| THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH OF THE REDEEMER BROOKHAVEN, MISSISSIPPI |
Sermon by the Rev. Dr. E. Gene Bennett
Episcopal Church of the Redeemer
Brookhaven, Mississippi
December 24, 2008
Merry Christmas! I welcome all of you to the Feast of the Nativity on Christmas Eve. This is a "thin
place" to many of us, a place and a night when the veil between this world and a more mystical
world is thin - an irrational season in which Christmas may uniquely be born in the shadows of
candlelight, the melody of music and the hovering mystery of stories. The stories on this night,
especially, wear down the edges of the mind, worm their way into our heart, and tug us into the
whisper and song of a magical season. Stories are midwives to mystery in this thin place.
There was a time when this irrational season troubled me. It was a time when I read the stories of
the season with rational eyes. Now I simply let them have their way with me and take me where
they will. I no longer fret about them being irrational, or too magical; I no longer wonder if they are
factual or historical. Now the stories of the season enable Christmas to be born, and I smile on the
edges of the mystery of it all.
Of all the Christmas stories, the one I find most moving, most poignant, most hopeful, is that when
"The time came for Mary to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped
him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn."
This, perhaps, is the most familiar and emotionally evocative story we know. When we hear about
Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem, about Mary giving birth to Jesus and placing him in a manger,
most of us picture the scene as we have known it through the years in Christmas cards and the
ponderings of our imagination - a picture of dreamlike emotions and sentimental serenity.
But if we picture it from Mary's perspective, very different emotions might surface. From Mary's
point of view, this is not a wistful, dreamy scene. It's a scary, painful, messy scene. Surely Mary,
like most young mothers to be, imagines how she hopes the birth will take place. She no doubt
realizes it will be difficult, but at least she thinks she will be in her own home, with supportive family
and friends nearby.
As it happens, of course, nothing occurs as planned. There is the unexpected and arduous
journey to Bethlehem late in her pregnancy. She must hope that they have enough time to get
back home before it's time to deliver, but her time comes while they are in Bethlehem - and to top
it all off, Joseph can't even muscle a room to get them inside out of the cold. They must feel
exhausted, disappointed, and very much alone.
Now, fast forward 2,000 years to our lives today. What are the hopes and plans we bring to this
night? Like Mary, most of us imagine how Christmas should be; we carry, perhaps, nostalgic
dreams shaped by art, music, literature and, of course, our own selected memories of Christmases
when we were children, when life seemed both simpler and more magical - when our homes were
havens of peace, free of tension and discord, and family members behave themselves; a time
when a spirit of gratitude and warmth and joy prevails.
It is not coincidental that the birth of Jesus, a story of holiness coming into the world, occurs when
life and living are far from perfect. The story of Christmas is the story of God with us in the least
likely times and places of our lives - even in the cold, drafty and uncomfortable stables of our
being, in the messy manger of our imperfect lives.
Emmanuel is the hope of Christmas, and it means God is with us in all our imperfections. The good
news we hear tonight is that God is with us in our imperfect families and homes, our imperfect
marriages and relationships, in our imperfect church and our imperfect world, even in that person
you are and that person sitting next to you. It's a message of hope and radical grace.
Merry Christmas, my pilgrim friends! God loves you!
I am indebted to the words, thinking and influence of the following in preparing this sermon: Gary
D. Jones, St. Stephen's Episcopal Church, Washington, DC; Patricia de Jong, First Christian
Church Berkeley, California; Martie McMane, First Congregational Church, Boulder, Colorado;
The Rt. Rev. Stacy F. Sauls, Episcopal Diocese of Lexington.
Episcopal Church of the Redeemer
Brookhaven, Mississippi
December 24, 2008
Merry Christmas! I welcome all of you to the Feast of the Nativity on Christmas Eve. This is a "thin
place" to many of us, a place and a night when the veil between this world and a more mystical
world is thin - an irrational season in which Christmas may uniquely be born in the shadows of
candlelight, the melody of music and the hovering mystery of stories. The stories on this night,
especially, wear down the edges of the mind, worm their way into our heart, and tug us into the
whisper and song of a magical season. Stories are midwives to mystery in this thin place.
There was a time when this irrational season troubled me. It was a time when I read the stories of
the season with rational eyes. Now I simply let them have their way with me and take me where
they will. I no longer fret about them being irrational, or too magical; I no longer wonder if they are
factual or historical. Now the stories of the season enable Christmas to be born, and I smile on the
edges of the mystery of it all.
Of all the Christmas stories, the one I find most moving, most poignant, most hopeful, is that when
"The time came for Mary to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped
him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn."
This, perhaps, is the most familiar and emotionally evocative story we know. When we hear about
Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem, about Mary giving birth to Jesus and placing him in a manger,
most of us picture the scene as we have known it through the years in Christmas cards and the
ponderings of our imagination - a picture of dreamlike emotions and sentimental serenity.
But if we picture it from Mary's perspective, very different emotions might surface. From Mary's
point of view, this is not a wistful, dreamy scene. It's a scary, painful, messy scene. Surely Mary,
like most young mothers to be, imagines how she hopes the birth will take place. She no doubt
realizes it will be difficult, but at least she thinks she will be in her own home, with supportive family
and friends nearby.
As it happens, of course, nothing occurs as planned. There is the unexpected and arduous
journey to Bethlehem late in her pregnancy. She must hope that they have enough time to get
back home before it's time to deliver, but her time comes while they are in Bethlehem - and to top
it all off, Joseph can't even muscle a room to get them inside out of the cold. They must feel
exhausted, disappointed, and very much alone.
Now, fast forward 2,000 years to our lives today. What are the hopes and plans we bring to this
night? Like Mary, most of us imagine how Christmas should be; we carry, perhaps, nostalgic
dreams shaped by art, music, literature and, of course, our own selected memories of Christmases
when we were children, when life seemed both simpler and more magical - when our homes were
havens of peace, free of tension and discord, and family members behave themselves; a time
when a spirit of gratitude and warmth and joy prevails.
It is not coincidental that the birth of Jesus, a story of holiness coming into the world, occurs when
life and living are far from perfect. The story of Christmas is the story of God with us in the least
likely times and places of our lives - even in the cold, drafty and uncomfortable stables of our
being, in the messy manger of our imperfect lives.
Emmanuel is the hope of Christmas, and it means God is with us in all our imperfections. The good
news we hear tonight is that God is with us in our imperfect families and homes, our imperfect
marriages and relationships, in our imperfect church and our imperfect world, even in that person
you are and that person sitting next to you. It's a message of hope and radical grace.
Merry Christmas, my pilgrim friends! God loves you!
I am indebted to the words, thinking and influence of the following in preparing this sermon: Gary
D. Jones, St. Stephen's Episcopal Church, Washington, DC; Patricia de Jong, First Christian
Church Berkeley, California; Martie McMane, First Congregational Church, Boulder, Colorado;
The Rt. Rev. Stacy F. Sauls, Episcopal Diocese of Lexington.
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