Is there room for me? A Christmas Sermon

What follows is my sermon, “Is there room for me?” to Monmouth College at our annual                                          Christmas Convocation based on Luke 2: 1-14.

Traditionally, in a Protestant worship service, all the children are invited forward for a special time or message from the pastor.  One Christmas, when I was the pastor of a small church in North Carolina, I decided to involve the whole congregation in my children’s message by acting out the scene where pregnant Mary and Joseph are looking for a place to stay in Bethlehem.  I gave the people sitting on the aisles doors made out of posterboard.  Then I led the children around the sanctuary to knock on the doors and ask if there was room for them to come in and stay.  I did this not realizing how difficult it would be for my church members.

Two-year old-Garrett, clutching his tattered teddy bear, knocked on Leon’s door and asked, “Do you have room for me?” and Leon—well, I could tell that Leon wanted to cave—so, I interrupted, “No, Leon, you’ve got no room for Garrett.  Now shut the door.”  The same thing happened when sweet little Grace in her red velvet dress knocked on Sharon’s door.  Sharon’s a grandmother who never says no to a child.  She looked devastated to have to turn Grace away.  “I’m sorry sweetie,” she said.  Finally, my own 4-year-old, tow-headed, son, Isaac, knocked on Mack’s door, with his sweet little six-inch clip-on-tie and his shirt tail untucked.  Isaac and Mack had a special connection.  They looked for each other every Sunday morning and that Christmas, Mack had made Isaac a toy train out of wood.  So when Isaac asked, “Mr. Mack, do you have room for me?” It was all Mack could do to stay on script, “No, Isaac, I’m sorry, but I’ve got no room for you.”

Every Christmas, as I consider what to say to you at this convocation I try to take the pulse of our community and then respond in a way that I pray is both helpful and faithful.  This year, with race and interfaith relations boiling over, the rescinding of DACA, and our divisions growing ever wider, it seems to me that many of us just feel left out in the cold, or feel left to wonder, is there room for me?

Our seniors getting ready to graduate wonder, “Is there room for me, is there a place for me, in life beyond college?”

The woman living in a society where glass ceilings are yet to be broken and #metoo is trending on twitter wonders, “Is there room for me, for my aspirations and my success?”

The white man, tired of hearing about his unearned privilege and confused over what, exactly, to do about it, wonders, “Will there still be room for me if I let others in?”

The transgender man who just wants to use the bathroom like everyone else wonders, “Is there room for me?”

The undocumented student, who fears her and her family’s deportation, wonders, “Is there room for me?”

The Syrian refugee, whose family is scattered all over the world and whose home has been decimated by violent, warring powers wonders, “Is there room for me?”

The African American student attending a predominantly white college, wonders, “Is there room for me?”

Pondering this question (the question of whether or not there is room) I returned to the text and discovered a detail that I had missed. When I read this story of Jesus’ birth before, I had always pictured a weary Innkeeper greeting Mary and Joseph in the middle of the night, a lantern reflecting their faces desperate for a place to stay and the Innkeeper’s regret as he, reluctantly, followed the script, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got no room you.”

Well, apparently, I made this whole scene up because there is no innkeeper in this text.  In fact, I learned recently that the word inn would more accurately be translated as “guest room” or “guest bed” in the peasant house or desert cave where Mary and Joseph more likely stopped. This was not a place of business—not some kind of hotel—but family and friends who had come home for the census and crowded in for the night with people and animals sleeping on different levels.  So yes, there was no bed for them, no guest room with a private bath, no luxury to speak of at all.  But there was room.  Mary and Joseph were taken in.  Their baby was born, wrapped in bands of cloth and laid in a manger.

Knowing this, now I wish I could go back in time, back to my church in North Carolina and back to the Christmas when I led all those children around the sanctuary.  I wish I could go back and give my church members the right script.  I’d tell Leon, go ahead and cave. Let Garrett in. Sharon, it’s okay, you’ve got room for Grace.  And Mack, you can make room for Isaac, just like I know you would for any child of God.

