“The infant Jesus cries out “Hold me” … and in that moment, God moves from being one apart from us to being God with us. Through this tiny baby, God leans down and echoes our own cry in humanity’s ear. Hold me, God cries.
Hold me.
Hold me.
Hold me.
…and in that moment, that cry is answered. And Mary holds the infant Christ.
Nurtures
Soothes
Protects
Wraps the baby in swaddling clothes so that even when her body, exhausted from travel and labor, finally collapses for a few moments of sleep, Jesus will still feel the security of touch. Jesus will still have the evidence of love.”

Sermon by Mike Kinman at All Saints Church, Pasadena, at 11:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve, December 24, 2019. Readings: Isaiah 9:2-7, Qur’an: Surah 3:45-48 and Luke 2:1-14.

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And in the stillness of the night, God cried: “Hold me.”
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There is a memory you will never remember.
You have it.
I have it.
We all have it.
Everyone who has ever taken a breath has it.

It is the memory from which is born our deepest hopes, fears and all the questions that come to us deep in the night.

Will I be safe?
Will I be happy?
Will I be loved?

There is a memory none of us will ever remember
And yet it is this memory that brings us together tonight.

Each of us had a moment when we first emerged from our mother’s womb. The moment of our birth.

Now, giving birth, witnessing a birth – those memories are etched deep. They change us. And yet that first memory, the memory of our own birth is lost to us. No one really knows why; whether the problem is memory storage or retrieval. But however our lives and experiences are different from that point on, it is the one human moment we all have in common.

Every one of us had a moment of birth. When we were thrust into this strange new place, unfamiliar and threatening… before we even had language to try to make sense of it all.

And yet even though we don’t remember it, even though we didn’t have words to express it, we all … every single one of us … came into this world wanting one thing … knowing we needed one thing.

Every single one of us came out crying the same thing.

Hold me.
Hold me.
Hold me.

Before anything.
Before we needed food.
Before we knew our cries were giving us the breath we needed to survive
…we knew we needed touch.

Hold me, we cried.

And we kept crying until we got it.

Our need for touch. Our need to be held is the deepest craving we have. It is natural, even primal. It is the beginning of the development of attachment, which is the foundation for health for the rest of our lives.

That first moment of touch literally began to carve new neural pathways that organized later behavior all over our brains. There is even a special hormone – oxytocin – and whole networks of neurons in our brains specifically designed to make this happen.

That’s because our need for touch is not only about developing as physically, emotionally and spiritually healthy people … it is about survival. Babies who are not held, cradled, nuzzled, touched will stop growing and eventually, even if they are given every other thing they need to survive, a baby who is not touched, a child who is not held will die.

That moment of birth is simply the most vulnerable we will ever be.

In that moment we went from being surrounded by touch to being completely exposed.

From not even knowing the concept of being alone to suddenly being without any sense of connection.

In that first moment, we cried out “Hold me!” because our need to be touched, our need to be held was the hopes and fears of all the years to come met in that one moment.

Our deepest hopes for safety, happiness and love.
And our deepest fears that we would
Never be safe
Never be happy.
Never be loved.

Our deepest fear that we would always be alone.

And for each of us, that cry was answered.

For each of us, no matter how frequent or rare safety, happiness and love have been in our lives … for at least that one moment, we cried out “touch me” and we were touched. We cried out “hold me” and we were held.

Even though we cannot access that memory, we know it is so, because if it weren’t, we simply wouldn’t be alive to share this moment in time this night.

And that first touch, that reassurance of love that is being held for the very first time … that is the birth of all hope that there is a love beyond us, that we do not need to be alone. That no matter how bleak things get, a light shines in every bleakness that the bleakness will never overcome.

And yet oh, how much has happened to us between that first touch, that first embrace, that first answer to our first cry of “hold me” until this moment we share tonight.

The stories our hearts, the stories our bodies could tell. Stories we carry with us as we come together. Stories of power and joy. Stories of wounds and betrayal. Memories we treasure and rejoice to re-live and memories we long to forget or that our brains block us in self-defense from recalling.

For the stories of our lives, the stories of our bodies are told on a timeline of touch.

The gentle caress or the harsh slap of a parent’s hand.

