Holy Innocents

A Sermon by Kevin Bright

Matthew 2.13-18, Jeremiah 31.15-17, 1 Corinthians 1.26-29

Well that’s it all over for another year, ‘thank goodness for that’ some will say whilst others love it all so much that they call the words of the Elvis song to mind as they think ‘why can’t every day be like Christmas’!

I guess it all depends on what we really mean by Christmas.

I was looking online at what the Pope and Archbishop of Canterbury had to say about it. Not that Justin Welby has been well enough to say anything much in person due to Pneumonia.

In his sermon, released in statement form, the archbishop said of the World War One truce: "The problem is that the way it is told now it seems to end with a 'happy ever after'.

"Of course we like Christmas stories with happy endings: singing carols, swapping photos, shaking hands, sharing chocolate, but the following day the war continued with the same severity.

"Nothing had changed; it was a one-day wonder. That is not the world in which we live, truces are rare."

It’s not a cheerful message but it is one based on centuries of cold facts.

Those who heard Anne’s midnight mass sermon (which is available on the website for any who were tucked up in bed) will have heard that ‘of the Christmas cards received there were a few pictures of Mary and Jesus, but the biggest subject by far was the wise men, offering their gifts or travelling on their camels. ‘Mary and Jesus together with the Shepherds were way behind by number.

Of course there are always plenty of snowy scenes and Father Christmas images as well but unsurprisingly imagery relating in any way to the slaughter of young boys by Herod in Bethlehem doesn’t get a look in. Of course I understand why but it doesn’t make these events any less a part of the Christmas story, it’s just that we don’t want to dwell on this even though it’s very much part of the sad reality in our world.

If we are trying to think of an example we don’t have to go back very far to recall the 132 children killed in a Taliban attack in Pakistan recently.

Christingles and nativities seem far removed from such brutal realities and stories about cruelty, fear and despair don’t match with the idealistic fantasy of Christmas.

After we have developed a nice warm feeling inside with festive dining, gifts,  and best wishes for peace on earth around our Christmas trees, Matthew brings us back to reality as sharply as the sudden drop in temperature we are experiencing at the moment. As we are physically reminded that it is winter we are similarly jolted into facing up to the reality of our world.

The cold winds of winter take some adjusting to but once we do so we are reminded that there is beauty to be found in a frosted landscape. As our faith deepens and matures we find that in facing up to a reality which includes the unjust, sad and tragic elements of life that God is in there, somewhere. This is exactly the world he chose to be born into, a world of injustice, cruelty and danger. Where leaders demonstrate their power by killing those who threaten their status and continue to do so today.

King Herod (‘the Great’) executed anyone who he perceived as a threat to his throne, even including three of his sons and a wife so the elimination of some infant males in a small village would not have been big news to those that knew him. He was prepared to protect his privileged position with brutal force without a shred of guilt over the unbearable suffering caused to their loved ones. This was his definition of security and one which has been repeated through the ages.

Contrast this display of power with that of a God who reveals himself as a small, vulnerable and powerless baby. Indeed so vulnerable that his parents must seek asylum in Egypt if they are to avoid the same fate as the other boys.

The Pope reminded the world that little has changed over the last two thousand years when he stated that ‘advances in Iraq by Islamic State militants have forced tens of thousands of Christians and people from other religious minorities to flee’.

Matthew refers to the voice of ‘Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.’

We are introduced to Rachel in Genesis and hear of her great beauty and how Jacob is besotted with her.

Rachel dies giving birth while on the road to Bethlehem. In the midst of her suffering, the midwife tries to comfort her with the news that she is having another son who she calls Ben-Oni (son of my suffering) though Jacob named him Benjamin. Her child is the cause of her weeping but also her hope for the future.

The prophet Jeremiah draws upon this message once more stating that ‘Rachel is weeping for her children’ this time because they are being led into captivity and exile. He then offers hope that her children will return. Once again, her offspring are both her cause of weeping and her hope for the future.

Matthew tells us that the massacre by Herod is the fulfilment of a prophecy from Jeremiah.  Rachel weeps a third time, on this occasion over the slaughter of the children at Bethlehem. The next verse which we didn’t hear today offers hope as it tells of Herod's death and the return of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus to the land of Israel.

Each time we are given examples of why God offers hope that lives on but can be hard to see among the desperate sadness.

Sometimes we have to look a little beyond the immediately obvious to find true meaning. We are all probably guilty of wanting to believe a certain version of events knowing that the reality is going to be a bit harder even it proves to be more enduring and have more real meaning. Christmas is very much like that, we enjoy the socialising, the carols and the cosy images but how much richer can our lives be if we scratch beneath the surface to seek the real love God sent us in Christ? Love that is so strong that it can be with us in every aspect of our life’s journey through sadness and suffering as well as in the good times. Love for all of us for every day, rather than for a season.

It occurred to me that perhaps it’s worth going back to look at bit harder at the Christmas cards. When I searched inside there are many messages of love, friendship and encouragement, personal heartfelt messages, some of us will have written to people who particularly feel the loss of a loved one at this time. In doing so each message makes real the idea of an empathetic God who knows the pain of a parent forced to watch their child suffer and die.

I turned the Christmas cards over and was reminded that many are selected with thought and care, to publicise and support those who seek to alleviate human suffering with money going to Cancer Research, The Red Cross, Oxfam, Help for Heroes, Burrswood Christian Hospital, the Neighbourhood food collection, Hospices, Crisis and particularly poignantly of this Sunday when we remember the slaughter of the ‘Holy Innocents’ Save the Children.

I can’t imagine the agony of all who love the 132 Pakistani children killed recently and it’s hard to know how we can help. But as we pray for them our faith takes on an honesty which acknowledges that we don’t have neat answers to all the problems we face. Yet as people of the incarnation rooted in God’s love we also know there will always be hope worth clinging to.

After today’s sermon I don’t expect many will ask me to be Santa for next year, there hasn’t been a lot of ‘Ho Ho Ho’ has there. The reality of Christmas is a lot less attractive than many images on the cards but ultimately also far more compelling. I know today’s message requires some mental hard work and possibly some painful personal reflection but despite this, it is, and always will be, a message of joy and hope.