In today’s world, it seems like we’ve been operating under a script that tells us there just isn’t enough—there’s not enough room, not enough resources, not enough jobs, not enough alternative sources of energy, maybe even not enough love to conquer the hate or good to overcome the evil.  This belief in scarcity arises out of fear and anxiety.  I get that.  I know that fear too.  But this belief in scarcity only leads us to hoard in excess, to isolate ourselves, build walls, choose sides and arm ourselves to the hilt to protect our own.

The birth of Jesus Christ flips this script.  It proclaims the good news of great joy for all the people.  No one is left out in the cold.  Nor is anyone left out as Jesus grows up and purposefully reaches out to those who have been left out: the women, the children, the stranger, the sick, the poor, even the despised tax collector.  Jesus apparently believed that what God has given, God has given in abundance. There is enough.  There is room for us all.

There is room for the graduating senior and the woman with career aspiration.  There is room for the privileged and the underprivileged.  There is room for the lgbtq, for the undocumented, for the refugee, for the minoritized. There is room for us all.

The angel Gabriel wasn’t kidding when he said, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior.”  A Savior born in an overcrowded house among the animals because the good people there believed they had enough to make room.

This Christmas, may we know this Savior and this salvation when we too make room for all of God’s people.

[Feature Image: Wbeem]

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Keep Walking–A Christmas Sermon

What follows is my Christmas Convocation sermon, “Keep Walking,” to the Monmouth College community, based on Isaiah 9:2-7.

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If Tim Kramer, our college’s videographer, were to set his camera to film all of us walking the slick sidewalks of campus this winter, I imagine he’d get a pretty good blooper reel. A few weeks ago (when the sun was still shining) I was walking and talking with our new Associate Chaplain, Jessica Hawkinson, along the sidewalk above the Stockdale parking lot. Jessica accidentally stepped off the pavement, lost her balance, and then just sort of rolled down the hill. It happened so fast. One minute she was there and the next she was gone.

I wouldn’t embarrass Jessica, though, if I didn’t have my own story to tell. My first winter here in Monmouth I slipped and fell down the stairs of the Weeks House, shouting out a very unchaplain-like word as I went. This would have been bad enough, but my fall happened right as the men’s track team was running by.

I’m sure these little spills don’t only happen to the clumsy occupants of the Chaplain’s Office, though. You’ve got your stories to tell too. I know you do. Now that winter has set in here we’re all going to be tripping and slipping our way around campus.

The prophet Isaiah opens his passage to us today by describing a people who weren’t unfamiliar with treacherous paths. Isaiah’s people walked in a time of darkness. They were living in fear. Neighboring superpower Assyria had been systematically taking over the entire region surrounding Israel and Judah. The people didn’t know if they should join a coalition that was preparing to fight Assyria or if they should try to avoid the bloodshed by giving in and giving up their rights and their freedom as an independent nation. Isaiah’s people were walking in an uncertain and frightening time. Perhaps we can relate.

I recently read an Advent sermon by Lutheran pastor Nadia Bolz Weber in which she described the year 2016 as apocalyptic. And she meant this literally. The Greek for apocalypse means “to uncover” or “to unveil.” Many things were uncovered this year, many things that we probably would have rather left veiled. All the horrific shootings, the mounting evidence of police brutality, the racial and socio-economic tension and divisive political rhetoric did not create the anger, fear, bigotry and biases among us, it just uncovered what was already here. And that uncovering has been devastating. So devastating that it makes it hard to carry on. I mean what do we do in the face of all that 2016 has revealed? What is a pastor to preach this Christmas to offer any kind of hope?

I confess that on Wednesday, November 9th, I was among the 50% of our country that woke up despairing over the news that Donald Trump would be our next President. I drove to campus that morning wondering how I could be the Chaplain for such a diverse community as ours when I was personally feeling so broken and beaten. I attended all the meetings I was scheduled to attend that day, but I couldn’t focus on anything. So I abandoned my to-do list and just started walking. I came across a student who had recently come out as gay. He laughed at the absurdity of the election, the surreal feeling that this couldn’t possibly be life as we know it. But tears welled as he spoke, spilling freely down his cheeks and onto the sidewalk we shared. I caught a professor outside of the mailroom, he too in tears. How do I teach today, he asked? How do I just go on? Then, I started knocking on dorm room doors. (I do that sometimes. You all should know.) But I wanted to see my Latina students whose families are still in the process of becoming citizens. And our Syrian students whom I have grown to love. And the African-American student whose rage lit up Facebook, his fiery words highlighting his feelings of betrayal, once again, by White America. Then I ran into a white student whose views, I know, are more conservative than mine. He was afraid too. Not in the same way as our Latino students, and African American students, and Syrian refugee students. But he was afraid, nonetheless, that if people knew what he believed and who he voted for, he would be treated like some sort of monster to be shunned and disdained. I listened to him too.

