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Everybody
take a big breath with me and let out one big sigh. That feels
about right, doesn’t it?
It kind of sums up the feeling for the Sunday after
Christmas, doesn’t it? (big sigh) It is usually about this
time each year that we realize that one Christmas song we have
heard on the radio or has been running through our head these
past weeks has set us up to feel like we do on this Sunday
after Christmas. You know the song I am talking about. Help me
out here: “Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Make
the Yuletide gay. From now on your troubles will be far
away.”
Well,
I don’t know about you, but as I look ahead to January, any
troubles that seemed far away are right there around the
corner waiting to be picked back up. That’s the thing about
this Sunday. If you’re like me, you sometimes have the
Christmas blues. It happens. We feel it. The Sunday after
Christmas is really kind of a strange space. We seem to have a
foot in two different worlds—one foot planted in the carols,
stars, trees, wrapping paper and shepherds that are
reminiscent of Christmas, while the other foot inches us away
from the manger toward the new year, where resolutions,
changes and tax returns await. It is a strange place, indeed.
Maybe that’s why the Sunday after Christmas is usually among
the least well attended and the most sluggish. The letdown
seems to be almost inevitable as we move away from the manger.
That is why
it is so interesting that on the liturgical calendar, many
churches around the world will read the scripture we read
today. Often, preachers reflect on the travels of the Holy
Family or the vocation of Jesus as teacher in the temple.
Others preachers use this text to play off the only account in
the Gospels of the teenaged messiah. I can see the title on
the church sign now, “Jesus: The Missing Years.”
But as I reflected on this
text, it struck me as particularly important for the strange
feelings that often accompany us on the Sunday between
Christmas and the beginning of a new year. When Jesus was
about twelve years old, his parents took him to Jerusalem.
This was kind of like our annual summer family vacation. The
occasion of their travel was the feast of the Passover. And
while they were there, I am sure they took in all sights, went
to all the parades, checked out all the happening nightspots
and celebrated with all of the other travelers at the many
community festivals. Then, after what I am sure was a very
busy but also very spiritual and uplifting experience, it was
time to go back home to Nazareth.
In the
midst of packing all the souvenirs and mementos they had
accumulated, in the midst of the anxiousness that accompanied
the coming down from the religious excitement and the
tenseness of all the things of everyday life that awaited them
at home, Mary, Joseph and their entourage left Jerusalem to go
back to Nazareth. The text says they traveled for about a day
and then looked back to see if everything was all right.
That’s when they discovered it. That’s when they realized
something was missing, something might have been forgotten,
might have been left behind. In that moment, they realized
Jesus wasn’t with them. And so they stopped all of their
travels forward. They looked and looked, but Jesus wasn’t
anywhere to be found. They knew right then and there they had
to go back to Jerusalem and find what they had left behind.
And that is
where I think the message is for us today. Mary and Joseph
realized they had left something behind. They realized that
something so precious and valuable to them was missing. And in
this moment of realization, they had sense enough to know that
before they could go forward, before they could get on with
their lives, they had to go backward. They had to go back to
find the very thing they realized they couldn’t live
without. They knew they couldn’t go home to Nazareth until
they went back to Jerusalem.
That is
what I think this story has to say to us today. Sometimes we,
too, must go backward in order to go forward. So before we go
forward, before we head off into the new year, let us go
backward. Let us return to Christmas to make sure that we,
too, haven’t left behind the very thing that makes this
season so powerful in the first place.
And
going backward in this case won’t be too hard, will it?
Because it’s still here, isn’t it? You can still feel it,
can’t you? The power of this season still lingers in the
air. There is so much about the Christmas experience that
speaks to our hearts and our souls. And I don’t know if
anyone has captured the lingering feeling of Christmas as well
as Max Lucado in his essay, “Christmas Night,” from his
book, God Came Near. As I share this piece, let it be
for us all a return to Christmas, a move back in search of
what we shouldn’t leave behind as we move forward.