What many choose to regard as a fanciful Christmas fairy tale becomes a lot more difficult to dismiss when it manifests itself as a gritty determined love which suffering and pain cannot overwhelm.

Kevin Bright

28 December 2014

Holy Innocents

A Sermon by Kevin Bright

Matthew 2.13-18, Jeremiah 31.15-17, 1 Corinthians 1.26-29

Well that’s it all over for another year, ‘thank goodness for that’ some will say whilst others love it all so much that they call the words of the Elvis song to mind as they think ‘why can’t every day be like Christmas’!

I guess it all depends on what we really mean by Christmas.

I was looking online at what the Pope and Archbishop of Canterbury had to say about it. Not that Justin Welby has been well enough to say anything much in person due to Pneumonia.

In his sermon, released in statement form, the archbishop said of the World War One truce: "The problem is that the way it is told now it seems to end with a 'happy ever after'.

"Of course we like Christmas stories with happy endings: singing carols, swapping photos, shaking hands, sharing chocolate, but the following day the war continued with the same severity.

"Nothing had changed; it was a one-day wonder. That is not the world in which we live, truces are rare."

It’s not a cheerful message but it is one based on centuries of cold facts.

Those who heard Anne’s midnight mass sermon (which is available on the website for any who were tucked up in bed) will have heard that ‘of the Christmas cards received there were a few pictures of Mary and Jesus, but the biggest subject by far was the wise men, offering their gifts or travelling on their camels. ‘Mary and Jesus together with the Shepherds were way behind by number.

Of course there are always plenty of snowy scenes and Father Christmas images as well but unsurprisingly imagery relating in any way to the slaughter of young boys by Herod in Bethlehem doesn’t get a look in. Of course I understand why but it doesn’t make these events any less a part of the Christmas story, it’s just that we don’t want to dwell on this even though it’s very much part of the sad reality in our world.

If we are trying to think of an example we don’t have to go back very far to recall the 132 children killed in a Taliban attack in Pakistan recently.

Christingles and nativities seem far removed from such brutal realities and stories about cruelty, fear and despair don’t match with the idealistic fantasy of Christmas.

After we have developed a nice warm feeling inside with festive dining, gifts,  and best wishes for peace on earth around our Christmas trees, Matthew brings us back to reality as sharply as the sudden drop in temperature we are experiencing at the moment. As we are physically reminded that it is winter we are similarly jolted into facing up to the reality of our world.

The cold winds of winter take some adjusting to but once we do so we are reminded that there is beauty to be found in a frosted landscape. As our faith deepens and matures we find that in facing up to a reality which includes the unjust, sad and tragic elements of life that God is in there, somewhere. This is exactly the world he chose to be born into, a world of injustice, cruelty and danger. Where leaders demonstrate their power by killing those who threaten their status and continue to do so today.

King Herod (‘the Great’) executed anyone who he perceived as a threat to his throne, even including three of his sons and a wife so the elimination of some infant males in a small village would not have been big news to those that knew him. He was prepared to protect his privileged position with brutal force without a shred of guilt over the unbearable suffering caused to their loved ones. This was his definition of security and one which has been repeated through the ages.

Contrast this display of power with that of a God who reveals himself as a small, vulnerable and powerless baby. Indeed so vulnerable that his parents must seek asylum in Egypt if they are to avoid the same fate as the other boys.

The Pope reminded the world that little has changed over the last two thousand years when he stated that ‘advances in Iraq by Islamic State militants have forced tens of thousands of Christians and people from other religious minorities to flee’.

Matthew refers to the voice of ‘Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.’

We are introduced to Rachel in Genesis and hear of her great beauty and how Jacob is besotted with her.

Rachel dies giving birth while on the road to Bethlehem. In the midst of her suffering, the midwife tries to comfort her with the news that she is having another son who she calls Ben-Oni (son of my suffering) though Jacob named him Benjamin. Her child is the cause of her weeping but also her hope for the future.

The prophet Jeremiah draws upon this message once more stating that ‘Rachel is weeping for her children’ this time because they are being led into captivity and exile. He then offers hope that her children will return. Once again, her offspring are both her cause of weeping and her hope for the future.

Matthew tells us that the massacre by Herod is the fulfilment of a prophecy from Jeremiah.  Rachel weeps a third time, on this occasion over the slaughter of the children at Bethlehem. The next verse which we didn’t hear today offers hope as it tells of Herod's death and the return of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus to the land of Israel.

Each time we are given examples of why God offers hope that lives on but can be hard to see among the desperate sadness.

Sometimes we have to look a little beyond the immediately obvious to find true meaning. We are all probably guilty of wanting to believe a certain version of events knowing that the reality is going to be a bit harder even it proves to be more enduring and have more real meaning. Christmas is very much like that, we enjoy the socialising, the carols and the cosy images but how much richer can our lives be if we scratch beneath the surface to seek the real love God sent us in Christ? Love that is so strong that it can be with us in every aspect of our life’s journey through sadness and suffering as well as in the good times. Love for all of us for every day, rather than for a season.

It occurred to me that perhaps it’s worth going back to look at bit harder at the Christmas cards. When I searched inside there are many messages of love, friendship and encouragement, personal heartfelt messages, some of us will have written to people who particularly feel the loss of a loved one at this time. In doing so each message makes real the idea of an empathetic God who knows the pain of a parent forced to watch their child suffer and die.

I turned the Christmas cards over and was reminded that many are selected with thought and care, to publicise and support those who seek to alleviate human suffering with money going to Cancer Research, The Red Cross, Oxfam, Help for Heroes, Burrswood Christian Hospital, the Neighbourhood food collection, Hospices, Crisis and particularly poignantly of this Sunday when we remember the slaughter of the ‘Holy Innocents’ Save the Children.

I can’t imagine the agony of all who love the 132 Pakistani children killed recently and it’s hard to know how we can help. But as we pray for them our faith takes on an honesty which acknowledges that we don’t have neat answers to all the problems we face. Yet as people of the incarnation rooted in God’s love we also know there will always be hope worth clinging to.

