A Christmas sermon about living nativities, piano players, and our purpose in it all

A Christmas Message based on Luke 2:1-20 with reference to Maya Angelou's poem, "Caged Bird."

My grandfather was an exquisite pianist. His favorite was Chopin and we had a leather bag full of his music in our house.  While I took piano lessons and learned to play some simple music years ago, Chopin was obviously a whole other level. As a child, I would open the books of music and flip through the pages, but to me, the lines and dots and notations on the page didn’t mean much.  

I never did hear my Gramps play, he died before I was born. However, years later, I heard Chopin played in a recital I attended while in college. Though I had heard recordings in the past, they didn’t compare with sitting in the recital hall and hearing my friend play the music.  Without my friend, all that music was a bunch of dots and squiggles and lines on a page.  Add a musician to those sheets of music and all of those mysterious markings were brought to life.  Suddenly, a musician--a person--gave it all form.  

Year after year, we flip through our bible to the second chapter of Luke and we read this old, old story of shepherds and starry skies, of donkeys and mangers, of a little holy family looking for shelter.  It is a story of letters and words and verse and chapter numbers all strung together on the page.  But it is also something more than that. 

Certainly, it is a story worth treasuring for so many reasons--most of all because it is the story of God’s love for us made human in the person of Jesus. 

The greatest stories connect powerfully with a place in our heart.  The Christmas story has a lot of angles that touch our hearts.  

Sometimes, the thing in the story that we tap into most keenly is nostalgia. It’s a story that brings up memories of childhood magic or closeness with the ones we love.  But, the story also connects us with a place in our heart much bigger than the nostalgia. 

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There is a beautiful little line from the Christmas story that reads “the time came” for Mary to deliver her child. “The time came” is a translation of the phrase that could also be read as “the days were fulfilled.” As in: the days were fulfilled as Mary gave birth.

To fulfill something means to bring something to life. If we fulfill a certainly responsibility, we follow through. We make it happen, we bring it to life. We live up to it and give it form, almost like fitting into a perfectly tailored pair of pants that are lifeless on the hanger but “filled out” when a person wears them. Almost like bringing to life a gorgeous piece of music which as a score is a lifeless sheet of dots and lines but in the hands of a musician, is a whole new creation. 

The Christmas story brings to life our hopes of a different world. A world where vulnerable families like the Holy family are taken care of and where forgotten people are noticed. A world where the tyrant kings are cast down from their thrones while heaven comes down to peasants. A worlds where loved ones persist and strong and gentle people win. A worlds where strangers show extravagant hospitality. A world where all will be well.

This connection between the story and our hearts is so strong that it cannot help but burst into life. 

Look at Mary herself, who after visiting her cousin Elizabeth and sharing the miraculous news of her pregnancy, burst into song and gave form and verve to an ancient foremother’s poem. Her Magnificat was a remake of Hannah’s age-old song.  Before Mary sang it, Hannah’s song about her son, Samuel, had just been letters and numbers on a page. Mary took that ancient piece of musical scripture that was sung by a joyous woman in praise of God and added her voice to it. She brought the lines of poetry to life in real time. She gave it form. 

We hear a lot about fulfillment in the gospels and how scripture is fulfilled through things that were happening in the ancient world at that time. It was as if the ancient world were crackling with God’s life and spirit around them.  The stories from Isaiah, Leviticus and Jeremiah shimmered with their timeliness as Jesus drew them into real time.

The practice of bringing the story to life continues today.

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Centuries ago, St. Francis of Assisi was on his way home from a visit to the Holy Land and he passed through a little Italian town in Greccio around Christmas time. 

The rocky landscape reminded him of the Holy Land and an idea struck him. What if the townspeople played the parts of the shepherd and the angels and the Holy family?  And then, what if they found some animals--like an ox or some sheep--to bring to the little barn?  And then, what if they invited some people to come and experience the wonder and delight of this re-creation of the Christmas story? 

St. Francis did just this. And, in the year 1223, the first living nativity was acted out, exactly 800 years ago this Christmas.

Without the actors giving life to the letters and words and verses and chapter numbers of the nativity story all strung together on the page, the story is flat and neatly tucked away on the shelf. 

The hope was, and is, that if people saw and heard this story acted out, they might be able to see and experience this in their own lives too.   

The Christmas story needs a third party. There is an ancient story, and a holy spirit, and there is you.  

These stories were never meant to just be words on a page. They are meant to be filled out, brought to life, fulfilled and made flesh among us. We’re never quite sure when we will be instructed to play our part in the symphony spinning around us and so very often, it is an ordinary moment in everyday life.

Sometimes, you are Joseph, doggedly persistent and knocking on door after door, barely hopeful, but determined to fight for the ones you love.