As I walked campus that Wednesday and met people on the sidewalk, in the dorms, in their offices and at the mailboxes, I had no words of reassurance, no explanation that would make everything okay, no wisdom, not even any prayers. All I knew when I got to campus was that I needed to be with you and I needed to walk.

I recently discovered a poem called “Walker” by the Spanish poet Antonio Machado. In this poem Machado writes: “Walker, there is no road, the road is made by walking.”

I’ve been considering this poem lately. The first part, “Walker, there is no road,” resonates, because right now, with the state of our government and our nation and our communities embroiled in tension and hostility, it feels as if there is no road forward. Seriously, where do we go from here?

The latter half of the poet’s phrase, “The road is made by walking,” offers a charge to which I know I should adhere. The poet suggests that there is no road forward until we take the steps to create it. It’s up to me, the walker, to forge the path. And, whereas, this sounds quite empowering—kind of like “be the change you wish to see in the world”—I’ll be honest, it also sounds exhausting, maybe even a bit overwhelming.

I’m sure you understand. I mean it is December 6th—the week before finals. If Will Ferrell were here he’d describe this end-of-the-semester time as like riding a bike, except the bike is on fire, and you’re on fire, and everything is on fire, and you’re in hell. Yeah, we’re just trying to survive.

So this is when prophets like Isaiah come in handy. You see, their job is to fuel our imagination with an alternative reality, a motivating vision of what God wills for our lives. Isaiah paints this picture as a time when the yoke of the people’s burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor has been broken. It’s a time when all the boots of tramping warriors and all the garments rolled in blood are burned as fuel for the fire because there is no longer a need for a military, no need for war. It’s a time ushered in by the birth of a child, a new King, who will rule with justice and righteousness—a Prince of Peace—whose authority will grow because of his love and respect for all people, most especially those who are poor and vulnerable. This is the vision the prophet Isaiah holds before us today.

Walking our campus with this vision in mind, it’s amazing what you will find, literally, just steps away.

A few weeks ago, I walked past Wallace Hall and paused to take in the chalkings. Affirmative statements such as, YOU BELONG,  YOU ARE LOVED,  YOU ARE WANTED, filled the plaza’s cement.

Mujeristas of Monmouth College

Teri with the Mujeristas of Monmouth College

This past Wednesday I walked into the Weeks House living room to sit and listen to Diana Rubi’s Mujerista Theology study group. Latinos are projected to be the majority population in our country by 2050. Holding this vision before them, Diana’s group discussed their responsibility to the world. How can they ensure, they asked themselves, that today’s oppressed do not become tomorrow’s oppressors?

Friday afternoon I walked to Hewes Library for a coffee from Einstein’s and passed a student reviewing Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Interpreter of Maladies” for an ILA exam.

Saturday afternoon I walked into Room 273 of the CSB to attend the Empowerment Workshop led by Neddy Velez and her group, People of Change.

Saturday night I walked here, to Dahl Chapel. The lights set by our theater students made it feel like you were walking into a fairy tale. Then, I sat down and was moved to tears by the beauty of the music performed by our chorale, and our orchestra, and our wind ensemble.

I, like you, walk this campus all the time. It’s what we do. When we walk, though, with the prophet’s vision before us another kind of unveiling occurs. It’s an unveiling of care and compassion for others, an unveiling of art and beauty that will move us to tears, an unveiling of people who seek to do good and make a difference with their lives, an unveiling of young lives being shaped for the future, our future—and it’s this unveiling that keeps me walking.

