Rev. Eva Cavaleri
Dec. 24, 2006, Christmas Eve
Trinity Episcopal Church
Tonight we cross a threshold together. You may have felt it as you walked into the church – it feels different in here tonight. The decorations, the music, the late hour – each of these elements bring a heightened sense of expectation that helps to gather us together to celebrate this mystery of Christmas, and what, exactly, is this mystery? We believe this is the night when God entered into human form, beginning with Jesus, 2000 years ago. Each year when relive the story, we hope that God might be entering into the world through to each of us, too. And so tonight we come, perhaps with some wonder and curiosity, to see if there might be the smallest possibility for this hope.
We each arrive at Trinity tonight from any number of circumstances: some of us have been blundering around town, frantically preparing for holiday guests, purchasing and wrapping last-minute gifts for our loved ones, cleaning and decorating our homes, perhaps a few of us have even been dragged here tonight by an insistent family member, and a few others have spent this day largely alone, looking forward to tonight’s celebration here. Whatever we’ve been doing, we’ve likely spent these last few days getting ready for some thing or some one.
And once Christmas is over, things will feel different. It’s never as fun to take all those decorations down as it is to hang them. In a matter of days, our lives will find their ‘normal’ pace of regularly scheduled activities. Let’s hold on for a moment, and be here, on Christmas Eve, together, where something special and mysterious surrounds us right now, in this holy night, when we cross the threshold into the possibility of hope with the birth of the Christ-child.
This past week I called one of my dearest friends, Sara, who I’ve known for over ten years. We are blessed with the kind of friendship that feels like family without the trappings of family! One of my fondest memories is of her at my wedding, two and a half years ago. Always the good sport, Sara was a bridesmaid at 8 months pregnant. I asked each of the bridesmaids to wear the same celadon-green dress. She told me later that she felt like a stuffed pickle walking down the aisle, though we all thought she looked like a glowing, healthy pregnant woman. She and her husband now have two children.
Since I’m pregnant with my first child, Sara and I speak frequently about the ins and outs of this peculiar and wonderful time of pregnancy. This past Tuesday, when the phone rang and I saw her name on caller ID, my brain began the mental scan of the latest laundry list of symptoms I needed to check out with her. When I answered the phone, though, I was quickly silenced by her words: “Eva,” she spoke, her voice sounding tired and upset. Before I could say anything, she continued on, “Eliot has leukemia.” Eliot is her oldest, the same one who was in her belly when she walked down the aisle at my wedding. Silence hung between us. I had no words, I just felt shock, like someone had just punched me in the stomach. My mind began to race, trying to take it all in. How could a mere child have this horrible disease? What would this mean? And then my attention shifted, briefly, to the child in my belly. Whoa, calm down, I thought, don’t upset the baby. So I breathed and we continued.
I learned from Sara that Eliot’s diagnosis on Monday forced them to go directly to the hospital where he will stay for the next two weeks to undergo chemotherapy. She said, ‘there is hope’ and went on to explain that his leukemia is one of the ‘best kinds’ he could have, where 85% of the children diagnosed with it die of old-age, and rather than just ‘remission’, and there is potential for them to use the term ‘cure’ and Eliot in one sentence. It sounds like it will be a tough haul, but that there’s a good chance Eliot will lead a healthy life.
In the moments I’ve had over this past week to prepare for this sermon tonight and process the news about Eliot, I found the two sticking together. Eliot’s illness suddenly made me aware of the vulnerability of children, that nothing can be taken for granted, that people can get sick no matter how old they are, and that even my baby boy, whose kicks and flips and hiccups stir inside me all the time: he, too is vulnerable. And I felt a deep fear, because in addition to all the things I’ve been preparing myself to not be able to control in my son’s life, there is yet more to add to the list. And I learned something in a deeper way: that to be pregnant is to live with vulnerability and trepidation. When new life comes, there are no guarantees. What we have left to hold onto is the possibility of hope: that Eliot will be healthy, that my baby boy will grow up safe and sound.
Luke, the author of our Gospel story tonight, knew that, too. Everything about the birth story is filled with frailty. His account of Jesus’ birth is not what you would expect for a child born of a royal line, who was predicted to be a Messiah and Ruler. Mary is a young, unwed mother who is powerless in her society. Joseph seems to take pity on and marry her. At the time of Jesus’ birth, they are traveling, away from the resources of home. In the panic of Mary’s labor pangs, they resort to a stable for shelter, to give birth surrounded by dirty and smelly animals. She wraps the baby in bands of cloth… none of this reflects wealth or royalty. It is humble, even desperate.
Luke’s version of the story does something special: the very circumstance into which Jesus is born takes away all pretense, formality or distance that we would associate with a king or ruler. We are not alone. God breaks into the world to be with us in the stench of a barn full of animals, but it doesn’t stop there. We dare to have faith that with the miracle of God coming into the world through Jesus, we trust that God comes into each of us, too. So that we have each other, and God is able to suffer with us, to endure with us, to walk with us, and live in the possibility of this hope with us, too.
In an email I received late this week from Sara, she described how she was doing, “I’m surprising myself. I feel exhausted, but better than I could have expected. I’m taking time to cry and be with my emotions when they come. I feel like I’m running a race and all these people are holding me up. Now I really *get* the whole community thing in a way I never have before. I feel like we’re being carried through this time. It’s amazing.” Sara and her family are surviving in large part, because of the support of the community that surrounds them. I think this is why we bother with church, to support one another during the joys and sorrows of life. In doing so, we literally become God’s hands in the world. And what is it that we deliver? Among other things, the possibility of hope.
As I close, lets go back to the stable and imagine Mary wrapping Jesus in those bands of cloth in the manger. She’s likely a bit nervous and scared, she has a precious newborn for whose life she is now responsible. So she swaddles him as best she can, to surround him with warmth and the security that he has just left in her womb. (Pause) Perhaps you and I might be like those scraps of cloth, tonight, and join in swaddling the baby Jesus, surrounding him with our presence and love. We can do that by opening our hearts to make room for him, we can do it by continuing to stay open to the ways that God might be moving inside of us, we can do it by holding on to each other, in hopes that together, when the tomorrows come, and the magic of Christmas fades into January, we can face each new day with a slightly different perspective, feeling a bit daring, to continue to live with the possibility of hope. And as we do, we will become God’s heart and hands in the world. (pause) Amen!