After today’s sermon I don’t expect many will ask me to be Santa for next year, there hasn’t been a lot of ‘Ho Ho Ho’ has there. The reality of Christmas is a lot less attractive than many images on the cards but ultimately also far more compelling. I know today’s message requires some mental hard work and possibly some painful personal reflection but despite this, it is, and always will be, a message of joy and hope.

What many choose to regard as a fanciful Christmas fairy tale becomes a lot more difficult to dismiss when it manifests itself as a gritty determined love which suffering and pain cannot overwhelm.

Kevin Bright

28 December 2014

The gift of the star: A Christmas Story

Merry Christmas! This is the story I told in place of a sermon on Christmas Day morning. 

There are many tales told of the wise men who came to visit Jesus. The Bible tells us very little, not even how many there were. We just assume there were three because there were three gifts, but many legends talk about a fourth wise man, or sometimes woman, who tags along somehow, and this is one such story. It originally comes from France – but this version is my own.

There were four friends who lived in the East. They were all astrologers, who looked to the stars for messages. You may know of three of them, called Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, but there was a fourth too, and his name was Ziba.

Ziba, to be frank, was a bit of a dreamer. He just couldn’t make decisions about anything. There were just too many possibilities to consider. But that meant that at least Ziba kept his eyes and his mind open. And maybe that’s why it was Ziba who first saw the star. A new star, shining in the night sky; a bright star that surely meant something, but what?

Ziba called to his friends to come and see, and all of them agreed that this must mean that something important had happened. “It is said,” said Caspar, “that when a star appears a great leader must have been born somewhere.” The others agreed, but who, and where…? They asked all the wise people they could find, of every nation and faith, and finally they discovered that a nation far to the West of them, called Israel, was longing for a new king, a king sent by God, who would lead them in God’s name and establish God’s kingdom of justice and peace in the world.

“That sounds like a very fine hope, and surely, “they said, “this star must be the announcement that he has been born. We must go and visit him!”

“But of course, “said Melchior “ we must take gifts. Kings deserve gifts”

“Fine gifts,” said Balthasar. “What shall we take?” They agreed to go away and think about it, and, in the morning, when they set off they would each reveal what they were taking.

The morning came, and the camels were prepared for the long journey. When everything else was loaded, Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar came out carrying their gifts, wrapped in silk.

“I am taking the baby some gold – Gold for a king who comes from the splendour of heaven, gold to remind us that in him are all the riches of God’s love.”

 “And I am taking frankincense,” said Melchior “like the frankincense which is burned in the Temple, whose sweet smoke goes up to heaven as a symbol of our prayers, to remind us that this king shows us the face of God and brings us close to him.”

“And I am taking myrrh”, said Balthasar, “the ointment which we use for healing, because this king will come to heal the broken hearted.”

All four agreed that these were fine gifts.

“So, Ziba, what are you taking,” asked the others. “I don’t know,” said Ziba, miserably, “I can’t decide. I want it to be really special, but I can’t think of anything special enough – still, perhaps I will find something on our travels. By the time we get there, I’m sure I’ll have something to give.”

The other three rolled their eyes – typical Ziba – still, what could you do about him? He’d just have to come as he was!

So the wise men set off, heading westwards, in the direction of the star. It was a long journey, across the desert, stopping at towns and villages along the way. And everywhere they stopped, Ziba hunted for a gift for the newborn king. He looked in the bazaars. He looked in the libraries – perhaps a really special book would do, a precious book, full of wisdom. But there was nothing that was quite special enough. The days passed and the weeks passed, and still Ziba had nothing to give the child when – if – they found him.

When they got to Israel and to the court of King Herod – where else would a king be born? – Ziba even looked around there. Perhaps the King could suggest something? But somehow he didn’t trust Herod, and he was quite glad when Herod sent them on to Bethlehem. That was where King David had been born, so perhaps it was worth a try.

And when they got there – look – the star appeared. It was shining down on… that couldn’t be right!...an ordinary little house, and not even on the house, but on the animal shelter at the back. A king? Born here?

The wise men stopped and looked at each other. No one wanted to say it, but could this possibly be right? They got down off their camels and wondered what to do next. At that moment, a man came out of the stable. “Can I help?” he asked.

“I know this sounds daft, but we are looking for a baby sent by God, born to be a king, following that star, and this is where it seems to be shining…”

“Well,” said the man, “ I don’t know about messages in the stars and all that, but our baby is certainly a king to us, and a gift from God – come on in and see for yourself.”

Suddenly the wise men knew, somehow, that this was the place and this was the child. Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar reached into their saddlebags for those gifts they had packed so carefully, but Ziba, of course, had nothing to give.

Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar set off towards the stable. “Aren’t you coming, Ziba?” they said. But Ziba just looked miserable. “I have nothing to give the child. I can’t come in there with you,” he said. “ I will stay here and look after the camels – you go on in.”

So the three went in to the stable, and poor Ziba was left outside. “Well, while I am here I might as well do something useful. I expect these camels could do with a drink. I’ll fetch some water from the well for them.”

There was a well in the stable yard, and a bucket beside it. Ziba went across to the well in the stable yard and picked up the bucket beside it. He looked down into the well. It was very deep, and the water at the bottom was still as glass. And on the surface of the water Ziba saw the star, which had led them all this way, reflected in it. It was bright as day, and beautiful. “What a wonderful star” he thought, “What beautiful light it has. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

And suddenly Ziba had an idea. “What better present to give to the child than the very starlight that brought us here? If the star shines in the well, surely it will shine in the water I bring up in my bucket,” thought Ziba. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do – draw up the starlight in my bucket , and take it to the child in the stable.”

So, Ziba lowered the bucket down the well. When it hit the water the starlight shattered into a million pieces, but soon the water became still again and there was the star, shining in the bucket, just as it had before. Ziba carefully pulled the bucket up, and still the star shone there. Then he took the bucket by the handle and eagerly walked to the stable. He opened the door and stepped into the darkness of the stable. There were Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, kneeling in the straw in front of the baby and his mother, with their gifts laid on the floor in front of him.