If, as the poet says, the road is made by walking, then I want to make this road by walking it with all of you— because you inspire me. You encourage me. You give me hope. If this Christmas Convocation leaves with you anything, I hope it is the knowledge that though the road ahead may be dark, it is well lit by walkers with their candles held high—walkers inspired and illumined by a prophetic vision of the world to come—a world we are to see into reality, guided by the grace and love of God. So keep walking, my friends. Keep walking.

[Feature Image: Renaud Leon]

How can this be? A Christmas Sermon

Merry Christmas!What follows is my sermon from our Monmouth College Christmas Convocation based on Luke 1: 26-38.

Honestly, if I were Mary, I would want to put off the whole “birds and the bees” conversation with Jesus for as long as possible. The problem, though, is that with kids the topic of sex comes up unexpectedly. Like when the Ott family was visiting the Lincoln Park Zoo and we heard this racket coming from the zebra area and so we turned to look and there are Mommy and Daddy zebra just going at it…loudly and somewhat violently. Or like when my friend Michelle, in the hustle and bustle of getting her four boys out the door in the morning, had to stop when ten year old Ben—who attends the local Catholic school—stopped brushing his teeth to ask, “Mommy, what’s a virgin?”

These are the moments that give parents pause. It’s not that we don’t want to talk to our children about sex. It’s just that we would like to plan for the conversation. Prepare for it by going to the library and checking out a few age appropriate books—books with titles like, “It’s NOT the Stork!” or “It’s so Amazing! A book about Eggs, Sperm, Birth, and Babies.”

Poor Mary. You know it had to come up. Maybe one day on their way into town she and Jesus came across two donkeys getting a little frisky. Or maybe his curiosity led him to ask the pregnant lady in his synagogue why she was getting so fat. Which I’m sure would have left Mary scrambling for resources, a book maybe, to explain these things to the child Jesus. “It’s not the stork, Jesus,” she might have said. Or “It’s so amazing!” as she shoved a couple of books in his hands and told him to go off to his room to read. But then Mary had a more perplexing complication.

“Mom! Mom! I get it now! I read the book. I know where babies come from!”

Mary’s question to the angel may have been less a question and more a plea for a plausible way to explain the unexplainable.

How can this be?

You might have been asking this question too as I read the scripture today. A virgin giving birth to a baby? How can this be? I mean, really, how can this be? For some of you the answer is simple. It’s in the scripture. Check out verse 37. “Nothing is impossible with God.” For others of you it’s not simple at all. “Look,” you might debate later on in your ILA class, “we all know the biology of this. We all know that this is not how babies are made.” But there’s more than just one miracle in this text. We tend to focus on that which is more spectacular. But the miracle isn’t just that a virgin gave birth to a baby. The miracle is also that Mary said yes.

Just think about it. Mary could have said no. Sure she could have. Most of us walk around all day long saying no, no, no to opportunities, or ideas, or offerings that might be divinely inspired. We say no because we’re scared, or we’re tired, or lazy or apathetic. We say no because what is being offered just doesn’t feel right, or we’re not the right person, or we’d really like to but we just can fit it in right now, at this point in time. We say no to the Divine all the time.

Mary could have said no, too. She could have politely referred the angel to her friend Beatrice who lives down the street. Beatrice would make a wonderful mother for God, she could have said. Then the angel would have left and her life would have gone back to normal. No scandal of having a baby out of wedlock. No fleeing Bethlehem for fear of Herod and her newborn’s life. No complicated conversations about the birds and the bees. No grief over watching her prophetic son put himself in harm’s way. If Mary had said no she would have married Joseph, had a few kids, and lived out the kind of life that was expected of a first century carpenter’s wife.

But Mary didn’t say no. How can this be? How can it be that in response to the angel’s news Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word?”

I’m drawn to Mary because it seems like she could be any one of us. She was not uncommon. She was not extraordinary. I’m sure she looked at herself in the mirror before bed, in that unforgiving bathroom light, and condemned herself, like we all do, for not being smart enough, or pretty enough, or talented enough, or good enough.

 So then how did Mary say yes to God? And how did she keep saying yes as Jesus grew up and became who he became and did what he did?

