Sunday, December 17, 2023 (Advent 3)
1.
I got an email this week, an email with a couple of pictures that at one and the same time shattered and healed my broken heart. You see, just prior, I’d been reading a much longer note from a Palestinian friend, who was saying that in Bethlehem this year, they’ve canceled Christmas celebrations across the old city. No candlelight mass. No midnight fireworks. Just canceled Christmas.
They’ve decided instead to grieve this year for war and violence, as a city; to lament together over so many lives, so many children, so many neighborhoods just obliterated in Gaza. Yesterday, by the way, we received word that an Israeli sniper assassinated two Palestinian Christians, a mother and daughter, simply seeking shelter inside a Catholic church in Gaza. And earlier in the morning, a rocket fired from an Israeli tank (made here in the US) hit a convent that is home to 54 disabled adults in the south. The death toll in Gaza is unimaginable.
As you can imagine, Christmas is usually a very big deal in Bethlehem. Choirs all over the city. Trees lit up in the town square. Visitors from all over the world. But not this year. It will be a different kind of Christmas this year. Funds will be raised for relief. Letters will be written to American politicians. Prayer and more prayer. But no celebrations.
So I’d been reading my friend’s note, and trying to digest his sadness—but it’s more than sadness, right—his despair for the madness all around him and his family. And the thing is, this particular friend is usually upbeat, hopeful, deeply and joyfully in love with his homeland and hometown. I saw him weep once, on a hillside in the desert, as the sun set over Bethlehem. He’s like that. But not this year. This year his heart is broken. His faith is worn out.
And then, after rubbing my eyes and taking a breath, I opened the email I want to tell you about. This one was from Margo—who just joined the church last week. After a long search (I might add) for a church she could trust. And her note said, very simply, “Check out Caden, Dave.” Check out Caden, Dave. So I clicked on the two pictures.
And in the pictures, little Caden, who’s just seven, sings in Lorna’s choir, whom most of you have met; in the pictures, little Caden has a handful of red rose stems and she’s roaming the pathways of a Dover cemetery in a pink winter jacket. And Margo tells me, in her email, that Caden’s going up and down the pathways, from grave to grave, setting a rose stem on each one, and telling each soul that (and I’m quoting here) “God [and Pastor Dave] loves them.” “God [and Pastor Dave] loves them.” This is Caden’s ministry. This is her witness. This is the good news of angels warming winter with mercy and light. I’m going to frame these pictures, my friends. They are so dear to me. I’m going to frame them and hang them in my office.
This is a little girl, Caden, who begged her mom to find a church where she could hang out with other God-lovers. This is a little soul who can’t wait to see your faces on Sunday morning—because she knows that you love God in all the ways that she does. And, in these two pictures, Caden’s roaming the pathways of the Dover cemetery, flowers in hand, setting a rose stem on each and every gravestone. And telling the beloved, the dear, the cherished, the children of God—that God [and Pastor Dave] loves them.
All of them. All the gravestones. All the people. All the souls. This is a child—at seven—who wants the whole, wide world to know; the seen and the unseen; the known and the unknown, the living and the dead; she wants the whole, wide world to know that God’s love is relentless and everlasting. This is a child—at seven—who soaks up the love she finds in church, and then takes it to the cemetery to share with her friends there. I mean, can you see how an email like that would shatter and heal my broken heart? Or any heart, for that matter?
2.
Much like Caden’s story, Mary’s story is not only the story of a brave young woman, not only the story of her faith and imagination, but also the story of community, solidarity and friendship. The kind of friendship that makes beautiful music. The kind of friendship that does hard things with great love. The kind of friendship that creates space for grace in human community, energy for collaboration, purpose for movements, and commitments to justice, peace and human rights.
And this is why it’s so important to read Mary’s ‘magnificat’—that stunning song she sings alongside Elizabeth in the hills of Judea—alongside that other story: that story where two grieving companions, keeping watch at the cross, choose a future of mutual care, choose a future of communion and service, choose a future of shared resistance and joyful witness. Mary and the beloved disciple. Keeping watch at the cross.
