently. It’s “Refugia.” Maybe some of you know it? It’s the natural phenomenon that occurs in the wake of a disaster where there are little pockets of safety, of refuge, where life clings on and from which new life begins. I learned it in a book entitled Refugia Faith by Debra Rienstra. She opens the book by talking about the eruption of Mt. St. Helens in 1980. At the time scientists thought it would be generations and generations before any life returned to the mountainsides. But within only a few short decades, the mountainsides were covered in grasses and flowers with trees growing and a vibrant animal life. That speedy return to health and vitality for the mountain was possible because of little pockets of “Refugia” - little nooks and crannies sheltered by rocks to tree roots or under moss that were protected from the shower of hot ash that coated everything for miles around in 1980. 

New life was possible. Transformation was possible because life clung on and sprouted in tiny and unexpected ways. Hmm. Hope and new life because of something tiny and unexpected . . .sounds a bit like our Christmas story doesn’t it? 

And that is indeed the message I hope we will carry with us from this night. Hope and new life are always possible. Always. It is just that we often have to look for it in the most unexpected places or the most unexpected ways. 

I have no doubt that there are many of you who are struggling (or who know people who are) on this night and in this season. Whether it’s the challenge of navigating a first Christmas without a beloved person. Or perhaps navigating unexpected health or financial challenges. Or maybe it is just that the needs of the world and the divisiveness of our political realm are weighing on us. Maybe we are just weary and anxious. We don’t know what the future holds. We are longing for a sense of peace and stability that seems elusive. 

No matter what it is that has made our hearts heavy in recent times, I hope we can hold on to the beautiful truth of our Christmas story. I hope that we can be on the lookout for the pockets and the signs of Refugia in our own lives. There is hope. There is light. There is possibility for us all. 

It is not likely to come neatly wrapped in a bow under the tree. It will come in messy and human ways that are unexpected. A surprising bit of good news. A call from an old friend. An extra few minutes to rest and breathe deeply. A conversation with someone whose wisdom and sense of humor always help us see our way out of our current struggles. The gift of time and connection, so that we can remember daily that we are loved, and that God has a long and glorious history of making God’s presence known in the world in the most unexpected ways. If we keep our eyes, our ears, and most importantly our hearts, open then we too can join the shepherds in awe and gratitude. Amen.  

Awe and wonder

    

with gratitude to my dad for a sense of wonder from the beginning

                                             

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

DFMS Noonday Prayer via Zoom

Gregory of Nyssa, March 9, 2021

Psalm 119:97-104; Wisdom 7:24-8:1; John 14:23-26 

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

Somewhere in the collection of needlepointed kneelers neatly lined up in each row of St. Luke’s Cathedral in Portland, Maine is one with a quote by Gregory of Nyssa. “Concepts create idols. Only wonder comprehends anything.” My dad commissioned that kneeler. It is his all time favorite quote. Perhaps a “life quote” you might say. One that embodies his way of seeing the world. My dad loved science all through school. He is a lawyer. He has spent his professional life strongly bound to and placing a high value on “concepts.” But even in his practice of the law or his photography of the natural world, there is a foundational curiosity. A reverent awe for all that is beyond his understanding. My parents built the house in which I grew up. They purposefully oriented it on the compass so that you could watch the sunrise or sunset through enormous plate glass windows. Many a childhood dinner was put on pause, so that we could go watch the splendor of creation. There was a nearly flat roof above the living room, perfect for lying on one’s back or for placing a telescope to gaze at the wonders of the galaxy. 

Wonder. Awe. Reverence. These are valuable and essential to our life, to our faith, to the health of our souls. They invite us to inhabit a space, a way of being that fosters the wisdom so beautifully described in our Scriptures for today. An emmenation from God, a reflection of God’s goodness. There are opportunities to see that each and every day. Of course for many of us that can come easiest in the natural world, as my Dad has shown me. But he does not limit his sense of awe to Creation. There are moments of awe in worship, in learning, in small moments of human connection. While certainly those moments of wonder can be inspired by outside forces, by the glorious splendor of a sunset that takes your breath away, what my dad taught me most of all was that really it was about us. It was about the disposition of our hearts. My dad has shown me that our sense of wonder and awe can in fact lead us to a deeper connection with all that is good and holy in the world. It is really a matter of whether or not we are open and paying attention. 

In this time, when our worlds have largely shrunk to our own living spaces and the screen in front of us seems to be our connection to everything. When there are pings and notifications nonstop. Life can feel frenetic and harried. We are pulled this way and that. It could be easy to lose our sense of wonder. To feel disconnected from those moments that ground us and bring us more fully into God’s presence. 

We long to be on a mountaintop or a beach. At a lake or on an airplane. We long to see different vistas. Increasingly we are able or will soon be able to do that. Thanks be to God. 

And I think there is an important invitation to us, in this moment, on this feast of St. Gregory, as we mark a year of life in a pandemic this week. It is an invitation to remember that we can cultivate our sense of wonder in the smallest moments. It is easy to feel awe as we gaze across the ocean or at the “vast expanse of interstellar space.” Yet we can find that same sense of awe in the midst of the quiet moments of daily life too.  

We can be grateful for this technology that allows us to see and hear each other. To gather together across many time zones. We can marvel at tenacious trees and plants that push their way up to the sun. We can marvel at a moment of human connection. The simple joy of a cup of tea or coffee. The beauty of the light coming through our windows and the increasing daylight hours. The list can go on and on. 

So in these days, especially when it will be easy to get agitated as we wait for things to open and to be able to do more and more, let us remember to pause, to find moments each day for wonder. Moments to connect with God and grow in wisdom. AMEN.