Sometimes, you are the innkeeper when suddenly someone knocks on your door and needs help and you extend it.

Sometimes you feel forgotten, unimportant, lonely, like shepherds when unexpectedly a choir of angels appears to you in the starry sky (or maybe it’s just an angelic friend who met you for coffee, but however it turns out) they remind you that you are beloved to God. 

Christmas is a story that we bring to life--God brings to life!--through the way that we carry ourselves, through how we show up in the world, through the projects we get involved in, the places we pour our heart into, through the wild energy of the Holy Spirit that nudges us towards holy spaces.

It’s a song that begins in the shadows, it’s a cry of the caged bird singing of Good News. It’s a song of freedom that sings out persistently, even in the hardest of times.

This ancient song is meant for us.  It’s meant for our neighbors.  The call is to listen carefully, as Mary and Joseph and the shepherds did, to pay attention to God’s music, to fulfill our call, to pick up our instruments and play our part in the symphony.

Searching for a sign

Luke 1:26-47

I think it’s pretty normal to want a sign that we’re on the right path. I’m not talking about a street sign or neon flashing sign, but—especially when things seem confusing or stressful—some sort of symbol or indication that we’re headed in the right direction. Thankfully, God is big on signs, sort of like little love notes sent to people that are in a bind or walking through tough moments.  

For Abraham when he was feeling pretty stressed out, God somehow illuminated the twinkling stars of the heavens and said, “there you go, there is your sign that you will have many descendants.”

For Moses, there was a burning bush that he stumbles upon in the desert which is so overwhelmingly holy that he immediately takes off his shoes.  (Then, lucky him, he gets to dole out 10 signs or plagues to Pharoah that carry their own potent message). 

In the case of Mary of Nazareth, she gets a whole conversation with an angel named Gabriel. Each of these people needed these signs because each of them was facing some sort of big life challenge. They needed a little extra reassurance of God’s presence with them as they stepped into the unknown that was before them. 

In the case of Mary, she had received life-changing news from the angel.  Her initial response was dramatic as she tried to get her head in the game.  She immediately took off “with haste” scripture says to visit someone she could trust. Mary’s village was not going to be okay with this news. Joseph was certainly reeling. So she treks about 60 miles out into the hill country to visit her elder cousin, Elizabeth.  

Elizabeth is so much older than Mary that she is probably more of what we might think of as an auntie figure.  Elizabeth has known her fair share of hard knocks along the way of life, the smile lines run deep into her face, and when Mary comes rushing into her house with news about an angel and a pregnancy tumbling out of her, Elizabeth opens her heart and arms wide and wraps her in love.   

After time with Elizabeth,who is grappling with her own miraculous pregnancy with John the Baptist, Mary is able to face this enormous challenge before her.  Something in her changed while she was with Elizabeth. She made sense of this sign, this visit from Gabriel and she prepared herself for the task ahead.

While Mary responded faithfully to God, this isn’t always the case. Signs can be great and reassuring. The tricky thing is that they can also be misinterpreted.  

Harriet Powers was a 19th century African American quilter.  One of her two surviving quilts now hangs in the Smithsonian.  This particular quilt in the Smithsonian shows different scenes from the bible where signs from God were misinterpreted or even ignored.  In one scene, you see Noah’s neighbors making light of his ark and then refusing to join him—we all know how that turned out.   In another panel, you see Jonah ignoring a sign from God and then ending up in the belly of a whale. Then, in another square, you see the dove descending on Christ in his baptism which all of humanity later ignores when he is crucified.  

I first learned about Harriet Powers’ quilts from African American theologian, Dr. Donyelle McCray. In the bible quilt about the signs, Dr. McCray thinks that, Ms. Powers also quilted the stories of contemporary signs from her time that showed God’s judgement.  

For example, on one day in 1780 there was a creepy dark, dark day where you couldn’t see the sun (this was later attributed to pollution) and she quilted a scene about it. 

She also quilted a panel about a particularly spectacular meteor shower from her lifetime. On that night of the meteor shower in 1833, maybe God had hoped the people with respond with awe that would open their hearts, but instead, animals, horses and cows galloped and ran like wild all over the place. People screamed and hid, they thought the world was ending.  

Ms. Powers' quilt, which is a sermon in its’ own way, might be showing us that, yep, there are signs that appear to us, but what we do or how we respond when we receive these signs is key.  Some people respond to these signs from God in faithfulness, and some people, as Ms. Powers showed us in her quilt, don’t. 