You see, from beginning to end, the story of Mary is a richer story, a deeper story, a more impactful story than the simple and superficial one we most often tell. It’s a story of radical awareness; it’s a story of courageous availability; it’s a story of music and poetry and endless creativity. And—Mary’s story is Caden’s story, which is our story, which is a story of community, a new and resilient community born among souls grieving at the cross, born among friends shattered by violence, born among hearts broken but not defeated.
If the beginning of Mary’s story is a community of two—Mary and Elizabeth in the hills, together singing that great song of bursting souls and sweet grace and justice renewed; if Mary’s story begins there, it doesn’t end there, or even in Bethlehem, in the manger on Christmas. Because there at the cross, just as Jesus bows his head, just as it seems the mighty empire has won again, Mary and the beloved disciple hear him offering another way; they hear him giving them another chance; they hear him reminding them of another path. Grace. Faith. Love. They can choose community. They can choose one another. Jesus on the cross, ravaged by Roman soldiers, urging his heartbroken friends (and you and me too) to choose life and love and kindness and companionship. Even in our grief. Especially in our grief. So when he sees his mother and that one very special disciple beside her, weeping together at the cross, Jesus says to Mary, “Woman, here is your son.” And then he says to his disciple, “Here is your mother.” A new and unexpected family. A renewed sense of solidarity. It begins there, in their grief, Mary and the family faith makes possible! And the resurrection, my friends, the resurrection is on!
3.
Apparently there was a presidential candidate in Durham yesterday. And apparently that presidential candidate said something to the effect that immigrants among us are “poisoning” the bloodstream of America. In fact, I think that’s exactly what he said: that immigrants from Africa and Asia—he was explicit—are “poisoning” the bloodstream of America. Now it must be said, obviously, that this kind of language is inflammatory. That it’s racist. That it incites the meanest and saddest spirits of cruelty among us. And it must be said that this particular candidate’s rhetoric distracts at least half the country from the real “poisoning”—the “poisoning” of our climate that we simply have to address in the next two decades, and the “poisoning” of our democracy that has so profoundly corrupted our capacity for self-governance. And mutual aid. And kindness.
But I also want to remind you of the obvious fallacy in his perverse argument. Because, as that candidate was ranting just blocks away—about the ways our culture is corrupted by immigrants—we over here were choosing friendship and solidarity and community. We believe that immigrants from Asia and Africa offer America the best hope for our future, the best version of our values and aspirations. Hardly are we “poisoned” by them; rather (we might dare to say) we will be saved and made whole by them. We know this because we have touched them, welcomed them with our own hands; we know this because they have loved us, and inspired us and from time to time even forgiven us for our faults. We know this because we have chosen them, and they have chosen us, for sisterhood, for brotherhood, in partnership and love. Hardly are we “poisoned” by them; we are saved and made whole together.
That candidate may have cozied up to the Religious Right in some bizarre alliance of convenience that I frankly will never understand, and they may for some grim reason revere him. But he has not taken the Gospel of Jesus and Mary to heart. If anything, he has hastened the distrust and disgust for religion of an entire generation. But he has not taken the Gospel of Jesus to heart. Because that Gospel is a gospel of grace in the midst of diversity, and community in the midst of difference, and resilience in the face of despair. Because that Gospel is a gospel of souls bursting with love and allies aching for justice and friends sacrificing anything and everything for the wellbeing and care of immigrants, widows and children. From around the corner. From down the street. From Africa and Asia or anywhere, anywhere, anywhere else. In this place, committed to that Gospel, we are one family. We choose to be one family. And we are blessed in that oneness by a God whose passion is our unity and our communion.
