And the Word became flesh … the scriptures tell us.

And a weary world rejoices … the hymn sings to us.
Familiar words
Comforting words
Christmas words

Words we’ve sung, said and heard (many of us) for as long as we can remember … maybe even before we can remember.

And so, on this Christmas Day in the morning, it is the very familiarity of these familiar words that can become their challenge. It is the challenge to hear them … to actually hear them … on this Christmas morning as words not just describing a once upon a time long, long ago moment to us – but as words that are for us – words that are about us in this time, in this place, in this moment.

It is a very real challenge for us – for me – because the Christmas story IS so familiar that the amazing impact of its glorious message can ironically become lost to those of us who know it best.

And I don’t want that to happen.
I don’t want that to happen to me.
I don’t want that to happen to you.
And I don’t want that to happen to us.

Because, my brothers, sisters and gender fluid siblings, the world we live in is too weary, the challenges we face are too great and the opportunities we have are too enormous for us to claim anything less this Christmas Day than the full promise of what we gather to celebrate with our prayers and our praises, our hymns and our hopes, our carols and our candles.

What we welcome this morning is nothing less than the promise of new life
in the birth of this Christmas baby.

We are called to wonder again at the power of a love great enough to triumph over death as we claim a Christmas Truth greater than any of the traditions it inspires: the mystical longing of the creature for the creator – the finite for the infinite – the human for the divine. It is a longing that transcends culture, religion, language and custom – and it is a longing that is represented for us as Christians in this Christmas baby all wrapped up in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

The sudden, amazing and incomprehensible gift of grace: a God who loved us enough to become one of us in order to show us how to love one another.

Loved us enough to become human in order to show us how to become fully human.

Loved us enough to yearn for us to become the creatures we were created to be rather than settle for being the creatures we had become.

And the Word became flesh.

And the traditions we inherit the rituals we practice the customs we claim are all designed to point us to that truth.

And so I don’t want to lose them, either — because the world we live in is too weary, the challenges we face are too great and the opportunities we have are too enormous for us to claim anything less than absolutely every resource at our disposal — including the beloved traditions that are good things — holy things — sacramental things.

Those things that are for us “outward and visible signs of the inward and spiritual grace” of God’s love come down at Christmas – those things that it just wouldn’t be Christmas without: things that sometimes defy logic or elude explanation.

And for me, the icon of “those things” has become: The Santa Candle.

It is a story I’ve told before but this morning I believe it is one that bears retelling.

A number of years ago, as I was engaged in the task of decking the halls with the familiar stuff of Russell Family Christmases I came across the Santa Candle: A jolly, rotund wax figure who had presided for many years from the top of the highest bookcase in the living room.

Every year, someone would ask, “Can we light the Santa Candle?”

And every year I would explain that if we lit the candle, Santa’s hat would melt into Santa’s face and there would soon not be much of Santa left for next year.

Well, you guessed it: the year before, someone had been unable to resist and Santa was indeed a shadow of his former self.

After a moment of irritation at having my well-reasoned instructions so blatantly disregarded, I tossed the half-melted candle into the trash bag without much more than a second thought.

And that’s where Jamie (who prefers to be Jim) my then-17-year-old son — found him.

“You threw away the SANTA CANDLE?” he said in horror.

And dusting him off began to clear a space on the top of the bookshelf.

“Look at him.” I protested. “He’s half melted away!”

But paying no attention to his mother, my 6’2” son carefully placed the Santa Candle on the shelf. “He ALWAYS goes on the bookcase!” he said. And so, there he sat.

There was in that beat-up, half melted Santa Candle something that spoke to Jamie of what is valuable, dear, worth preserving in a Christmas tradition … assuring me in that moment that the seeds his father and I had endeavored to sow throughout his childhood had actually taken root: seeds that say family matters, traditions matter, CHRISTMAS matters.

Seeds that have continued to take root and to flower in him as he has turned into an adult making his own path, through life’s challenges and changes and – this year — finding his own traditions as he and his wife Kelly celebrate their first Christmas as parents with the impossibly adorable cutest-grandson-on-the-planet: Hayes Anthony Russell.

For there are indeed few things more certain in life than change.

This year we know that all too well in my family as we continue to meet the challenge of celebrating the joy of a new grandchild in the shadow of loss … recognizing that the months since my mother-in-law Jody lost her battle with the pulmonary disease she had battled for eighteen years have been equally full of deep grief at her loss and deep gratitude for her life.

And in striving to live intentionally in the tension of that profound “both/and” I turned again and again to this favorite poem by Madeline L’Engle:

He came to a world which did not mesh,
to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
the Maker of the stars was born.
We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!

And the Word became Flesh … not because the world was sane or anymore ready for it in first century Palestine than it is in 21st century Pasadena where we struggle to make meaning out of the violence, polarization and fears that surround us and a “breaking news” cycle that seems to spin more chaotically out of control every single day.

And to help with that “make meaning” part, I turn to the words of friend, mentor and theologian Marilyn McCord Adams who wrote:

“God has created us
in a world where ghastly evil interrupts,
despite our best efforts to control.
God not only creates;
God resurrects.
God makes the worst count for good
by bringing life out of death.
To be on God’s side,
we must bend ourself
to efforts that foster life,
inclusive community,
and creativity.
Collaboration revives hope
because it convinces us:
we are safe because,
and only because,
we are loved by God!”

And there it is: the essence of the amazing truth we celebrate this Christmas morning in the amazing gift of our brother Jesus born of our sister Mary.

The Word made flesh in order to convince us that we are safe because and only because we are loved by God.

And it is out of that safety – out of the sure and certain knowledge that absolutely nothing can separate us from that love – that we can risk – we can dare.

We can be the change we want to see in the world that is crying for change: for hope, for light and for joy.

It is out of that safety that we can risk trying again: countering the powers and principalities of violence, discrimination and fear with love, justice and compassion.

It is out of that safety that we can risk loving again: allowing the promise of being fully alive to trump the fear of loss and vulnerability.

And it is out that safety that can we dare to claim for ourselves the holy work Howard Thurman calls “The Work of Christmas:”

When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart.

And so on this Christmas Day in the morning I pray that you can hear the familiar words of Christmas not as once-upon-a-time long-long-ago words but as words that are for you words that are to you words that are about you in this time, in this place, in this moment.

Because, my brothers, sisters and gender fluid siblings, the world we live in is too weary, the challenges we face are too great and the opportunities we have are too enormous for us to claim anything less this Christmas Day than OUR call – each and every one of us – to become the word made flesh as the Body of Christ sent out to do the work of Christmas.

Merry Christmas.

Amen.

Sermon preached by Susan Russell on Christmas Day 2018 … h/t to Madeline L’Engle, Marilyn McCord Adams, Howard Thurman … and her son Jim.