The reaching out and nervous touching first of fingertips then of lips with that first crush or the distance and isolation of rejection and unrequited love.

The safety of an arm draped around our shoulder or the terror of hands gripping tightly around our neck.

The exhilarating sensual skin against skin of a lover or the devastating, intrusive, violating touch of an abuser.

The cradling of an infant as they first cry out to be held and the joining of hands with a loved one as they take their final breath.

The stories of our lives, the stories of our bodies are told on a timeline of touch.

Touch has healed us. Touch has betrayed us. And whether we crave touch or fear touch or maybe fear how much we crave touch, in our moments of greatest security and in our moments of deepest vulnerability, it’s all about touch.

We are literally wired for touch.

Even if our fear of it has become greater than our longing for it, something deep inside us has never stopped crying out:

Hold me.
Hold me.
Hold me.

It is that cry that binds us together.
It is that cry that makes us human.
And yes, it is that cry that brings us together this night.
For you see, Christmas is also a story, told on the timeline of touch.

We gather this night as hopeful, fearful people have for centuries unto millennia… to sing the songs and tell the tale of a moment in time of the epic love story between God and humanity.

The poetry of Christmas is a song of longing for touch.
Of God, having created us and watched us and delighted in us and grieved over us.

Of God, having nurtured and loved us from afar finally being hopelessly overpowered by a deep longing to touch and be touched … by us.

To know what it is to be human and to love and be loved by us in the way that only the best, safest touch can.

For no matter how much we trust in love, even God needs touch. Love demands the reassurance of touch.

And so, this night, God becomes one with us, God becomes one of us.

This night God has that memory that all of us have but which none of us remember.

This night, God is born into the world and meets us in that place of deepest vulnerability. That place where the entire life of the divine rests in fragile, unsteady human hands.

“Jesus,” we sing, “the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight!” For after being treated as untouchable by the innkeeper, in a stable, Mary gave birth to you, her firstborn son. And in that first moment, you cried out “Hold me!” because your need to be touched, your need to be held was all those hopes and fears we all have carried with us since we cried out “Hold me” with our very first breath.

All those hopes and fears, stories of power and joy, wounds and betrayals each and every one of us carries with us into this space tonight.

Our deepest hopes for safety, happiness and love.
And our deepest fears that we will
Never be safe
Never be happy.
Never be loved.
Our deepest fear that we really are alone.

The infant Jesus cries out “Hold me” … and in that moment, God moves from being one apart from us to being God with us.

Through this tiny baby, God leans down and echoes our own cry in humanity’s ear.
Hold me, God cries.

Hold me.
Hold me.
Hold me.

…and in that moment, that cry is answered.
And Mary holds the infant Christ.
Nurtures
Soothes
Protects
Wraps the baby in swaddling clothes so that even when her body, exhausted from travel and labor, finally collapses for a few moments of sleep, Jesus will still feel the security of touch. Jesus will still have the evidence of love.

For love demands the reassurance of touch.
The stories of our lives, the stories of our bodies are told on a timeline of touch.

Even if our fear of it has become greater than our longing for it, something deep inside us is crying out still:

Hold me.
Hold me.
Hold me.

And so, we gather in the beauty of this night. And we wait expectantly, hopefully, fearfully as we hear the story. As the infant Jesus’ cry mingles with our own.

This night, God is born into the world and meets us, you in your place of deepest vulnerability.

Whatever your hopes.
Whatever your fears.

Whatever memories of touch you treasure and bring you delight.
Whatever memories of touch haunt you and make you recoil.

Whatever the story told on your timeline of touch, know this night that you are not alone in that story.

You are not alone in your longing.
You are not alone in your fear.

This night, God is born into the world and meets us, meets you in your place of deepest vulnerability.

And as you cry: Hold me.

And as I cry: Hold me.

And as God cries: Hold me.

In the broken stillness of this night, our cries become one.
Our timelines of touch come together.
The hopes and fears of all the years are met.

And we can trust that we will never be alone.
That we will always have that touch that is the assurance of love.

We hear the baby crying.
We see Mary cradling him in her arms.
And we can trust that God is holding us and we are destined to hold one another … forever.
Amen.