The message that little Caden soaks up, every Sunday morning, is the promise that grace infuses every human heart with love and every human life with purpose and meaning. She hears it in your singing. She sees it in your faces. She learns to trust it and name it in Sunday School downstairs. And because you trust it too, because you see God’s grace at play in the puzzling world, because you believe that grace reconciles the broken pieces of our hearts—Caden steps out into the world every Sunday afternoon and it’s world of bright colors and sweet wonders, and it’s a world of blessing and love, and it’s a world where children of God choose to lay roses at one another’s feet.
This kind of grace, my friends, is not cheap. This kind of grace doesn’t release us for selfishness and bluster and Make America Great Again madness. The grace Caden lives by, the grace that brings Mary to the beloved disciple at the cross, the grace that beckons this Christmas—is the grace that brings you to me, the grace that brings Antony to Durham, the grace that brings Elena and Xianlang to our balcony this morning, the grace that frees us to love one another with a fierce, generous and forever kind of love.
And for that kind of grace, the grace that truly frees us, we give thanks and praise to God.
Amen and Ashe!
1.
They’ve decided instead to grieve this year for war and violence, as a city; to lament together over so many lives, so many children, so many neighborhoods just obliterated in Gaza. Yesterday, by the way, we received word that an Israeli sniper assassinated two Palestinian Christians, a mother and daughter, simply seeking shelter inside a Catholic church in Gaza. And earlier in the morning, a rocket fired from an Israeli tank (made here in the US) hit a convent that is home to 54 disabled adults in the south. The death toll in Gaza is unimaginable.
As you can imagine, Christmas is usually a very big deal in Bethlehem. Choirs all over the city. Trees lit up in the town square. Visitors from all over the world. But not this year. It will be a different kind of Christmas this year. Funds will be raised for relief. Letters will be written to American politicians. Prayer and more prayer. But no celebrations.
So I’d been reading my friend’s note, and trying to digest his sadness—but it’s more than sadness, right—his despair for the madness all around him and his family. And the thing is, this particular friend is usually upbeat, hopeful, deeply and joyfully in love with his homeland and hometown. I saw him weep once, on a hillside in the desert, as the sun set over Bethlehem. He’s like that. But not this year. This year his heart is broken. His faith is worn out.
And then, after rubbing my eyes and taking a breath, I opened the email I want to tell you about. This one was from Margo—who just joined the church last week. After a long search (I might add) for a church she could trust. And her note said, very simply, “Check out Caden, Dave.” Check out Caden, Dave. So I clicked on the two pictures.
This is a little girl, Caden, who begged her mom to find a church where she could hang out with other God-lovers. This is a little soul who can’t wait to see your faces on Sunday morning—because she knows that you love God in all the ways that she does. And, in these two pictures, Caden’s roaming the pathways of the Dover cemetery, flowers in hand, setting a rose stem on each and every gravestone. And telling the beloved, the dear, the cherished, the children of God—that God [and Pastor Dave] loves them.
All of them. All the gravestones. All the people. All the souls. This is a child—at seven—who wants the whole, wide world to know; the seen and the unseen; the known and the unknown, the living and the dead; she wants the whole, wide world to know that God’s love is relentless and everlasting. This is a child—at seven—who soaks up the love she finds in church, and then takes it to the cemetery to share with her friends there. I mean, can you see how an email like that would shatter and heal my broken heart? Or any heart, for that matter?
2.
Much like Caden’s story, Mary’s story is not only the story of a brave young woman, not only the story of her faith and imagination, but also the story of community, solidarity and friendship. The kind of friendship that makes beautiful music. The kind of friendship that does hard things with great love. The kind of friendship that creates space for grace in human community, energy for collaboration, purpose for movements, and commitments to justice, peace and human rights.
And this is why it’s so important to read Mary’s ‘magnificat’—that stunning song she sings alongside Elizabeth in the hills of Judea—alongside that other story: that story where two grieving companions, keeping watch at the cross, choose a future of mutual care, choose a future of communion and service, choose a future of shared resistance and joyful witness. Mary and the beloved disciple. Keeping watch at the cross.
