The Christmas Sermon

It would appear Roald Dahl, British author of bizarre (usually) children's literature as well as some rather macabre short stories, has a soft spot for dyslexics.  He wrote a children's book entitled Esio Trot which is "tortoise" backward.  In support of an English charity which supports dyslexics he wrote an amusing little volume called The Vicar of Nibbleswicke.  (Illustrated by Quentin Blake.)  It is the story of a new Anglican pastor, Robert Lee, in his first church in Nibbleswicke (and hence the title).  He has a rather distressing dyslexic condition which Dahl uses skillfully to comedic effect.  I find it hard to read it without laughing aloud.  (Warning: those who are offended by slightly off-color language and those who think it might be charming to read to young children should preview it first.)

It is neither Dahl nor dyslexia which got me to thinking today but rather an experience of the reverend Lee in his first days of parish life - sermon preparation.  Mr. Lee agonizes over his homiletical task.  Now having done the sermon prep thing for 20 years or so, I do not experience the angst that our protagonist does.  At least on most days.  But Christmas is coming - the goose is getting fat.  And one wonders what to say at Christmas.  For Christians, the story of Jesus' incarnation is well-known, to say the least.  What is there to say that has not been said?  But that is not really the right question.  If it has not already been said it is likely theological innovation.  Theological innovation is what leads us down the path to the heretical and the simply silly. (I once was at an Easter service where an innovative creed was recited that began, "I believe in bunnies and butterflies..." - sadly I don't remember the rest of it so am unable to dust it off for next year's Paschal celebration.)

No, here is the question: "What can one say this in a way that rouses us from the unique kind of slumber that comes with over-familiarity."  We don't notice the shocking nature of God becoming man because it is so very familiar to us. To the man whose life is spent underground, the first glimpse of a sunrise is a thing of unspeakable wonder.  To most of us it is the same old thing that happens each day.  We hardly notice it.

The Incarnation of Jesus is like this for Christians who have heard the story many times.  For many of us there is a reawakening of the wonder of the Incarnation when we come to a deeper faith and realize its implications.  But eventually it is same old, same old again.

One is tempted to showiness, cleverness or oratorical art to make it fresh again - but even this becomes predictable over time.  In a parish I served in I had the inspiration to do a one-man skit which involved entering the sanctuary in my pajamas.  It certainly got people's attention - not all of it positive.  But then every subsequent year I wrote a new one and the Rector's Christmas skit became predictable and expected - anticipated by some, avoided by others.  I gave up the practice not because of the mixed reviews but because I felt that the attention it was getting was to me and not to Jesus.  As soon as that happens you are in trouble.

In recent years something else has occurred to me.  Why not lay all innovation aside -theological as well as oratorical - and just tell the story and preach the Gospel?  The work of rousing people from the sleep of familiarity is not actually my job.  It is the unique work of the Holy Spirit.  It was folly and hubris all those angsty years when I thought I could do that.

I will spend my time in preparation this Christmas - that the moving of hearts is His work does not get me off the hook for mine.  And some of that work is simply to pray, "Come, Holy Spirit, come."

Like Trees in November

A book that I return to frequently is Richard Adam's Watership Down.  For those who have not had the pleasure, it is the story of a group of rabbits escaping a warren being destroyed for a housing development and their journey and struggle to establish a new warren.  I give the synopsis for those who might be inclined ot read it but aren't fond of books with talking rabbits - it is about talking rabbits.  And that makes it sound rather cartoonish.  It is anything but.

There is a chapter entitled "Like Trees in November."  The plot of the chapter is not what got me thinking - rather simply its title.  November is just behind us and the emptiness of the trees and the grey cold dampness in the air are all familiar to me.  I have lived in this clime for decades and it has been the same.  The skeletal branches and colorless sky are hardly cheering images.  Perhaps not cheering, but comforting.  Comforting like a minor key in music.  November, or early December for that matter, is just like that.  It is not uplifting like the brightness of a May day or refreshing like a spring shower but comforting nonetheless.  And largely so because it is familiar; like every other November I have seen - an old friend.  This season is rather like Eeyore or Puddleglum - gloomy but steadfast, predictably there.

I wonder if the pursuit of happiness, our deep desire to be pleased or entertained or joyful at all times, isn't unrealistic and ultimately unhealthy.  The things we need to do to maintain the perky and up state have a toll on our bodies and our souls.  I wonder if the quiet sadness of November isn't actually a gift to us.  We simply can't be perky and up all the time and if we were, it would no longer seem so.  The grey seasons add flavor to the glory ones.

I write this in the first week of Advent - a new beginning to the church year - after a hiatus of some weeks from writing.  Advent, like the month in which it often begins, has a familiar and comforting melancholy to it if you are paying attention.  Scripture lessons in both the daily and Sunday lectionaries speak to the themes of Advent - the coming end of all things when Jesus will return as glorious judge and the promise an hope of that same judge as Savior.  It is somber because of the former and comforting due to the latter.  One of my favorite hymns of the season is O com, O come Emmanuel, itself in a Novemberish minor key - seasonally appropriate and appropriately comforting.

It is only in writing this that I am beginning to understand what is so comforting about Advent and trees in November.  To be sure it is the familiarity and the faithful reappearance each year.  But also it is the quietness of soul which, at least for me, it brings.  God is in the quiet greyness and that is of ultimate comfort.