This sermon was given by Rev. Judith Campbell at the Candlelight service held on Dec. 12, 2004, at Stevens Memorial Chapel.

 

Pastoral Reflection

 

I was digging through a file drawer in my office in preparation for this service. I keep all sorts of things in it: stuff for future services, past sermons and readings, copies of my Doctoral thesis, old greeting cards and out of date resumes; all things I might need someday, or I might not, but things I’m not ready to throw out just yet.

 

As I was digging, I came across the folder with my old Christmas newsletters and photo collages. I found pictures of my mother aging and then, later on, no longer in the picture. Pictures of Dogs and cats we have owned in our children’s childhood, living rooms in houses we no longer own or even drive by. Pictures of my children growing up, and now pictures of their children, growing up. All my ghosts and angels, my memories of times and of Christmases gone by and of chapters closed.

 

This year, instead of the annual recital of family events and milestones, I took a photo of Lucy Vincent beach and sent with it a prayer for peace in this troubled world to the people I connect with during the holidays.

 

Using the age-old symbolism of the majestic vastness of the ocean and the hope and promise that is in the dawn of every new day, we are reminded that we are part of something so much greater than ourselves, and that hope and faith in a better tomorrow are sometimes all we have to cling to when the night is dark and we are far from home.

 

We need a kindly light like the one described in the words of a good old Protestant hymn, that says, lead kindly light, lead thou me on, the night is dark, and I am far from home, lead thou me on.

 

Many of us here have put away our childhood’s blind faith with our toy trucks and our Barbie dolls and our old Christmas letters. We know that Mary was not a “blessed” virgin, but simply a young woman living in what we have decided is the first century of the common era. We know that Jesus was likely born in April, four years before or after the date we have put into common use, and that there were other children in the family. He was born at a time when the world was ready for a “Messiah” and actively looking for one. His message of love, peace and forgiveness of transgressions fell on fertile ground.

 

We sing the songs and we retell the story even though we know it to be a construct of human longing combined with some sketchy history because in each of us there is a longing for a “Messiah” a miracle worker who will somehow make all things right. And despite our all of our cautious intellectualizing we still find ourselves looking for the “a star in the east”. A kindly light which will lead us to safety. We need miracles of comfort and joy so desperately in what is a very troubled and joyless world.

 

Miracles still happen. And, if we can keep ourselves from blocking the possibility of a miracle with our deductive reasoning and our fear of the unknown, and with all that we know to be scientifically accurate, we might actually come upon a little miracle just waiting to be recognized and taken up on its offer.

 

There is a piece of me that would love to do away with the specifically denominational interpretations of the ‘Christmas Season” and instead, declare a month long period like Ramadan but with different overtones where people forgave their slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, gave gifts of love and appreciation rather that duty and expectation. A month when we could work shorter hours, play with our children, and visit and re-connect with our elders. A month when soldiers in battle could put down their killing arms and open their human arms. I would not throw Jesus out with the Eggnog so to speak, but I would tell the real story of a child, born of poor parents whose message of peace and love has changed the world. I would remember and sing all of the songs that have been written over the ages celebrating this person and his message. And I would tell the miracle stories of a star in the east and angels appearing to shepherds and scaring the living daylights out of them.

 

The enduring part of this lovely mystery story, and the one we all need no matter what our belief system is that there is something greater than ourselves. There are mysteries we might never understand; and really, do we want or need to? That the transcendent beauty of the gifts of love and life are ours to cherish and to nurture now because life as we know it is fleeting, and we might not get a second chance. That tenderness and mercy are human virtues that need daily use to keep them viable. And that which you give to the least of your brothers and sisters you give to yourself. That one person can make a difference and it is up to each and every one of us to be that person.

 

It seems like I have come a long way from the Christmas cards in my file cabinet drawer, but then again, maybe I haven’t. The message that doesn’t fade over time is the prayer for peace: peace in our hearts and peace on this exquisite planet we call home and genuine good will to all people. That would be the greatest miracle of all.