It’s
Christmas night. The house is quiet. Even the crackle is gone
from the fireplace. Warm coals issue a lighthouse glow in the
darkened den. Stockings hang empty on the mantle. The tree
stands naked in the corner. Christmas cards, tinsel, and
memories remind Christmas night of Christmas day.
It’s
Christmas night. What a day it has been! Spiced tea. Santa
Claus. Cranberry sauce. “Thank you so much.” “You
shouldn’t have!” “It just fits.”
It’s
Christmas night. The girls are in bed. Jenna dreams of her
talking Big Bird and clutches her new purse. Andrea sleeps in
her new Santa pajamas.
It’s
Christmas night… Wrapping paper is bagged and in the
dumpster… The last of the apple pie was eaten by my
brother-in-law. The dishes are washed and leftover turkey
awaits next week’s sandwiches.
The
midnight hour has chimed and I should be asleep, but I’m
awake. I’m kept awake by one stunning thought. The world was
different this week. It was temporarily transformed. The
magical dust of Christmas glittered on the cheeks of humanity
ever so briefly, reminding us of what is worth having and what
we were intended to be. We forgot our compulsion with winning,
wooing and warring… We
stepped off our racetracks and roller coasters and looked
outward toward the star of Bethlehem.
It’s
the season to be jolly because more than at any other time, we
think of him. More than any other season, his name is on our
lips.
And
the result? For a few precious
hours, our heavenly yearnings intermesh and we
become a chorus. A ragtag chorus of longshoremen, Boston
lawyers, illegal immigrants, housewives and a thousand other
peculiar persons who are banking that the Bethlehem mystery is
in reality, a reality. “Come and behold him,” we sing,
stirring even the sleepiest of shepherds and pointing them
toward the Christ-child.
For
a few precious hours, he is beheld. Christ the Lord. Those who
pass the year without seeing him, suddenly see him. People who
have been accustomed to using his name in vain, pause to use
it in praise. Eyes free of blinders of self, marvel at his
majesty. All of sudden he’s everywhere…
In the emotion of the
father who is too thankful to finish the dinner prayer.
He’s in the tears of
the mother as she welcomes home her son from overseas.
He’s
in the heart of the man who spent Christmas morning on skid
row giving away cold bologna sandwiches and warm wishes.
And
he’s in the solemn silence of the crowd of shopping mall
shoppers as the elementary choir sings “Away in a Manger.”
Emmanuel. He is with us.
God came near.
It’s
Christmas night. In a few hours, the cleanup will begin.
Lights will come down, trees thrown out. Size 36 will be
exchanged for size 40, eggnog will be on sale for half price.
Soon life will be normal again…
But
for the moment, the magic is still in the air. Maybe that’s
why I’m still awake. I
want to savor the spirit just a bit more. I want to pray that
those who beheld him today will behold him in August. And I
can’t help but linger in one fanciful thought:
If he can do so much with such timid prayers offered in
December, how much more could he do if we thought of him every
day?
In this
piece, Lucado nails it. He really does. He hits it right on
the head. He captures why we might want to go back before we
move on. I read that piece by Lucado several times throughout
the year, and it gets me every time. It does not matter when I
read it, whether it be winter, spring summer or fall, it gets
me. You know that feeling, that little “lump in the back of
the throat” feeling. The “yeah, I know it’s cheesy, but
I feel the tears welling up” feeling. He gets it right. In
that piece, Lucado gets us all to feel that longing for the
true miracle of Christmas to be realized. When I read it, I
always want to go back to Christmas Night. I want to go back
to that moment when it feels like the whole world realizes
that God is with us, that God is for us and there might
actually be good news of great joy for all people. That is the
hope of the season. It is what keeps me awake long into the
night on Christmas. And it’s what I think is worth going
back for.
But what I
think makes the Max Lucado piece so powerful is that he gets
the other side of coin, too, the part we might be experiencing
here tonight, the worry of moving ahead and leaving Christmas
behind. You can feel him just trying to hang onto the
too-often-fleeting essence of the season. He seems to know
that it won’t last, and perhaps tonight we do, too. The
turning of the calendar into the new year means busy
schedules, new projects, weight to lose, bills to pay, money
to save. It can feel like whatever peace we might have found
at Christmas was left behind at the temple to be picked up
again when we visit this holy season again next year.
