“Is
Christmas going to be cancelled?”
I
have seen some variation on that question over and over again since
about mid November. As Covid numbers go up and down, then up again.
As provinces unroll various levels of restrictions on gatherings
across the country. As we fret about ICU numbers and “how easily
will this new variant spread?” and who is eligible for a booster
shot. What this Christmas season would look like has been uncertain
at best. Even as I was starting to write this reflection on Monday my
colleagues in Ontario were posting information about which churches
were going online only for another Christmas and which ones were
staying in-person and which ones were struggling to know what to do.
This
Christmas is, again this year as it was in 2020, not exactly what we
had hoped it would be. It is closer to what we might call ‘normal’
than last year – at least this year there is a chance for some
gatherings – but we still feel the limits. But the Good News is
that Christmas can never be cancelled. We change how it gets
celebrated and commemorated, but the birth of Christ, the Word
becoming Flesh, the wonder of the Incarnation can never be cancelled.
What
do we mean by that phrase “Christmas is cancelled”?
Over
the course of this pandemic we have talked a lot about things being
cancelled, or possibly being cancelled, or limited in such a way that
they almost felt like they had been cancelled. We have lost a lot
over the last 2 years. Life has been changed in so many ways. So many
things have been lost. And for something like Christmas, something
which carries so many traditions and habits and memories the losses
feel so much stronger. If Christmas can not be what we want it to be,
what is was once upon a time, what we wish it could be does that make
it feel, even a little bit, like something has been lost, like maybe
the celebration has been cancelled?
I
think it just might.
On
the other hand, maybe being forced to change how we do things opens a
window. Maybe it gives us a chance to ask ourselves what makes
Christmas, well, Christmas. This is not to say we don’t grieve for
what we miss. It means we do that, we name what is missing even as we
look around and ask how Christmas is being made real in our world
this year. It gives us a chance to put aside our image of the perfect
Christmas gathering (an image which, if we are honest, only exists in
our mind anyway – not one that has ever fully happened) and immerse
ourselves in the Christmas we have in front of us.
In
his song Anthem Leonard Cohen writes:
The
birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I
heard them say
Don't dwell on what
Has passed away
Or
what is yet to be...
Ring
the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack a crack in everything
That's how the
light gets in.
Those
words just sort of jumped off of the radio at me this week. They say
something to me about how we best celebrate Christmas when times are
good, even more so when times are difficult. We don’t try to
recreate Christmas as it once was. We don’t try to have the perfect
gathering (that may be hard for the perfectionists among us). We try
to have an honest gathering, an honest celebration, which may well be
a little bit cracked. But, as Cohen reminds us, that is where the
light can come in.
In
ministry you get the opportunity to help people plan their weddings.
Some people really want the perfect wedding. I tend to tell couples
to not worry about the perfect day, to be ready for something to not
go not quite as planned or expected. After all, the story of a
perfect day is relatively dull compared to the stories of how
something went a little bit off. That is the crack that lets the
light in. Perfect is over rated. Cracks are real. Let your Christmas,
let your life, be imperfect and cracked. We will all be better off
for it.
We
started this evening’s service in relative darkness. Lights were
low. We heard a song about dreaming. We were reminded that our faith
story starts in darkness and begins with light. Then we lit candles
and the light started to grow. The cracks of our world are filled
with light when we pause to look. At the same time we only truly
appreciate the light shining through the cracks when we take time to
acknowledge the darkness.
So
let us acknowledge the darkness. Let us pause and recognize the
darknesses (real and metaphorical) that mark our lives. Some people
are marking the first Christmas with an empty spot at the table. Some
had plans that have had to change multiple times to keep up with the
realities of this Covid-tide we have been in for 2 years. Some are
wishing family was here, or that they had gone to visit family. Some
are just anxious about life. Darkness and shadow come in many forms.
And
if we are honest, sometimes we need those times of darkness. The
dark, the quiet, the place where busy-ness has disappeared can be a
place of growth and new birth. New ideas, new ways of being, new
understandings of life, the universe and everything gestate and grow
and form in the darkness. It gives us a place to pause and reflect
and grow. Sometimes it is uncomfortable. Sometimes we would rather
not. But sometimes we need to sit in the shadows and let growth occur
so something new can be born.