As a mother of two young children this blows me away—because while being a parent is the greatest of joys it is also the greatest of challenges. Nothing I have done in my life has been as physically, emotionally and spiritually challenging as being a mother to my babies. I remember a particular moment two weeks after our son Isaac’s birth when I was running on only a few hours of sleep and postpartum depression had sunk thoroughly in and the weight of my son in my arms felt like the weight of the world. So I flopped my tired self on the couch next to my husband, Dan, and cried, “My life is over!! How can I do this? What have we done?” Because that’s how hard it was and is. I can only imagine how much harder it was for Mary.

Still, Mary said yes. And I believe she said yes, and kept saying yes, because of another miracle in this text; the miracle that she was entrusted with an extraordinary gift.  How can this be? How can it be that a common woman is chosen to be the mother of Jesus? How can it be that God would entrust such a woman with such a gift and such a responsibility?

I believe it was this final miracle that enabled Mary to say yes and to keep saying yes. Because there is something about the knowledge that you have been entrusted with something special that keeps you going. This is what keeps parents going in the middle of the night when they have had so little sleep and their baby can’t stop crying and their nerves are all shot. It’s the knowledge that they have been entrusted with that little life in their arms—that they are responsible for his or her wellbeing—that keeps those parents going.

So whenever the shame and public scrutiny of having a baby out of wedlock was too much for Mary, whenever Mary fell on her couch in a fit of postpartum despair, whenever fear gripped her heart over another threat on her son’s life, whenever the voices of self-doubt and self-criticism started screaming, “You can’t do this!” and “You can’t be this!” she remembered that she had been entrusted with an extraordinary gift—that she was responsible for the wellbeing of this miracle. So Mary said yes. And she kept saying yes, even when saying yes felt impossible.

Here, on December 1st, as we stagger our way towards final exams and the end of the semester I think it is prudent for us to recognize the gifts with which we have been entrusted.

Extraordinary gifts like the opportunity we have to study philosophy, biopsychology, kinesiology, or sociology at Monmouth College.

Extraordinary gifts like the ability we have to learn, to absorb complicated algorithms, to memorize and deliver speeches, to debate political and social issues, to daily expand the knowledge in our heads and the wisdom in our hearts.

Extraordinary gifts like the ability we have to do good by countering stereotypes, engaging the stranger, welcoming the unwelcomed, opening the door of conversation between those who are different.

Extraordinary gifts like the opportunity we have to live as if our life matters, not just to me, but to that kid who lives down the hall from me, and to the Muslim student I have yet to talk to, and to that big dude who sits in the back of class and fails all the quizzes, and to that worn-out looking woman in the library’s restroom who is running her cold, dirty hands under the hot water of the sink as if she hasn’t felt hot running water in months.

How can this be? How can it be that we polite, midwestern folks who live in the middle of fields and fields of corn have been entrusted with such extraordinary gifts? It must be some kind of miracle.

We need to recognize the gifts with which we have been entrusted so, like Mary, we can say yes to these gifts and keep saying yes. Even when it has become difficult, and stressful, and exhausting—even when it feels impossible—remember that we have been entrusted so we can keep saying yes.

In a poem about this scene between Mary and the angel, a poem about the Annunciation, Anna Kamienska writes: “No one can know how lonely it is when an angel departs.” So after this convocation has concluded, after we have finished singing our final hymn, after we have blown out all our candles, after we have returned to the quiet of a library cubicle or a desk spilling over with papers, and work, and responsibility, after all that is spectacular has died down and we are left just with ourselves, let us call Mary to our minds. Let us remember Mary saying yes to the gift. And then, after the angel has left and she is all alone and the darkness settles in, let us remember Mary saying yes again. Because we can too. That’s the miracle of the story. We can say yes too.

 

[Feature Image: Jason Devaun]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Following a Star–A Christmas Sermon

What follows is my sermon, “Following a Star” from our Monmouth College Christmas Convocation based on Matthew 2:1-12.

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Writing a sermon for me is like following a star that has suddenly risen in the night sky. When I begin this journey, scripture text in hand, I have no idea where I am being led. I have to write my way in, following the thread of inspiration, and carefully guard my spirit so I don’t get distracted.

