Archive for December, 2016

“The Birth and the Wedding,” (Christmas Eve Sermon, December 24th 2016)

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. ²He was in the beginning with God. ³All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being ⁴in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. ⁵The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

6 There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. ⁷He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. ⁸He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. ⁹The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.

10 He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. ¹¹He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. ¹²But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, ¹³who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.

14 And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.

John 1:1-14

“Kai to phos en te skotia phainei.”

In the darkness, the light is shining.

These words of John, in the original Greek, open the mystery of the incarnation to us, we seekers of glory, huddled hopefully together in these years so far removed from Bethlehem; we children of the kingdom singing hand-in-hand as the gulf between this night and the night of that dark, straw-scented shrine is erased in the searing light of heaven tumbling down to be folded into earth’s warm embrace.

“Kai to phos en te skotia phainei.”

In the darkness, the light is shining.

These magnific, metaphysical words, perhaps (ironically) the most well-known piece of Western arcana, far removed from the physicality of cattle and childbirth and curious onlookers, propose a birth utterly unlike any that can be effected by human endeavor; a birth overseen by no other eye save one, one capital E eye, around which the whole vortex of existence turns now, but once saw, wished, and witnessed utterly alone; a birth willed not out of lack or loneliness, not from the will of the flesh, but out of incomprehensibly unselfish desire for Other; a birth which heralded a dawn, a dawn which heralded no more and no less than Life in all its impossible, ineffable simplicity; a birth which heralded a wedding of dust and starlight.

“Kai to phos en te skotia phainei.”

In the darkness, the light is shining.

These mystical words, defiant in their pronouncement to a world which then and now has groaned under the weight of despair. These words which insist, “The light is shining. Here, now.” In the shadow of empire and imperialism. In the shadow of apathy and oppression. In the shadow of grand villainy and the ordinary pettiness that all of us suffer and inflict upon others. In the shadow of addiction and overdose. In the shadow of misunderstanding and miscommunication. In the shadow of assassination, extremism, and hatred. In the shadow of war and pax romana, false peace achieved not through reconciliation but through rivers of blood. In the shadow of sickness and death.

“Kai to phos en te skotia phainei.”

In the darkness, the light is shining.

In the darkness, which in the beginning was not fearful, not hated, for who could hate the gently thrumming darkness of the womb, or the deep night sky; in the darkness, like a bridegroom into his marriage chamber, comes the light. It does not obliterate the darkness. It shines within it, and although some read this as a sign of eternal struggle between a few virtuous souls and a ravenous world that feeds endlessly on rage, that belief can be shed like a chrysalis; for now, in these years so far removed from Bethlehem, we know that the nurturing darkness of interstellar space envelopes this fragile earth like a bridal veil.

On this night we are called, like John, to bear witness to the light; like Nicodemus, to pursue the light; like the Samaritan woman at the well, to be known to the light; like the blind man who received his sight at the pool of Siloam, to be bathed in the light; like Lazarus, to awaken to the light.

On this night, we join Christians, across the world and across time, gathered around a cradle which is no cradle but a trough, because God did not choose to know our riches but our poverty; did not choose to know servants but sheep and cattle; did not choose to know imperial annunciation but a hurried exit from wholesale slaughter as a refugee; did not choose anointing with oil at a kingly feast but baptism by water in the muddy Jordan; did not choose enthronement in a palace but on a cross.

On this night we are called to contemplate how the rough wood of a manger points to the rougher wood of that cross. We are called like disciples, knowing that disciples may deceive, disciples may desert, and disciples may die. We are called as moths are called to flame, as cosmic debris is called to the gravity of a young star, knowing that if we follow, we are sure to have our veil of darkness lifted by the bridegroom and to be consumed in God’s eternally burning flame of wisdom and love.

This is what it means to know the light, to be made one with the light, to be refined like gold in the cosmic cauldron of endless, self-emptying love.

This is what it means to be children of God, to do what God has done first, to love because God loved first.

This is what it means for heaven to be embraced, to be cradled, by earth; to offer ourselves up to be consumed even as we are offered the flesh of Christ to consume.

“Kai to phos en te skotia phainei.”

In the darkness, the light is shining.

The incarnate one awaits our welcome.

Children of earth, let us turn to face him, veiled in darkness as a bride.

For when we turn to face the divine, we discover that our flesh has become God’s bridal array.

Let us turn, and open our arms to our beloved, precious infant king.