 So what about us today? Have you ever sought some sort of sign you’re on the right path? Do you seek one now? When she was reflecting on Harriet Power’s quilt, Dr. McCray observed that there comes a point where we must stop seeking signs and act on the ones we’ve been given. And, she went on to explain, we have all been given the sign of all signs, man of sorrow, wonderful counselor, prince of peace in the person of Jesus.  While the cross is certainly important, the whole life of Jesus including the way he lived, and healed and blessed and prayed, is a sign to us today that requires a faithful response from us. It calls for a certain way of living from us, that centers grace, compassion, generosity and hope in the midst of a weary world.

Eventually, Dr. McCray explains, something amazing happens to us when we live our lives in response to Jesus this way. When we tune our lives to the life of Jesus, we no longer seek signs, we become them.

Look at Elizabeth, Mary’s cousin: In her gracious and accepting hospitality, she became a sign to Mary of God’s gracious love.

I’m sure many of us can think of people in our lives who have been signs to us and assured us that we are on the right path, especially in those moments of stress or challenge.

Becoming a sign of God’s love might seem like a tall order. Believe me: No one does this perfectly—unless you know how to walk on water—but, God uses the ordinary stuff of our lives to make signs of holy love, justice and joy in the world. 

Even in times of great trial, when we are completely unraveled and barely holding on, even then, God still somehow uses us as signs to reflect a holy light to those around us. 

Today, we will baptize Florence Dahlia into the life of Christ.  Florence already is a sign of God’s gracious love in the world. It’s easy to see this in her as a beautiful baby. But in time, as she fixes her eyes on Jesus, she will deepen in her ability to become a sign of God’s gracious love in the world she will learn this through her loved ones and through you all. Any number of us in here today can assure her that she will certainly mess this up and fail at being God’s light at some point. Any number of us could tell her that this broken world is imperfect: sometimes systems fail and people are cruel and stingy.  Sometimes, the shadows seem overpowering. And any number of us will come around her in precisely those moments of shadow and pain as signs of God’s gracious love. 

Our lives with God are a conversation of listening and responding, of living and dying and rising again. For everywhere that Jesus went—that Love went—the world was not just reimagined, but remade. Just when we least expect it, God will use us as signs that remake the world one moment at a time.

Lift your voice, even if it's a little rusty at first (we all feel like dead grass sometimes)

Isaiah 40:1-11

Mark 1:1-8

On the corner of Halstead and Polk not far from UIC sits an old mansion. In the spring of 1898, two friends stood in front of it discussing their plan: it was in such decrepit state that the owner had agreed to let them lease it for free.  They would start small: they would move in to the house and offer some classes on basic life skills for folks from the surrounding neighborhood. This was the turn of the 19th century and Chicago was rapidly industrializing. Thousands of people were flocking to cities from the countryside and along with them, a steady stream of migrants was flooding in. There were Greeks, Italians, Russian Jews, Bohemians, Irish, and Poles.  This was the first time cities had seen so many people living together in crowded spaces like these ethnic enclaves. Most houses didn’t even have running water let alone plumbing—my great-great grandparents immigrated around this time to this part of the city from Poland and this was their story.

The two women, who stood there that day, eventually moved into the house on the corner of Polk and Halstead and the project quickly took off.  One of the women’s father had died and left her a little money.  She set to work. 

By the second year, they were serving 2,000 people a week. There was a kindergarten, a day care, English classes, social clubs and art classes. There was legal aid, employment counseling and momentum continued building. Within 10 years, there were 13 buildings with a coffee house, a theater, Chicago’s very first public playground and a kitchen.  The complex even included a space for 20 women to live. 

Jane Addams had started a settlement house in Mr. Hull’s old mansion, but she had also started a movement. 

In the coming decades, living and working conditions in Chicago would improve. Chicago had led the way with this groundbreaking idea of settlement houses for migrants. In the coming years, Ida B. Wells would begin the famous settlement house a few miles away in Bronzeville called the Negro Fellowship League which served African Americans migrating north in the early 20th century. 

Eventually, the social work movement would grow out of these seeds of Jane Addams work through the Hull House.

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Hopeful movements begin with just a few small sparks: with two friends standing outside an old house at the corner of Halstead and Polk dreaming of what could be. 

In today’s scripture, we meet Jesus’ advance man, John the Baptist. His role was to “prepare the way” for Jesus and call other people to prepare it with him. God had a dream that John had caught on to. But that dream wasn’t John’s to fulfill. It was God’s dream to fulfill.

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A few days ago in our council meeting, we were discussing how we pass hope on to each other. Who were those people who came before us and brought hope when we couldn’t see the road in front of us? Who taught us how to hope?

For John, his parents, Elizabeth and Zachariah were certainly two of those people, but also in that mix was the prophet Isaiah.

In the scripture reading from the book of Isaiah the people are hopeless. Jerusalem had been sacked by the Babylonians and the people were enslaved and carted off where they had lived for decades in exile far from their homeland, their traditions, and their their temple. The prophet Isaiah is one of these Jewish people sitting by the waters in Babylon far from home. He is an unlikely person to launch a period of change and transition, but one day, he happens to overhear a conversation between God and some heavenly host in the divine council up there.