For many of
us, Christmas is both miracle and tragedy. The miracle is that
God has come so near, we could actually touch him—a
realization that often brings out the best in us and those
around us. The tragedy of Christmas is that it seems to last
for but a moment.
There is
another story that seems to capture both the real miracle and
the tragedy of this season called Christmas. It is a story
that has become known as “The Christmas Truce of 1914.” It
is a story that takes place on Christmas Eve during the
opening months of World War I. It is an amazing story, and it
is a tragic story. It is a story that wasn’t widely reported
for almost 70 years after the event, and if it wasn’t for a
song penned by folk singer John McCutcheon called “Christmas
in the Trenches,” the story might have died with the men who
lived that Christmas of 1914. Hear that story told now in
song. Listen for both its miracle and its tragedy. I believe
it has something to teach us about living our lives away from
the manger. I believe it will help us go back to find the
things we don’t want to leave behind.
(Song
is sung by Scott Wilkinson)
“Christmas
in the Trenches”
by John McCutcheon
Just like
the piece from Lucado’s book, this song gets me every time.
And I think I know why.
It captures the hope of the season. It is a story that
goes against most of what we have been taught about people. It
gives us a glimpse of the world as we wish it could be and
says, “This really happened once,” and maybe, just maybe,
it could happen again. This story of a Christmas truce is like
hearing that our deepest wishes really could come true. The
world really could be different. That is the miracle of
Christmas. It points us toward what we want to hold onto as we
turn the corner into the coming year.
But this
song also reminds us of the tragedy of Christmas, as well. It
warns of the danger of moving ahead without the light that
pierces the darkness of our world each Christmas.
Soon
daylight stole upon us and France was France once more.
With sad farewells we each prepared to settle back to war.
As is so
often the case, the powerful moment of realizing that God is
indeed with us—all of us—was fleeting. Almost as quickly
as it seemed to come, it was gone. And while that moment of
respite from the war that day nearly 90 years ago indeed
transcends time, alas, it was just a moment. Before long,
these men—boys, really—would return to their respective
sides and the fighting that was broken by the spirit of
Christmas would continue for four more years.
That is the
tension I believe we find ourselves in this evening. In the
moment between the seasons, we know that the transforming
possibility of Christmas is indeed a miracle, but we also know
that the fact that Christmas is so often only a moment is a
tragedy. That is why today’s scripture is so important. It
reminds us that sometimes before we can go forward, we have to
go backward. Sometimes we have to go back and pick up the
things that are most precious to us. So before we go forward,
let us return for just a minute to Christmas. Let us return
for a minute to all of the possibility it holds. Let us return
and claim the precious thing that is at the center of our
lives. Let us find the God who has been made known in the
life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ and let that
relationship carry us into the new year. And let us allow that
relationship to change our lives, the lives of those around
us, and the very world in which we live.
Don’t
simply move away from the manger this year. Don’t let
Christmas be just a season. Let us carry Christmas forward
throughout the year. Decide tonight how you will let the
spirit of this season live on. Maybe it will be in a
relationship that you want to mend or repair, or maybe
Christmas will live on in an attitude or habit you want to
change or develop. Perhaps you want to go back and pick up a
commitment to the areas of service or giving that this
Christmas sparked in you, or maybe this Christmas has called
you to be more attentive to prayer and reflection. Whatever it is that has touched your life this Christmas, go
back now and pick it up. Don’t let the moment slip by, but
grab it, hold onto it and carry it with you. Let us go back
before we go forward. Let us make sure that we have Christ
with us and let us let our lives be witnesses to all—that
Christmas is not just a season, but it is truly a miracle that
can be lived out everyday, away from the manger.
Note: The Max Lucado piece came
from his book, God Came Near. The song “Christmas in the
Trenches” is from singer/songwriter John McCutcheon’s 1982
album, Winter Songs. All of McCutcheon’s music is really
great.
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