The Nativity of the Lord - Christmas
We
had a little accident around here last January:
as
the Christmas decorations were being put away,
somebody
dropped the baby Jesus.
I
don’t want to name names
because
it was a perfectly innocent mistake—
but
the old plaster figurine simply shattered.
(When
they came up with the word “smithereens,”
this
was precisely the sort of thing they had in mind!)
Repair
seemed right out of the question,
so
we focused our efforts on replacement.
Before
the end of last winter,
we’d
found a reasonably acceptable substitute;
it
was nowhere near the same,
but
I figured it would have to do.
Then,
about a month ago, I was in St. Mary’s Church in Lake Titus,
looking
for something else altogether,
when
I saw a box of old Christmas decorations
in
the back of a small closet.
I
dug through the tangle of old lights and plastic evergreens,
and
there he was:
a
nearly exact match for our broken baby Jesus!
But
this one was in perfect condition,
while
the other one had previously
been
cracked and touched up a few times.
Christmas
was saved!
in
the box was his very own manger.
(We
didn’t have one for the old infant;
we
simply built up a pile of straw
and
put a small cloth under him.)
After
arranging the nativity scene
Monday afternoon,
Monday afternoon,
the
last piece I put in was the “new” manger,
filled
with fresh hay.
Yet
as soon as I set it in place,
I
was tempted to take it out again—
or
at least make a slight alteration to it.
You
see, at the top of this simple assembly of sticks
there’s
a small wooden cross.
I
grew up on a farm;
I
know a thing or two about mangers,
and
I know that not even the most devout farmers
put
a cross on the top of a feed box.
It
was a pious little touch,
but
it seemed to me terribly out of place.
Until
yesterday afternoon.
I
was making a visit to a ill parishioner
who
wouldn’t be able to get to church this Christmas;
I
knew she and her husband would appreciate the chance
to
receive Holy Communion at home.
In
the course of our conversation, she asked me:
“Father,
maybe you know:
Why
did God even let me be born?
I’ve
been sickly much of my life.
Right
now, I can’t really leave the house
and
must depend on others for nearly everything.
Why
would God bring me into the world…for this?”
And
that’s when I knew
why
that cross belongs on the manger.
for
the very same reason
that God sent his Only Begotten Son
that God sent his Only Begotten Son
to
be born of the Virgin Mary:
because
God’s madly in love with her,
and
can’t stand the thought of this earth—
or,
later, heaven—being without her.
Out
of sheer love,
he’d brought her into being;
he’d brought her into being;
out
of utter love,
he’d come to redeem her;
he’d come to redeem her;
out
of purest love,
he’d seen her through many an earlier hardship,
he’d seen her through many an earlier hardship,
and
wasn’t about to abandon her now.
I
quoted St. John Vianney, the patron of parish priests,
beside
whose image in stained glass I’m preaching tonight:
“The
cross is the gift that God makes to his friends.”
“I
guess God thinks of you as a pretty good friend,” I said.
I
made her husband promise
to
bring up her favorite Nativity scene from the basement
and
set it up right there in the living room.
(They
hadn’t done hardly any Christmas decorating this year).
She
needed to keep her cross near the manger.
We
come to this Christmas celebration brimming with joy—
“’tis
the season to be jolly,” after all.
Be
we come here bearing a fair amount of sadness, too—
things
disappointing and discouraging,
personal
and unique to each one of us.
Life’s
not always easy—rarely so, in fact.
So
we’re here tonight with Mary and Joseph,
with
shepherds below and angels above,
to
kneel again in wonder before the mystery
that
almighty God, the Creator of the world and Lord of all,
came
to be born in our human flesh—
with
all its limitations and weaknesses.
The
heavenly hosts sang, and we echo still:
Gloria in excelsis Deo—Glory to God in the
highest!
Nearly
one hundred years ago,
English
writer G. K. Chesterton wrote a poem
that
proposed a different take:
Gloria in profundis—Glory [to God] in the
lowest.
The
reason for our joy tonight
is
that God didn’t hesitate to wholly join us down here below.
From
diaper rash to arthritis, from Ebola to terrorism,
and
all the dark and gloomy moments in between,
he’s
entered totally (excepting for sin) into the human condition—
beginning
in the humble manger of Bethlehem,
all
the way to the humiliating Cross of Calvary.
Often
enough, we feel like that fragile plaster baby:
dropped
hard, and broken to bits.
Instead,
what’s been smashed by the Incarnation
is
the dominion of sin, death, and hell.
And
our human nature comes out
not
only looking good as new, but even better than before:
destined
to live with God forever.
Our
holy patron, St. André Bessette,
suffered
from ill health much of his life,
and
was a instrument of healing in the lives of many others
who
were afflicted in countless ways.
He
used to say,
“People
who suffer have something to offer to God.
When
they succeed in enduring their suffering,
that
is a daily miracle.”
It’s
the miracle of grace that keeps his holy crib
ever-so-near
our every cross.
Gloria in profundis—Glory to God in the lowest!
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