They looked around to see who had come in, and Caspar came over to him. “Shh! The baby’s sleeping. What have you got there? “ he hissed. “ A bucket? We don’t need water in here...” “No,” said Ziba “ I’ve brought a present for the child.” “Huh! What?” “I’ve brought him the starlight. It was there in the well, and now I’ve got it in my bucket!”

“Oh Ziba,” said Caspar with a sigh. “Don’t you realise that it was just a reflection of the star above you. Now you are inside the stable, you won’t be able to see it. Look!”

And Ziba looked, and sure enough, all he could see reflected in the bucket was the wooden roof of the stable, and his own miserable face staring back at him. As he looked at his reflection, a big, fat tear rolled down his cheek and splashed into the water. “What a fool I am – not a wise man at all. And I still have nothing to give to the child.”

Ziba heard someone moving behind him, but he didn’t want to look around. He felt so stupid. He gazed down into the bucket again. If only he had been able to bring in that starlight – it was so beautiful.

“What’s the matter?” said a gentle voice behind him, and reflected in the water he saw the child’s mother bending over the bucket to look in it, and the reflection of the child in her arms too. And then a strange thing happened. The water in the bucket began to glow – brighter and brighter. The light was coming from the child’s face, and it filled the bucket, and it filled the stable, and it filled Ziba’s heart too. It was even brighter than the star, and more beautiful too. And suddenly Ziba realised that it didn’t matter that he had nothing to bring for this child. It was enough that he had brought himself, just as he was, dithering and confused. God loved him and welcomed him anyway.

And the wise men, all four of them, slept that night in the stable with the Holy Family and then the following morning began their long journey home again. At the end of their first day’s travel they stopped in a village for the night.

 The villagers were intrigued to know where these vistors had come from. So the four of them told them about their long search for the child, led by the star, and how they had found him in a stable and given him their gifts. “What gifts?” asked the villagers. “What did you give him?” “Gold and frankincense and myrrh”, they said – “and then there was Ziba’s gift….!” And Ziba told the story of how he had thought he could capture the starlight in his bucket, and how daft he’d been – it was just a reflection – but how the light of the child had filled the bucket and filled the stable, and filled his heart. “It was just an ordinary bucket, like this one,” said Ziba, picking up a bucket that was standing nearby. And he looked down into it,

And a strange thing happened. The bucket was filled with light, but this time it was his own face that was shining - lit up by this story he was telling, lit up by the love of God. And even stranger, when the villagers told the story later, to their friends and neighbours they found that the same thing happened all over again. Their faces lit up too.

And so it has been ever since. As the story has been told, so the lives of those who have heard it and told it in their turn have been lit up, with the light that shines in the darkness. And the darkness, however dark it is, cannot put it out. And maybe your face, and mine, might glow a little brighter this morning, as we hear and share the story of the child who is the Light of the World.

Amen

Based on a French Legend. My telling is adapted and developed from a version by Mary Joslin in The Lion Classic Christmas Stories.

The gift of the star: A Christmas Story

Merry Christmas! This is the story I told in place of a sermon on Christmas Day morning. 

There are many tales told of the wise men who came to visit Jesus. The Bible tells us very little, not even how many there were. We just assume there were three because there were three gifts, but many legends talk about a fourth wise man, or sometimes woman, who tags along somehow, and this is one such story. It originally comes from France – but this version is my own.

There were four friends who lived in the East. They were all astrologers, who looked to the stars for messages. You may know of three of them, called Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, but there was a fourth too, and his name was Ziba.

Ziba, to be frank, was a bit of a dreamer. He just couldn’t make decisions about anything. There were just too many possibilities to consider. But that meant that at least Ziba kept his eyes and his mind open. And maybe that’s why it was Ziba who first saw the star. A new star, shining in the night sky; a bright star that surely meant something, but what?

Ziba called to his friends to come and see, and all of them agreed that this must mean that something important had happened. “It is said,” said Caspar, “that when a star appears a great leader must have been born somewhere.” The others agreed, but who, and where…? They asked all the wise people they could find, of every nation and faith, and finally they discovered that a nation far to the West of them, called Israel, was longing for a new king, a king sent by God, who would lead them in God’s name and establish God’s kingdom of justice and peace in the world.

“That sounds like a very fine hope, and surely, “they said, “this star must be the announcement that he has been born. We must go and visit him!”

“But of course, “said Melchior “ we must take gifts. Kings deserve gifts”

“Fine gifts,” said Balthasar. “What shall we take?” They agreed to go away and think about it, and, in the morning, when they set off they would each reveal what they were taking.

The morning came, and the camels were prepared for the long journey. When everything else was loaded, Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar came out carrying their gifts, wrapped in silk.

“I am taking the baby some gold – Gold for a king who comes from the splendour of heaven, gold to remind us that in him are all the riches of God’s love.”

 “And I am taking frankincense,” said Melchior “like the frankincense which is burned in the Temple, whose sweet smoke goes up to heaven as a symbol of our prayers, to remind us that this king shows us the face of God and brings us close to him.”

“And I am taking myrrh”, said Balthasar, “the ointment which we use for healing, because this king will come to heal the broken hearted.”

All four agreed that these were fine gifts.

“So, Ziba, what are you taking,” asked the others. “I don’t know,” said Ziba, miserably, “I can’t decide. I want it to be really special, but I can’t think of anything special enough – still, perhaps I will find something on our travels. By the time we get there, I’m sure I’ll have something to give.”

The other three rolled their eyes – typical Ziba – still, what could you do about him? He’d just have to come as he was!

So the wise men set off, heading westwards, in the direction of the star. It was a long journey, across the desert, stopping at towns and villages along the way. And everywhere they stopped, Ziba hunted for a gift for the newborn king. He looked in the bazaars. He looked in the libraries – perhaps a really special book would do, a precious book, full of wisdom. But there was nothing that was quite special enough. The days passed and the weeks passed, and still Ziba had nothing to give the child when – if – they found him.

When they got to Israel and to the court of King Herod – where else would a king be born? – Ziba even looked around there. Perhaps the King could suggest something? But somehow he didn’t trust Herod, and he was quite glad when Herod sent them on to Bethlehem. That was where King David had been born, so perhaps it was worth a try.

