Carrying Christmas with us

The Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

St. James’s, West Hartford

Christmas Day II

Isaiah 62:6-12, Titus 3:4-7, Luke 2:1-20, Psalm 97

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

I was having a conversation with a friend recently about the busyness and stress of our respective lives. We talked about how this time between Christmas and New Years when our offices are closed and our email inboxes slow to a steady trickle rather than a daily flood, feels like the eye of the storm. Kids are off from school. There’s time for games and naps or simply lounging on the couch with a good book. There’s an ease and a peacefulness in the daily schedule that seems the polar opposite of our day to day professional lives. We know we will have to return to that life and that world. To the challenges we know are coming and those that will surprise us. 

And yet, I find myself longing to figure out how to carry the joys and the peace of this time with me. It’s just the same way I feel about our liturgy this morning. So often the holidays can feel harried and stressful. Did I get the right gifts? Will the dinner turn out okay? Maybe it wasn’t a good day to try a new recipe? Will everyone get along? What if someone brings up politics or the economy or religion? Will we go home mad at each other? Wait, wait - isn’t Christmas supposed to be about joy and celebration - why do I feel so stressed out? 

And then we come here. To this peaceful sanctuary (and if there are any small children here, know that their presence and their sounds do not disturb that peace, they merely add to the joy). We get to hear and sing beautiful music. We get to hear the familiar Christmas story. We get to be fed in Word and Sacrament. If we let the liturgy wash over us, we can, even if only for a few minutes find that peace that indeed passes understanding. 

And it can be fleeting. Our to do lists. Our anxiety about time with extended family or our sadness at being without those we love today. Or the heaviness of the news headlines. Something. Anything will creep back in and our brains will start going. And before we know it, we are miles down a mental road and the peace is gone. 

How do we hold on to it? Well, I think our Gospel today might have some wisdom for us. Pay attention to the last few lines. The shepherds have come to visit Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. They are in awe - full of wonder and excitement - telling the story of the angels’ appearance to them in the hills. Sharing all the angels said about who Jesus is and why his birth is so significant. And what does Mary do? Note what it says: “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” Hmm. Note that it does not say that Mary entertained the shepherds making tea and serving them. Note that it does not say that she debated with them about what the angels said nor did she dismiss their experience because she already knew that truth. No, she treasured the fact that others were affirming what she already knew about the baby in her arms. And she pondered their words in her heart. 

Oh. You mean she focused on the positive? On the gifts and blessings of the moment? You mean she took a few minutes for herself to think quietly? Hmm. For those of us who like to do, who like to be busy and productive and helpful this whole idea of pausing and slowing down and thinking quietly can seem anathema. 

And I am beginning to wonder if there isn’t something to Mary’s behavior that might hold the key to carrying a little of the peace and calm of this morning into the rest of our daily lives. Because no matter what, the demands of our daily lives and the world will come back to us, perhaps even as soon as we walk out the door this morning. 

So, how might we become more like Mary. What would it look like to “ponder something in our hearts”? Notice again that Mary does not get up to do a task nor does she start in on a monologue or a long conversation. It’s just a moment. The story goes on. The shepherds leave, and anyone who has ever been around a newborn baby knows that moments of literal peace and quiet are few and fleeting. 

So, the Gospel is not asking us to completely transform our daily schedules and meditate 10 hours a day. The invitation is to follow Mary’s example. To ponder things in our hearts. To take just a moment to reflect, to be grateful, to focus on the blessings even in the midst of the chaos and flurry of daily life. 

The peace we know in this place, in these days, need not be completely fleeting. We can find it again, for today we celebrate that God has come to dwell with us, to know the fullness of the human experience. So, no matter what the world may throw at us, we need only take a moment to pause and ponder, to remember that the love of God and the peace of God are right there if only our hearts are open to receive it. Amen. 

 

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.  

Psalm 23 Reflections

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Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

Chapel of our Lord, Episcopal Church Center

Feast of George Herbert, February 27, 2020

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. 

“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.”

Well, I don’t know about you, but I am very grateful that the 23rd Psalm is in our lectionary for today. We have news headlines warning us of a global pandemic. Violence seems to be ever present in our news headlines. There is acrimony and bitter division among our political leaders. War, famine, natural disasters, disease, poverty, racism, sexism . . . there is no shortage of things that could discourage us. If we are not careful, the realities of evil and suffering in the world could overwhelm us. 

And so I am grateful for this psalm, grateful for its comfort, its familiarity. Grateful for the image throughout our Scriptures of Jesus as a shepherd who cares for us. I also want to push back on it. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” But I do want. I want a world where our newspapers are not filled with headlines on death and destruction. I want a world in which my children do not have to know what it means to do a lockdown drill or prepare for an active shooter scenario. I want a world where our lives are not governed by fear or uncertainty. I want our children to grow up in a world that feels safe and full of possibility. 

And so I keep reading. “He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters. He revives my soul and guides me along right pathways for his Name's sake.” 

It may seem counter-intuitive, but we need this. Our souls need refreshing. In the midst of stress - whether it be the anxiety and uncertainty of a national tragedy or the stress and strain of our own daily lives, we need to take time to care for ourselves. We need a break. We need to breathe. We need to remember to trust that God is with us, guiding us, supporting us. If we don’t care for ourselves and keep ourselves grounded in our faith, we won’t be of any use to those who need us. Just like the airplane safety announcement, we need to put our own oxygen masks on before we can help others. 

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

Collectively we are in the valley of the shadow of death. We know the realities of tragedy and death all too well. On a global and national scale, and in our own families and communities. We are intimately acquainted with the dark recesses of that valley. We know its pain and suffering all too well. And yet there is comfort to be found. We do not walk alone. No matter how dark it may seem, no matter how lonely we feel, we are not alone. Jesus is right there walking with us. Jesus knows our grief, knows our pain. He does not abandon us in the midst of our suffering. 

And I think it is worth noting the matter of factness of the Psalmist in this verse. Note that he does not say sometimes or occasionally or rarely. He just says, “I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.”  It is a reality. We are not promised a life free from heartache or loss. We are not promised an easy path.

 “You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me;” 

There will be people and things in life who “trouble” us. But what we are promised is that God is steadfast. God, the God who came to earth as a human being in Jesus of Nazareth, the one who intimately knows the joys and tribulations of being human, is with us. ALWAYS. And God is shining light in the darkness. There is always goodness in the midst of tragedy. 

“You have anointed my head with oil, and my cup is running over.” 

There is hope.  

In the wake of violence and tragedy, lots of people quote Mr. Rogers, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” That is where we can find goodness and hope. As scary and upsetting as our daily news coverage is, it is also powerful to see how many people’s first instinct is to help. Think of 9/11 or Sandy Hook or the Boston Marathon bombings. Police, medical teams, first responders, people nearby hurried to help. Others hurried to donate blood or worked to keep others safe. The quick thinking and brave actions of so many have no doubt saved many lives over the years. The goodness is there. In fact, it is stronger than the forces of evil.

“Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.” 

That is what we believe. Goodness and mercy are everywhere. God’s love is stronger than anything in this world. Even death. There is nothing on this earth that can separate us from the love of God. 

We are not alone in the midst of tragedy - whether global, national or personal. We have cause to hope. Because God is with us. Because the light is shining in the darkness. And even more so because we can make that light brighter with our own actions of love and bravery. Our cup runneth over. The world needs our love. Let us go forth and share from our bounty. 

AMEN.