SERMON 1 Christmas 12.31.06

Christmas I (1 Samuel 2:18-20, 26 Psalm 148; Colossians 3:12-17; Luke 2:41-52 Good morning! And, Happy New Year’s Eve. We find ourselves this first Sunday in the season of living into the gift of Jesus’ birth—on the same day that the year 2006 is ending. Endings and beginnings. These days are full of endings and beginnings. On Thursday I received a call to go to the hospital to administer the last rites to a woman who is near death—as I left, Fr. Matt was on the phone answering questions put to him by a reporter from the Press Democrat. He too was interested in endings—or at least departures—the announcement by David Miller that St John’s in Petaluma has disassociated itself from the Episcopal Church. An announcement that includes the information that the congregation in Petaluma intends to take the building that has been a part of the Episcopal Church for about 150 years. Through thick and thin the parishioners of that congregation considered themselves Episcopalians and participated fully in our Diocese. But no longer—the congregation in the year 2006 has decided to leave our diocese and become part of the diocese of Argentina. At the hospital I was struck as I have been before with the similarities between birth and death. More than once I have visited a family gathered around the bed of a dying person—surrounding them with love, massaging their feet and legs, holding their hands, getting them drinks of water, supporting and comforting, strengthening and loving the person who is giving birth in a sense to their own death. I’ve been privileged to be present at births of babies too—and at least in today’s less technically medicalized world—the room is filled with the same kind of supporting, serving, love in action. Birth and death can be very alike. I thought as I left the office about how the world outside views the church—views us. About its fascination with our disagreements and our differing understandings of about morality—and its focus on the issue of sexuality. And, of course, we give the press a lot of material to work with. But, meanwhile, the life of the faithful goes on. Meanwhile there are endings and beginnings and we who gather here week in and out know that our faith has much to say and much to give us for living into the very depths of the endings and beginnings of life. For the 150 years in the life of St John’s, Petaluma and for thousands of years in places all over the globe Christians have entrusted their lives to the God of new beginnings and radical inclusive love. As we have done that we have lived together bearing with one another through countless endings, letting goes, and new beginnings. That is central to our faith. What the world outside sees perhaps as disintegration—may in fact turn out to be another of those overturnings of life “as usual” and the wrenching letting go of our zones of comfort as we greet the new thing God is doing. How are we to live in such times as these? What will sustain us through the endings and beginnings of our individual lives, our life as church, and even our lives in the larger community? I doubt that New Year’s resolutions will be enough to sustain us—those by and large being so dependent on our own doing—our own choosing and willing. Jesus and Samuel come to us this morning in their youth. Samuel had been given over to service in the temple by his mother out of her gratitude for his birth. She had been childless for many years. The linen ephod was a garment of his priesthood—its white color symbolized the purity of the One he represented. Kind of like the white albs the ministers of the Eucharist wear. I think of that once a year visit made by his parents to Samuel and the way in which his mother handed him that robe the one gift she could give him. Our text says Samuel grew up in the presence of the Lord. And this oh so familiar story of Jesus as a boy of twelve driving his parents batty by staying behind in the temple without telling them, to listen and ask questions of the teachers. A defining moment this one—Jesus telling Mary and Joseph that didn’t they know, he must be in his Father’s house? That line really is better translated as “Did you not know that I must be in the presence of my Father?” It wasn’t about a building really, it was about being with God. Being in God’s presence. Like Samuel given over to God by his parents—Jesus claims his identity here as God’s own child. Before his baptism—even while he returned with his parents, obedient to them. He knew he must be in his Father’s presence. That’s who he was most deeply. God’s own. This amazing little passage from Colossians addressed to us as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved begins with a word left out of our reading this morning. The word is therefore, and what precedes the therefore is the fact that we who have died with Christ have been raised with him. “Here there cannot be Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave, free, but Christ is all and in all,” says Paul. My granddaughter and I went to see the movie The Nativity this past week. After the birth of Christ the wisemen come and one of them gazes on the baby in the manger and says, “God clothed in human flesh.” She asked me what that meant exactly. Such a question. Divinity in human body. In human bodies. Christ is all and in all. What does that mean exactly? Paul suggests to us that if we remember that we have been raised with Christ—if we remember who we are and whose we are then we’ll have what we need to live into the endings and beginnings of our lives. We’ll clothe ourselves as Samuel did in something like an ephod—in Christ. No matter what we are actually wearing—whether we’re dressed up to go out on New Year’s Eve, or in jeans and a sweat shirt—no matter we’ll know that we are clothed in Christ. Wherever we are, whatever we are doing, whatever choices we face, whatever endings or beginnings, we’ll be given the spaciousness and graciousness to live into our lives. Live into Christ. This description of life in Christ: compassion, kindness, humility, patience, forgiveness, thanksgiving, love and peace—this is not a list of things we need to make new year’s resolutions about—not a to do list. Rather it’s a calling—it’s a description of how we are transformed in Christ by the grace of God. Christmas Day a parishioner brought one of her grandchildren to church. A grandson, whom I’d baptized maybe four or five years ago. He was about 11 then—kind of like Samuel maybe or Jesus in the temple. Now he’s a tall strapping young man with clear eyes and a firm handshake. I looked at him and wondered—I wondered if he still knew who he is. I wondered how in his life he had grown into his truest identity as “marked as Christ’s own forever.” How had God’s forgiveness so freely given to him freed him to forgive those who have hurt him? How has God’s love freed him to live into the hard work of loving others: the listening, the being willing to be changed and moved by another person, the standing with thru thick and thin that marks loving relationships. I wondered about him. I wondered about myself. I wondered about us. You and I, like Samuel and Jesus, are those called to grow up in the presence of God. That’s who we are—we are marked as Christ’s own forever. There is nothing left outside—there are no godforsaken moments—no place where God isn’t. We come here to give thanks, to let the word of God dwell within us, and to sing to God. Such simple acts—and yet they are transforming—they help us to become the people we were created to be, to bear with one another, and to find grace in all the endings that lead to new beginnings. Happy new Year. Remember who you are.