And when they got there – look – the star appeared. It was shining down on… that couldn’t be right!...an ordinary little house, and not even on the house, but on the animal shelter at the back. A king? Born here?

The wise men stopped and looked at each other. No one wanted to say it, but could this possibly be right? They got down off their camels and wondered what to do next. At that moment, a man came out of the stable. “Can I help?” he asked.

“I know this sounds daft, but we are looking for a baby sent by God, born to be a king, following that star, and this is where it seems to be shining…”

“Well,” said the man, “ I don’t know about messages in the stars and all that, but our baby is certainly a king to us, and a gift from God – come on in and see for yourself.”

Suddenly the wise men knew, somehow, that this was the place and this was the child. Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar reached into their saddlebags for those gifts they had packed so carefully, but Ziba, of course, had nothing to give.

Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar set off towards the stable. “Aren’t you coming, Ziba?” they said. But Ziba just looked miserable. “I have nothing to give the child. I can’t come in there with you,” he said. “ I will stay here and look after the camels – you go on in.”

So the three went in to the stable, and poor Ziba was left outside. “Well, while I am here I might as well do something useful. I expect these camels could do with a drink. I’ll fetch some water from the well for them.”

There was a well in the stable yard, and a bucket beside it. Ziba went across to the well in the stable yard and picked up the bucket beside it. He looked down into the well. It was very deep, and the water at the bottom was still as glass. And on the surface of the water Ziba saw the star, which had led them all this way, reflected in it. It was bright as day, and beautiful. “What a wonderful star” he thought, “What beautiful light it has. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

And suddenly Ziba had an idea. “What better present to give to the child than the very starlight that brought us here? If the star shines in the well, surely it will shine in the water I bring up in my bucket,” thought Ziba. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do – draw up the starlight in my bucket , and take it to the child in the stable.”

So, Ziba lowered the bucket down the well. When it hit the water the starlight shattered into a million pieces, but soon the water became still again and there was the star, shining in the bucket, just as it had before. Ziba carefully pulled the bucket up, and still the star shone there. Then he took the bucket by the handle and eagerly walked to the stable. He opened the door and stepped into the darkness of the stable. There were Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, kneeling in the straw in front of the baby and his mother, with their gifts laid on the floor in front of him.

They looked around to see who had come in, and Caspar came over to him. “Shh! The baby’s sleeping. What have you got there? “ he hissed. “ A bucket? We don’t need water in here...” “No,” said Ziba “ I’ve brought a present for the child.” “Huh! What?” “I’ve brought him the starlight. It was there in the well, and now I’ve got it in my bucket!”

“Oh Ziba,” said Caspar with a sigh. “Don’t you realise that it was just a reflection of the star above you. Now you are inside the stable, you won’t be able to see it. Look!”

And Ziba looked, and sure enough, all he could see reflected in the bucket was the wooden roof of the stable, and his own miserable face staring back at him. As he looked at his reflection, a big, fat tear rolled down his cheek and splashed into the water. “What a fool I am – not a wise man at all. And I still have nothing to give to the child.”

Ziba heard someone moving behind him, but he didn’t want to look around. He felt so stupid. He gazed down into the bucket again. If only he had been able to bring in that starlight – it was so beautiful.

“What’s the matter?” said a gentle voice behind him, and reflected in the water he saw the child’s mother bending over the bucket to look in it, and the reflection of the child in her arms too. And then a strange thing happened. The water in the bucket began to glow – brighter and brighter. The light was coming from the child’s face, and it filled the bucket, and it filled the stable, and it filled Ziba’s heart too. It was even brighter than the star, and more beautiful too. And suddenly Ziba realised that it didn’t matter that he had nothing to bring for this child. It was enough that he had brought himself, just as he was, dithering and confused. God loved him and welcomed him anyway.

And the wise men, all four of them, slept that night in the stable with the Holy Family and then the following morning began their long journey home again. At the end of their first day’s travel they stopped in a village for the night.

 The villagers were intrigued to know where these vistors had come from. So the four of them told them about their long search for the child, led by the star, and how they had found him in a stable and given him their gifts. “What gifts?” asked the villagers. “What did you give him?” “Gold and frankincense and myrrh”, they said – “and then there was Ziba’s gift….!” And Ziba told the story of how he had thought he could capture the starlight in his bucket, and how daft he’d been – it was just a reflection – but how the light of the child had filled the bucket and filled the stable, and filled his heart. “It was just an ordinary bucket, like this one,” said Ziba, picking up a bucket that was standing nearby. And he looked down into it,

And a strange thing happened. The bucket was filled with light, but this time it was his own face that was shining - lit up by this story he was telling, lit up by the love of God. And even stranger, when the villagers told the story later, to their friends and neighbours they found that the same thing happened all over again. Their faces lit up too.

And so it has been ever since. As the story has been told, so the lives of those who have heard it and told it in their turn have been lit up, with the light that shines in the darkness. And the darkness, however dark it is, cannot put it out. And maybe your face, and mine, might glow a little brighter this morning, as we hear and share the story of the child who is the Light of the World.

Amen

Based on a French Legend. My telling is adapted and developed from a version by Mary Joslin in The Lion Classic Christmas Stories.

Midnight Mass: Who'd be a shepherd?

A few days ago I was looking at the Christmas cards we’ve received this year. They are all very nice cards, of course, and thank you to those who have sent us your Christmas wishes. But when I looked at them I noticed something odd.

A lot of the cards we’ve received have religious themes – it comes with the territory – but the thing that intrigued me was which elements of the Nativity story they showed. There were a few pictures of Mary and Jesus, but the biggest subject by far was the wise men, offering their gifts or travelling on their camels.  And there were just two that depicted the story we’ve just heard, the story of the shepherds. That may just be chance, but it set me wondering. The people who make Christmas cards presumably know what sells, and it seems that kings are the sure fire winner. I wondered whether this was a recent thing, so I started doing a little research into the way the Nativity has been depicted in history, and sure enough, I discovered that across the centuries, it has been the wise men who get the lion’s share of the artwork.