Comfort, O comfort my people,” God is saying
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem 
and cry to her that she has served her term.”  (Is. 40:1-2)

Tell them that their war is over, God will reign in peace forever.

Isaiah’s ears perk up—is change on the horizon? God goes on:
 A voice cries out:
 “In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD,
  make straight in the desert a highway for our God… (Is. 40:3)

God pauses in the conversation with the heavenly host: “Isaiah!” She claps her divine hands!

“Are you listening down there!?”

Isaiah snaps to attention: "Who me?!" He croaks. 

“Cry out!” says God.

Isaiah’s voice is rusty, creaky, way out of practice (it has been decades since he last used it). He clears throat: “Oh, God, what shall I say??” (Is.40:6)

What?--I imagine him thinking--could I ever say, Oh Holy One? have you seen what it’s like down here?! The people are like grass, actual dried, dead grass, Oh God! We are like withered flowers, despondent, depressed. There is no sparkle, no joy! (ref. Is. 40:6-8)

As Isaiah goes on, this funny thing happens: his voice seems to grow steadier, stronger, and more confident. (I don’t know if that has ever happened to you: once you get the words out about what you hope for, or what you long for, something in you starts warming. Something in you starts to wake up. Like Hull House that slowly added a kindergarten, and then art classes, and then a shelter, and then, and then, and then…the flame quietly grew brighter.)

Isaiah lifts his head. He straightens up.  “…the word….” He says slowly “The word of the Lord… will stand… forever…” (Is. 40:8) It’s like the very act of speaking is awakening the spirit and something in him starts to stir and gain momentum. His voice strengthens! The candle in his hand brightens! And before you know it, he calls out to the city: 

Everyone!: "Get ye up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings!; (Is: 40:9) 

His flame roars as he tips his candle outward to light those candles around him. And now you!: 

 ”lift up your voice with strength,
  O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings,
  lift it up, do not fear;
 say to the cities of Judah,
  “Here is your God!” (40:9)

For as it turns out, change is on the horizon. Those people in exile will soon head home to Jerusalem.  And this time, the path will not be winding and confusing like the last time they were stuck in the wilderness searching for the promised land. This time, every mountain and hill shall be made low and every valley shall be lifted up.

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Christmas begins with hope against hope.  

We stand at the edge and look out to what could be: 

A neighborhood in Chicago at the turn of the 20th century full of migrants hoping to make a new life for themselves.

An ancient people in exile longing for a way home.

A group of early church Jesus-followers—who had been persecuted by the Emperor Nero and were despondent, hopeless, like scorched grass and faded flowers—who  wait for the Prince of Peace who will soon come to be with them.

John the Baptist holding a single candle of hope, lighting the flame of each person who came to him seeking baptism, all the while crying out to prepare the way for Jesus, Light of the World, who would soon come to be with them.

Isaiah passed hope on to John and the people in the early church and that hope grew into a blaze as God sent Jesus to come to be among them.

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Who holds out that hope to you when you can’t see the road in front of you? How do you receive that light of God when your own candle is barely burning or even burnt out?  

Who is God pointing you towards and encouraging you to pass your own flame to in your life?  Maybe it’s a friend or a family member. Maybe it’s a whole people or a land that is faded and dried out that yearns for the love of God.

The long arc of God’s love stretches towards justice and will redeem and remake the whole world—and us in it.  As the psalmist said, one day, righteousness and peace will kiss. (Ps. 85:10) 

But we’re not there yet. 

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This season is not always the easiest. So many times, right along side of the razzle-dazzle of Christmas is some sort of pain or regret.  It could be grief for someone who has died, pain for some broken situation in our own lives, or sorrow for some place in our shattered world. 

That is exactly where Christmas begins.

This voice cries out—maybe it’s rusty at first, maybe it’s crying out from deep loss—but there in the night or even in the tomb, something stirs. This hope flickers bravely out from the profound shadow. This story of hope against hope is part of our heritage and even our DNA as people of faith. Generation after generation remembers this story that longs for a different world and for the promise of healing where all will be made well. This is the story of the One who will come to mend us and be with us in the midst of it all.

If you are one of the ones who is hurting and searching for the path forward right now, you are not alone. 

If you are one of the ones full of hope and assurance, and wondering where you can tip your candle outward and wish “comfort, comfort o, my people,” you are called.

This glowing good news of God’s gracious love sings in us and, to riff off of the Maya Angelou, poem we just heard, we lift our voice and share the good news 

with our brother, 

with our sister, 

with our city, 

with our soul.