But
the words of the prophet echo through the centuries. “The people
who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a
land of deep darkness— on them light has shined.” There are
always cracks in the shadows, crack that let the light seep in. Maybe
there are days when the light is really dim, the crack letting it in
is pretty small. But it is still there, glowing, waiting.
In
the hymn Before the Wonder of this Night Jarpslav
Vajda writes:
Before
the marvel of this night, adoring, fold your wings and bow,
Then
tear the sky apart with light, and with your news the world
endow.
Proclaim the birth of Christ and peace, that fear and
death and sorrow cease:
Sing peace, sing peace, sing gift of
peace, sing peace, sing gift of peace!
This
evening we join shepherds on a hillside as they are frightened by
angelic visitors who bring Good News for all the world. With the
coming of the Christ Child the world is not only cracked open, it is
torn open. Light fills the sight, the same light that was there in
the beginning is focused into a baby in a manger. We are invited to
come and see the light that shines from the manger. We are invited to
be transformed by the baby who has been born.
Later
in that hymn Vajda writes:
The
love that we have always known, our constant joy and endless
light,
Now to the loveless world be shown, now break upon its
deathly night.
Into one song compress the love that rules our
universe above:
Sing love, sing love, sing God is love, sing
love, sing God is love!
Love
lies in a manger. Love has taken human form. Over the years I have
had a variety of thoughts about what the word that God speaks in the
beginning of Genesis, the word that speaks creation into being, might
have been. You could say it is LIGHT. Hymn writer Linnea Good once
suggested it was a great laugh. I think a strong argument can be made
that the creating word is LOVE. Jesus, the Word-Made-Flesh is Love
Incarnate. Love brings light into the world. Love shines out into the
darkness to remind us that the shadows will not win.
And
what difference does it all make? Having been invited to join those
smelly shepherds running down to Bethlehem and see the light and love
shining in a feed trough what difference does it make? How do we
respond?
The
shepherds responded by telling everyone they met about this child,
about the angels who announced his birth. How do we respond to
meeting the light of the beginning shining into our cracked imperfect
lives?
To
answer that question I am going to borrow from another tradition.
Earlier this month our Jewish neighbours celebrated Chanukkah. Each
night of the Festival of Lights candles are lit. There is one special
candle on the chanukkiah. It is called the servant candle or the
shamash.The shamash is the
candle that is used to light all the other candles. This year during
Chanukkah I saw a number of memes which encouraged us to be the
shamash, the light which passes on the light to others. That
I think is how we respond to the light of the world breaking into the
cracks in our lives. We share the light with others, we serve others
by passing the light among them.
As
Linnea Good writes in the hymn A Light is Gleaming:
So
let us live in the brightness God has giv’n,
and let us rise
to see the dawn.
We trust that God is here a-sparkle and
a-bla-ze,
warming all our days!
A light is gleaming,
spreading its arms throughout the night,
living in the
light.
Come share its gladness, God’s radiant love is burning
bright,
living in the light.
WE
are all at times the people who walk in darkness. We are all aware of
the shadows the flit in and out of our lives. Sometimes those periods
of darkness give us space to grow and develop. Sometimes they simply
give us space to rest. Sometimes they make us feel trapped. But we
have the promise that all who walk in a time of deep darkness will
see light, light will shine upon them. At Christmas, with the birth
of a baby who will change the world – even though at birth he is
laid in a feed trough because there was no room at the inn – we are
reminded that the light of God is always there, waiting to break into
our lives. Our Christmas may not be perfect this year, our lives will
certainly not be perfect but that is good new. When things are not
perfect God has room to break into our lives and fill them with
light. Remember what Cohen says:
Ring
the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack a crack in everything
That's how the
light gets in.
So
ring your bells this Christmas. Celebrate the cracks in your
imperfect lives. And rejoice in the light that shines from the
manger.
For
unto us is born this night a Saviour whose name is Jesus, the Christ
of God. Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth – Peace.