The earliest depictions of the birth of Christ, from the fourth century or so, are almost always of the wise men. It was around that time that Christians stopped being persecuted and Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire. Suddenly wealthy and influential people wanted to be associated with this new faith. They had their coffins carved with Biblical scenes, and they built grand churches, adorned with glittering mosaics – the shinier the better. One of their favourite scenes was the procession of the wise men – who gradually turned into kings - bringing their gifts to the infant Jesus as he sits on Mary’s lap.

It was no accident that they were so popular. After all, they had built-in bling. You could sprinkle them with glitter, give them crowns and brightly coloured clothing; all the fun stuff. You could add exotic touches of oriental grandeur. These were people from far away, symbols of international prestige. They would lend you a bit of reflected glory as they shimmered on your church walls. Why would anybody want poor shepherds, dressed in browns and beiges when you could have these glamourous figures?

There’s another reason why the wise men featured so strongly in early art, especially the art that featured on coffins, and that was the fact that they came bearing gifts. The wealthy people buried in them wanted to remind people – and perhaps God – of their generosity. Sometimes their reminders were pretty blunt. Some of the gifts carried by the Magi have numbers inscribed on them, representing the sums of money the donors had given… *

There are pictures of Jesus as the Good Shepherd in this early artwork but the real shepherds of Luke’s Gospel story don’t get a look in. It’s only much later, in the Middle Ages, that they appear in art, at a time when there was a spiritual movement to emphasize far more the human emotions, the down-to-earthness of Christ’s birth. But if my Christmas cards are anything to go by, they’ve never really achieved the status of the wise men. They’re just not photogenic enough.

The shepherds were popular in Medieval drama though, in the great cycles of Mystery plays, which were based on Bible stories. These were a form of community theatre, each scene being acted out by amateur actors from different trade guilds, played in the open air from the back of carts. But though they were popular, the shepherd plays don’t given their subjects much dignity or reverence. In a typical cycle of plays from Wakefield we first meet the shepherds out on the cold hillside, complaining about the weather and their wives and the stinginess of their employers. We expect the angels to arrive any minute, but no, their first visitor is Mac the Sheep-stealer, a notorious local rogue. After a bit of banter he manages to put some sort of spell on them so that they fall asleep, and when they wake up they find that Mac has gone, and so has one of their lambs. Mac takes the lamb home to his wife Gill, who lambasts him for his stupidity; the shepherds are bound to know who the thief is, she says. Just at that moment, sure enough, they see the shepherds heading towards the house. Gill has an idea. She picks up the lamb and stuffs it in an empty cradle standing by the fire and covers it with a blanket, then sits down on a chair nearby and begins to moan and groan loudly to cover the sound of the lamb bleating. The shepherds burst in, full of accusations. “No, no” she says “We haven’t got your sheep. All there is in the house besides us is this newborn baby in the cradle, one of twins, and I am about to deliver the other baby. I swear it’s true, and if I am lying I will eat the child in the cradle”, which is exactly what she plans to do, of course.

And the shepherds fall for it.

They beat a hasty retreat, and Mac and Gill think they’ve got away with it and start taking the lamb out of the cradle. But just at that minute the shepherds return; they’d forgotten to give the new baby a gift and have come back with a sixpence for him. The trick is discovered, and Mac gets a beating. The shepherds retrieve their lamb and go back to the hillside, at which point, of course, the angels appear.

The message of the Mystery play is clear. These shepherds aren’t just poor, they are thick as well, so thick that they can’t tell the difference between a lamb and a baby. They stumble through life more by luck than judgement.  I’m quite sure that shepherding is actually a highly skilled job, but that’s not how shepherds were seen in the Middle Ages, nor was it in the time of Jesus, when they also had a reputation for dishonesty, grazing their sheep on other people’s land. And yet  in the Gospel story the angels come to them with the news of Christ’s birth. These are the ones who are chosen. They haven’t done anything to deserve it, but they are chosen anyway.

“If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb” it says in the carol we’ve just sung, but actually in the Gospel story,  the shepherds take nothing with them at all, nothing but themselves.  Maybe they didn’t think of taking a gift. Maybe they had nothing to take. But it doesn’t matter. All they need to do is turn up and be there in that stable. God will do the rest, showing them something that will fill them with joy and wonder, showing them that he is with them, in the reality of their ordinary lives. It is a theme that is picked up through the rest of Luke’s Gospel as fishermen and tax-collectors, prostitutes and outcasts are called to follow Jesus, and are given new dignity and hope as they do so.

I’m not surprised that the Kings make it onto the Christmas cards far more often than the shepherds. They are the people our society values, just as much as it did 2000 years ago – wise and powerful, in control, with gifts to give to others. They’re probably the people we’d like to be, deep down. But if we’re honest, I suspect that most of us, most of the time, feel more like the shepherds. We are just muddling through. We might try to look as if we know what we are doing. We might do our best not to fall flat on our faces. But sooner or later it happens. However wealthy and well-put-together we look, inside most people are all too aware of their insecurities, weighed  down by dreams that have crashed and died. Even our sins are usually more cock up than conspiracy. Few people are serial killers or multi million pound fraudsters. The things that louse up our lives are usually not very exciting. We open our mouths before we engage our brains. We get enmeshed in petty arguments that spin out of control. We don’t mean to hurt others, but somehow we do anyway.

Most lives are more farce than epic, if we’re honest. And yet, says this story of the shepherds, God comes to people like us, in the midst of our ordinary messes, in the midst of our awkwardness and embarrassment, and plants his kingdom within us. He puts his work into our hands, just as he put the Christ child into the hands of those shepherds. We may feel we have no more to give him than they did, but that’s the point. All we have to do is turn up, with our eyes open, our hearts open, our hands open, and he will do the rest.

The shepherds go back to their flocks, says Luke, back to their families, back to their lives, telling everyone who will listen this message they have heard, that God is with them - even them - that God cares about them- even them - that God wants them to be part of his kingdom, building a world where his peace rules. And if God wants them and welcomes them, then surely he wants and welcomes each one of us too, ridiculous, fallible, broken as we are.