This is terribly difficult, however, because I have to forget about how badly I want this sermon to go well and how badly I want to offer you something beautiful today. I need to set aside my desires as well as my fears. I have to stop picturing myself preaching in front of our new President and the Dean and all you scary faculty types and all you college students who are so good at looking so bored. I need to meditate in order to free myself from these distractions, and I have to pray and attend to my soul and… I drink a little.

The acclaimed poet William Stafford likened his writer’s journey to following a golden thread. Stafford “believes that whenever you set a detail down in language, it becomes the end of a thread…and every detail—the sound of the lawn mower, the memory of your father’s hands, a crack you once heard in lake ice, [a star observed rising]—will lead you to amazing riches.”[1] The stance for the writer to take, then, is one of being “neutral, ready, susceptible to now. Only the golden thread knows where it is going, and the role for the writer is one of following, not imposing.”[2]

So I began this sermon not by writing, but by observing. And yes, a star. (I walked out into my backyard, laid myself down in the grass and watched and watched…until it began to snow) and I thought about the three men, or three Magi, who chose to follow one particular star in their sky far from Monmouth College. I’ll admit that I find these men attractive. I don’t know why biblical characters are always portrayed as old, gray-bearded, and grizzly. I don’t see why these guys can’t be athletically-built with olive skin and big brown eyes. Three tall drinks of water.

Really, though, I find these three men attractive because they were open to discovery, susceptible to the now, and ready to follow wherever life’s path might lead them….even if that path was unexpected and unconventional.

Post-biblical tradition has given them names: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar. Interestingly, they weren’t Jewish, so there wasn’t any expectation for them to go and pay homage to the new King of the Jews. They weren’t aware of the Jewish prophecy of where the Messiah would be born. All they had was a star way off in the distance to guide them. And yet, in spite of this, they decide to make the journey. So it didn’t take me long to decide that I wanted to go with them. I mean, who knows what I might discover in such attractive company?

Every new journey is exciting at first. Just remember how you students felt on move-in day of your first year. So what if it was 98 degrees and raining, and your room wasn’t much larger than a small prison cell. College was awesome! Waving goodbye to Mom and Dad and your pesky little brother was liberating! You walk down Broadway for your Freshman walkout, again in 98 degree heat, hot slices of pizza in hand, getting free stuff, following a bunch of bagpipers who I once heard you describe as “totally badass!” I mean, it couldn’t get any better. The possibilities for your college journey were endless. New experiences, new friendships, new love interests, new ideas. It was all just so exciting.

My journey with the Magi began the night I lay in the grass observing the stars. I started to picture myself riding one of those camels and, for the first few miles, chatting with my new companions. They are astrologists, so they enjoy pointing out the different constellations, what they had learned from the night sky, and how they know that the star rising in front of us is the sign of a new king. My mind is racing with all the possibilities for this journey. I wonder who we’ll meet? Or, what kind of wisdom I might glean? Maybe I’ll learn some really cool survival skills out here in the desert and get a really great tan?   Here, at the beginning, anything is possible.

As it happens on long journeys, though, the conversation between us eventually lulls. And in the growing silence I become aware of my feet that hurt my lower back that aches and that star—well, it doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. Just how long is this journey? I wonder to myself.   And when might we take a break?

This point of the journey reminds me of Midterms. All the new excitement has worn off, and suddenly you’re like, “Oh CRAP, college is really HARD!”

When the Boys and I do finally take a break, it is out of necessity. The sun is rising and our star has vanished. We sit down beneath a grove of olive trees and my three companions quickly doze off, but I can’t get comfortable. The arid heat is crawling all over me and my mind won’t let me rest because my Type-A, got-to-have-a-plan-self, is starting to panic. What am I doing here all alone with three strange men? What would my mother think? Or my practical-minded father? I can hear him clearly, “Teri, what’s the point of this whole adventure? Where are you headed with this? What are your goals?” I can’t answer my father’s questions, though, because they are mine as well. I have no idea where I am headed. So I start thinking about quitting and heading home to be somewhere safe and comfortable. Somewhere where I can control my surroundings and my life and leave all this mystery behind.