You see, from beginning to end, the story of Mary is a richer story, a deeper story, a more impactful story than the simple and superficial one we most often tell. It’s a story of radical awareness; it’s a story of courageous availability; it’s a story of music and poetry and endless creativity. And—Mary’s story is Caden’s story, which is our story, which is a story of community, a new and resilient community born among souls grieving at the cross, born among friends shattered by violence, born among hearts broken but not defeated.
If the beginning of Mary’s story is a community of two—Mary and Elizabeth in the hills, together singing that great song of bursting souls and sweet grace and justice renewed; if Mary’s story begins there, it doesn’t end there, or even in Bethlehem, in the manger on Christmas. Because there at the cross, just as Jesus bows his head, just as it seems the mighty empire has won again, Mary and the beloved disciple hear him offering another way; they hear him giving them another chance; they hear him reminding them of another path. Grace. Faith. Love. They can choose community. They can choose one another. Jesus on the cross, ravaged by Roman soldiers, urging his heartbroken friends (and you and me too) to choose life and love and kindness and companionship. Even in our grief. Especially in our grief. So when he sees his mother and that one very special disciple beside her, weeping together at the cross, Jesus says to Mary, “Woman, here is your son.” And then he says to his disciple, “Here is your mother.” A new and unexpected family. A renewed sense of solidarity. It begins there, in their grief, Mary and the family faith makes possible! And the resurrection, my friends, the resurrection is on!
3.
Apparently there was a presidential candidate in Durham yesterday. And apparently that presidential candidate said something to the effect that immigrants among us are “poisoning” the bloodstream of America. In fact, I think that’s exactly what he said: that immigrants from Africa and Asia—he was explicit—are “poisoning” the bloodstream of America. Now it must be said, obviously, that this kind of language is inflammatory. That it’s racist. That it incites the meanest and saddest spirits of cruelty among us. And it must be said that this particular candidate’s rhetoric distracts at least half the country from the real “poisoning”—the “poisoning” of our climate that we simply have to address in the next two decades, and the “poisoning” of our democracy that has so profoundly corrupted our capacity for self-governance. And mutual aid. And kindness.
But I also want to remind you of the obvious fallacy in his perverse argument. Because, as that candidate was ranting just blocks away—about the ways our culture is corrupted by immigrants—we over here were choosing friendship and solidarity and community. We believe that immigrants from Asia and Africa offer America the best hope for our future, the best version of our values and aspirations. Hardly are we “poisoned” by them; rather (we might dare to say) we will be saved and made whole by them. We know this because we have touched them, welcomed them with our own hands; we know this because they have loved us, and inspired us and from time to time even forgiven us for our faults. We know this because we have chosen them, and they have chosen us, for sisterhood, for brotherhood, in partnership and love. Hardly are we “poisoned” by them; we are saved and made whole together.
The message that little Caden soaks up, every Sunday morning, is the promise that grace infuses every human heart with love and every human life with purpose and meaning. She hears it in your singing. She sees it in your faces. She learns to trust it and name it in Sunday School downstairs. And because you trust it too, because you see God’s grace at play in the puzzling world, because you believe that grace reconciles the broken pieces of our hearts—Caden steps out into the world every Sunday afternoon and it’s world of bright colors and sweet wonders, and it’s a world of blessing and love, and it’s a world where children of God choose to lay roses at one another’s feet.
This kind of grace, my friends, is not cheap. This kind of grace doesn’t release us for selfishness and bluster and Make America Great Again madness. The grace Caden lives by, the grace that brings Mary to the beloved disciple at the cross, the grace that beckons this Christmas—is the grace that brings you to me, the grace that brings Antony to Durham, the grace that brings Elena and Xianlang to our balcony this morning, the grace that frees us to love one another with a fierce, generous and forever kind of love.
And for that kind of grace, the grace that truly frees us, we give thanks and praise to God.
Amen and Ashe!