Amen

*The Journey of the Magi: Meanings in History of a Christian Story

Richard C Trexler p 24

Midnight Mass: Who'd be a shepherd?

A few days ago I was looking at the Christmas cards we’ve received this year. They are all very nice cards, of course, and thank you to those who have sent us your Christmas wishes. But when I looked at them I noticed something odd.

A lot of the cards we’ve received have religious themes – it comes with the territory – but the thing that intrigued me was which elements of the Nativity story they showed. There were a few pictures of Mary and Jesus, but the biggest subject by far was the wise men, offering their gifts or travelling on their camels.  And there were just two that depicted the story we’ve just heard, the story of the shepherds. That may just be chance, but it set me wondering. The people who make Christmas cards presumably know what sells, and it seems that kings are the sure fire winner. I wondered whether this was a recent thing, so I started doing a little research into the way the Nativity has been depicted in history, and sure enough, I discovered that across the centuries, it has been the wise men who get the lion’s share of the artwork.

The earliest depictions of the birth of Christ, from the fourth century or so, are almost always of the wise men. It was around that time that Christians stopped being persecuted and Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire. Suddenly wealthy and influential people wanted to be associated with this new faith. They had their coffins carved with Biblical scenes, and they built grand churches, adorned with glittering mosaics – the shinier the better. One of their favourite scenes was the procession of the wise men – who gradually turned into kings - bringing their gifts to the infant Jesus as he sits on Mary’s lap.

It was no accident that they were so popular. After all, they had built-in bling. You could sprinkle them with glitter, give them crowns and brightly coloured clothing; all the fun stuff. You could add exotic touches of oriental grandeur. These were people from far away, symbols of international prestige. They would lend you a bit of reflected glory as they shimmered on your church walls. Why would anybody want poor shepherds, dressed in browns and beiges when you could have these glamourous figures?

There’s another reason why the wise men featured so strongly in early art, especially the art that featured on coffins, and that was the fact that they came bearing gifts. The wealthy people buried in them wanted to remind people – and perhaps God – of their generosity. Sometimes their reminders were pretty blunt. Some of the gifts carried by the Magi have numbers inscribed on them, representing the sums of money the donors had given… *

There are pictures of Jesus as the Good Shepherd in this early artwork but the real shepherds of Luke’s Gospel story don’t get a look in. It’s only much later, in the Middle Ages, that they appear in art, at a time when there was a spiritual movement to emphasize far more the human emotions, the down-to-earthness of Christ’s birth. But if my Christmas cards are anything to go by, they’ve never really achieved the status of the wise men. They’re just not photogenic enough.

The shepherds were popular in Medieval drama though, in the great cycles of Mystery plays, which were based on Bible stories. These were a form of community theatre, each scene being acted out by amateur actors from different trade guilds, played in the open air from the back of carts. But though they were popular, the shepherd plays don’t given their subjects much dignity or reverence. In a typical cycle of plays from Wakefield we first meet the shepherds out on the cold hillside, complaining about the weather and their wives and the stinginess of their employers. We expect the angels to arrive any minute, but no, their first visitor is Mac the Sheep-stealer, a notorious local rogue. After a bit of banter he manages to put some sort of spell on them so that they fall asleep, and when they wake up they find that Mac has gone, and so has one of their lambs. Mac takes the lamb home to his wife Gill, who lambasts him for his stupidity; the shepherds are bound to know who the thief is, she says. Just at that moment, sure enough, they see the shepherds heading towards the house. Gill has an idea. She picks up the lamb and stuffs it in an empty cradle standing by the fire and covers it with a blanket, then sits down on a chair nearby and begins to moan and groan loudly to cover the sound of the lamb bleating. The shepherds burst in, full of accusations. “No, no” she says “We haven’t got your sheep. All there is in the house besides us is this newborn baby in the cradle, one of twins, and I am about to deliver the other baby. I swear it’s true, and if I am lying I will eat the child in the cradle”, which is exactly what she plans to do, of course.

And the shepherds fall for it.

They beat a hasty retreat, and Mac and Gill think they’ve got away with it and start taking the lamb out of the cradle. But just at that minute the shepherds return; they’d forgotten to give the new baby a gift and have come back with a sixpence for him. The trick is discovered, and Mac gets a beating. The shepherds retrieve their lamb and go back to the hillside, at which point, of course, the angels appear.

The message of the Mystery play is clear. These shepherds aren’t just poor, they are thick as well, so thick that they can’t tell the difference between a lamb and a baby. They stumble through life more by luck than judgement.  I’m quite sure that shepherding is actually a highly skilled job, but that’s not how shepherds were seen in the Middle Ages, nor was it in the time of Jesus, when they also had a reputation for dishonesty, grazing their sheep on other people’s land. And yet  in the Gospel story the angels come to them with the news of Christ’s birth. These are the ones who are chosen. They haven’t done anything to deserve it, but they are chosen anyway.

“If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb” it says in the carol we’ve just sung, but actually in the Gospel story,  the shepherds take nothing with them at all, nothing but themselves.  Maybe they didn’t think of taking a gift. Maybe they had nothing to take. But it doesn’t matter. All they need to do is turn up and be there in that stable. God will do the rest, showing them something that will fill them with joy and wonder, showing them that he is with them, in the reality of their ordinary lives. It is a theme that is picked up through the rest of Luke’s Gospel as fishermen and tax-collectors, prostitutes and outcasts are called to follow Jesus, and are given new dignity and hope as they do so.

I’m not surprised that the Kings make it onto the Christmas cards far more often than the shepherds. They are the people our society values, just as much as it did 2000 years ago – wise and powerful, in control, with gifts to give to others. They’re probably the people we’d like to be, deep down. But if we’re honest, I suspect that most of us, most of the time, feel more like the shepherds. We are just muddling through. We might try to look as if we know what we are doing. We might do our best not to fall flat on our faces. But sooner or later it happens. However wealthy and well-put-together we look, inside most people are all too aware of their insecurities, weighed  down by dreams that have crashed and died. Even our sins are usually more cock up than conspiracy. Few people are serial killers or multi million pound fraudsters. The things that louse up our lives are usually not very exciting. We open our mouths before we engage our brains. We get enmeshed in petty arguments that spin out of control. We don’t mean to hurt others, but somehow we do anyway.