When journeys get difficult—as they always do—our minds quickly begin to look for alternatives. When my sermon writing is faltering and I am panicking and picturing myself standing up here with absolutely nothing to say, I find myself being tempted by alternative paths. I turn to my husband and ask, “Dan, do you think Farm King is hiring? They have some really cool stuff there. Or Subway? I think I could make sandwiches for the rest of my life.”

Maybe after your first college midterms you started to ponder some alternatives too. So just how much does a stock boy at County Market make? Maybe living with my aging mother when I’m 36 isn’t as terrible as I originally imagined it?

If you’re here today, obviously you didn’t give in to the alternatives. You’re still on the journey and so am I. Not everyone sticks it out, though. For some, it is too tough. So what’s so different about us? Why are we still here? Well, I imagine, that you, like me, are here because we have hope, perhaps even a little bit of faith, in what lies ahead.

Hope is an extraordinary gift. Not everyone is so blessed to have hope. We don’t know what lies ahead. We can’t know. But we hope that it’s something good. So we keep going, even when the going gets really difficult.

The climax of our journey narrative today comes, of course, when my wise friends arrived at the house above which the star had stopped. When our 2-year-old Isaac met his baby sister, Ella, for the first time in the hospital, all he could manage to say, was “This?” “This?” Maybe the wise men had the same question. This is what we have been searching for? This tiny, fragile baby is the King of the Jews? This is the one King Herod is so scared of? Does this make any sense?

But you know how sometimes you know something is right because you feel it is right—even though all rational explanations tell you it is wrong? Well, I imagine that’s what happened here—because these foreigners who had no reasonable connection to this baby, were overwhelmed with joy at finding him. So overwhelmed that they knelt down in homage to him. Something must have clicked within them when they saw this child. Something must have told them that they had come to a place of discovery.

There is no greater joy, no greater feeling of exhilaration than to discover whatever it was that was waiting for you along the golden thread. William Stafford describes it as “amazing riches” and that’s how it feels. It’s the place of epiphany, and of revelation, and of a profound knowing that this was what was meant for you.

So, the moment I discovered what this Christmas sermon was about, I was running on the treadmill at our local YMCA.   I’d been journeying with those Magi for a long time—two weeks to be exact. I’d grown weary of their company and was contemplating lots of alternatives when— right in the middle of all these people exercising around me—it came to me. It’s about the discovery! Yes! It’s about the discovery on the journey! And suddenly I feel as if this huge weight has been lifted—because I know now where I am headed. I have at least discovered the direction. And so I start to bounce a little as I run…and I punch the speed button up…and I pick up the pace…and I turn the volume up on my Ipod…and THEN I am still so excited that I start jamming my fists in the air to the music in my ears! And yes, people are looking at me, but I don’t care, because I am feeling so much joy. I am overwhelmed with joy! Thank you, God! Thank you, baby Jesus. I have a Christmas sermon!!!

The sermon itself –like the Wise Men’s journey— is a place of discovery! A place of epiphany! It is such a high!

I hope you’ve known such moments. I hope you’ve known the overwhelming joy of discovery. Maybe it’s happened for you in a class, or a deep conversation with friends, or at a program you attended, when seemingly disparate thoughts and ideas came together in your mind to reveal—suddenly and inexplicably—something NEW about your life, or your future, or your perspective on the world. And then your mind explodes with possibilities and your body flushes with energy because of this new discovery! You discover your life and the world anew! These discoveries, these epiphanies, are what await us all along the journey.

I hope you’ve known such moments, because they remind us that the journey is worth it. They reveal that—as tiny, and fragile, and fearful, and vulnerable, and insignificant as we oftentimes feel—our lives are not meaningless. There is wisdom to be found along this road. There is joy to be found and love and beauty and grace. And—especially at Christmas—we are reminded that God is to be found here as well. God is not removed from us and from all this. God is Emmanuel, God-with-us. God is within each discovery.

So let’s take this moment, this sacred and holy moment, to open ourselves to the journey. This Christmas, let’s begin once again. Let’s follow our stars.

Now to the God who calls us on this sacred journey, be all honor and glory, thanksgiving and power, now and forevermore. Amen.

 

[1] From Robert Bly’s introduction to Stafford’s selected poems.

[2] Ibid.