Tonight I attended the carol service at my church, P's and G's. Many of the carols sung, where different from home and many of the people in the congregation were different home-some, I knew or are getting to know and some, I have never seen before. Also, the message given was one that was different, but probably the most touching Christmas message I have ever heard.
The rector spoke of the real Christmas. A Christmas of flesh and blood. A Christmas that embraces the reality of this life and does not suspend it for a a week or month of joyous celebration. Yes, we should be celebrating, but we must also remember the very first Christmas.
"And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,“Glory to God in the highest heaven and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about. So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child,and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them." Luke 2:8-18
Shepherds were extremely low in society. They were just above lepers and had horrible reputations. They were seen as so low in society, that they could not even give witness in a court of law for their testimony was seen as untrue and unneeded. Yet, God chose to appear to them. God chose the lowest of the low to entrust the news of this child being born.
On top of that, Jesus was born into poverty. Jesus was born as a homeless baby to unmarried parents. This king would never know what satin or silk feels like and would not know a comfy bed to sleep on. Instead, He was born in a lowly manger and greeted by smelly shepherds. He was born as one of the lowest of the low.
This message has hit me awfully hard this Christmas. Considering that I work in a homeless hostel, how can it not? Every day as I walk to work, I pass by men and women asking for spare change. They are continually ignored. They are continually told through our thoughts, words, and actions that they do not matter. Every day as I work at the hostel, I work with men and women who have been marginalized from society. They can been seen as lazy, hostile, hopeless, dirty, and so on. They are vulnerable and hurting. Some of them have committed crimes. Some of them have an addiction. Some of them have mental illness. Some of them have no family ties. Some have been screwed over by their boss. Some are seeking refuge from domestic violence. They literally can be seen as the lowest of the low of society.
Yet as I write this, my mind is filled with hope knowing that these men and women are more than that. I have seen on a daily basis these men and women come to life in talking about hopes and dreams. See, homeless and vulnerable adults are a lot like the shepherds. They have systems working for and against them and have experienced more than many of us can ever imagine. Yet, they're still standing. Continually, they find some way to show love and compassion. Continually, they find ways to continue on and persevere through this horrible hand that life has dealt them. God shows up daily in the hostel among those seen as the lowest of the low. I know this from moments such as sharing a cup of tea in a flat lounge and just watching tv or chatting about plans or about things frustrating them. God continually instills a call to their lives and has time and time again shown me hope in this world. Yes, there are stories and souls I encounter that are heartbreaking and challenging. At times, I don't know what to say to someone except to tell them I'm sorry and that if they need to talk, I'm here. The House is a continuous reminder of what a real Christmas looks like. No, not everyone in the House is pumped for Christmas and I cannot say that I blame them. Who wants to be living in a homeless hostel with no family on Christmas? I sure wouldn't want to. Though, that is what the real Christmas is about. It is about being with others in a time of discomfort, of pain, and of anger. Christ did not come to hang out with all the rich people, but made Himself a helpless, poor baby because he cares about all: even the marginalized and homeless. That is the Jesus and I know and love: one who came for everyone regardless of your expression of faith or lifestyle.
I pray that this Christmas is forever ingrained in my memory. I pray to never say a prayer about helping the poor and homeless unless I have great intention to actually do something about it. For it is not our words that will make the difference, though they help, but our actions. We are called to a real sense of Christmas. We are called to walk alongside those who are different from us and those who are similar to us. We cannot continually let society standards to get in the way of God's kingdom coming here. We cannot justify horrible events happening to people with religion or politics, but we can love actively. We can encourage and sit with someone as they grieve the death of someone or a relationship breakdown. We can strip away our stereotypes and look at the people in marginalized societies for what they are: people. This is what a real Christmas looks like. A Christmas that acknowledges the whole person: all of their hurts and hopes and meets them there, not expecting them to buy into the joyous happiness that John Lewis or Target advertise. And if it is a time of joy for someone, this Christmas meets that person as well.
May you find your call in this Christmas season.
I want to leave you with a piece by Max Lucado called Mary's Prayer:
God. O infant-God. Heaven’s fairest child. Conceived by the union of divine grace with our disgrace. Sleep well.
Sleep well. Bask in the coolness of this night bright with diamonds. Sleep well, for the heat of anger simmers nearby. Enjoy the silence of the crib, for the noise of confusion rumbles in your future. Savor the sweet safety of my arms, for a day is soon coming when I cannot protect you.
Rest well, tiny hands. For though you belong to a king, you will touch no satin, own no gold. You will grasp no pen, guide no brush. No, your tiny hands are reserved for works more precious:
to touch a leper’s open wound,
to wipe a widow’s weary tear,
to claw the ground of Gethsemane.
to touch a leper’s open wound,
to wipe a widow’s weary tear,
to claw the ground of Gethsemane.
Your hands, so tiny, so white—clutched tonight in an infant’s fist. They aren’t destined to hold a scepter nor wave from a palace balcony. They are reserved instead for a Roman spike that will staple them to a Roman cross.
Sleep deeply, tiny eyes. Sleep while you can. For soon the blurriness will clear and you will see the mess we have made of your world.
You will see our nakedness, for we cannot hide.
You will see our selfishness, for we cannot give.
You will see our pain, for we cannot heal.
O eyes that will see hell’s darkest pit and witness her ugly prince . . . sleep, please sleep; sleep while you can.
Lie still, tiny mouth. Lie still, mouth from which eternity will speak.
Tiny tongue that will soon summon the dead, that will define grace, that will silence our foolishness.
Rosebud lips—upon which ride a starborn kiss of forgiveness to those who believe you, and of death to those who deny you—lie still.
And tiny feet cupped in the palm of my hand, rest. For many difficult steps lie ahead for you.
Do you taste the dust of the trails you will travel?
Do you feel the cold seawater upon which you will walk?
Do you wrench at the invasion of the nail you will bear?
Do you fear the steep descent down the spiral staircase into Satan’s domain?
Rest, tiny feet. Rest today so that tomorrow you might walk with power. Rest. For millions will follow in your steps.
And little heart . . . holy heart . . . pumping the blood of life through the universe: How many times will we break you?
You’ll be torn by the thorns of our accusations.
You’ll be ravaged by the cancer of our sin.
You’ll be crushed under the weight of your own sorrow.
And you’ll be pierced by the spear of our rejection.
Yet in that piercing, in that ultimate ripping of muscle and membrane, in that final rush of blood and water, you will find rest. Your hands will be freed, your eyes will see justice, your lips will smile, and your feet will carry you home.
And there you’ll rest again this time in the embrace of your Father.
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