Most lives are more farce than epic, if we’re honest. And yet, says this story of the shepherds, God comes to people like us, in the midst of our ordinary messes, in the midst of our awkwardness and embarrassment, and plants his kingdom within us. He puts his work into our hands, just as he put the Christ child into the hands of those shepherds. We may feel we have no more to give him than they did, but that’s the point. All we have to do is turn up, with our eyes open, our hearts open, our hands open, and he will do the rest.

The shepherds go back to their flocks, says Luke, back to their families, back to their lives, telling everyone who will listen this message they have heard, that God is with them - even them - that God cares about them- even them - that God wants them to be part of his kingdom, building a world where his peace rules. And if God wants them and welcomes them, then surely he wants and welcomes each one of us too, ridiculous, fallible, broken as we are.

Amen

*The Journey of the Magi: Meanings in History of a Christian Story

Richard C Trexler p 24

Advent Breathing Space: Something to sing about 3: The Gloria

The third in our series of reflections on the Canticles of the nativity looks at the song of the angels to the shepherds - the Gloria.

Colossians1.24-29, Luke 2.8-20

In the last of our three reflections on the songs of the nativity we come to the main event, the birth itself, and the shepherds, abiding in the fields, minding their own business until heaven bursts into their lives and the angels’ song chases away any chance of sleep.

These shepherds are interesting characters and their significance has been interpreted in all sorts of different ways. Some commentators have seen in them echoes of the shepherd images in the Old Testament; of King David the shepherd boy who becomes a king, and God himself, the shepherd who leads us beside still waters and feed us in green pastures. But the truth is that shepherds at the time of Christ were often regarded as very disreputable. They seem to have had a reputation for dishonesty too, often accused of grazing their flocks on other people’s land.  So maybe these shepherds are meant to foreshadow all the other sinners and outcasts whom Christ welcomed and honoured.

There is a third possibility too. These are, specifically, shepherds living just outside Bethlehem, which is just a few miles from Jerusalem. In ancient times this seems to have been where the lambs were raised that were used as sacrifices in the Temple. These lambs had to be perfect, without any blemish if they were to be acceptable. Maybe Luke is reminding us that Jesus is the Lamb of God, the perfect sacrifice that ended the need for sacrifice? It’s all speculation – Luke doesn’t spell it out and we probably miss things that would have been obvious to those he was writing for. But whoever they are it is clear that the shepherds aren’t the kind of people who would have expected to be first in line to hear about a royal birth. This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to them. Except that now it has.

A multitude of angels appear in the sky, praising God and singing the song which forms the beginning of the canticle we sing every Sunday at communion, the Gloria. “Glory to God in the highest heaven. and on earth peace among those whom he favours!”, or, as we know it, “Glory to God in the highest and peace to his people on earth.” The Greek can be translated in a number of ways, but the key to it all is the first word, Glory. This is a song that acclaims the Glory of God, the glory that is now spilling out onto the shepherds.

Glory was a very significant word in both the Old and New Testaments. Luke uses the  Greek word -“doxa” – but it is the direct equivalents of the Hebrew word “Kabod” (pronounced “kavothe”). Kabod wasn’t just a metaphor or an abstract noun to the people of the Bible. The Glory of God was an actual thing, a distinct phenomenon. The root from which it is derives means heavy or substantial. Although it is often described in terms of shining light, there was nothing ethereal about it. It was a weighty thing, full and abundant, but often terrifying as well.  Moses encountered the glory of God on Mount Sinai and  “the appearance of the glory of the Lord was like a devouring fire,” we are told. (Exodus 24.17)  And when he came down the mountain, his own face shone with glory so brightly that he had to wear a veil to stop it dazzling people.

It was the visible sign of God’s presence. Ezekiel the prophet described seeing the glory of the Lord leaving the Temple in Jerusalem before the Babylonians destroyed it. It wheeled up into the sky and over the mountains that surrounded the city until it was gone from sight. It was a powerful symbol of his despair for his nation. But he also had a vision of it returning just as it had gone. One day the Temple would be restored.

But now this kabod, this glory, is spilling out of heaven and landing where? In the midst of a bunch of shepherds. It isn’t shining in the Temple. It isn’t shining on some High Priest or king. It is shining on some anonymous, poor, ordinary shepherds.  And it is directing them to a manger, not a palace, and to the son of a couple around whom there was at least a whiff of scandal – a child born too soon after their wedding to be strictly respectable. This is where God’s glory is now coming to rest. This is where God’s presence is. Who would have thought it?

 “Peace among those who he favours” sing the angels, which sounds like a rather barbed comment. It’s fine if you are one of the favoured ones, but what if you aren’t? But the good news of the angels’ message is that in this child God’s favour rests on anyone who is open to it. Jew and Greek, slave and free, men and women, the respectable and the outcast, the rich and the poor.

As Paul reminds the Colossians we can look into ourselves and into each other and see “Christ in you, the hope of glory”. We don’t have to go up Mount Sinai. We don’t have to look in the Temple. We don’t have to wait for some religious expert to dispense it to us. God has come to live in each of us, and in those around us, in all his glory. In the silence tonight, let’s ask ourselves whether we really believe that – about ourselves, about others. If the answer is no, or not as much as we should do, let’s ask ourselves what difference it would make if we really did.

Amen

Advent Breathing Space: Something to sing about 3: The Gloria

The third in our series of reflections on the Canticles of the nativity looks at the song of the angels to the shepherds - the Gloria.

Colossians1.24-29, Luke 2.8-20

In the last of our three reflections on the songs of the nativity we come to the main event, the birth itself, and the shepherds, abiding in the fields, minding their own business until heaven bursts into their lives and the angels’ song chases away any chance of sleep.

These shepherds are interesting characters and their significance has been interpreted in all sorts of different ways. Some commentators have seen in them echoes of the shepherd images in the Old Testament; of King David the shepherd boy who becomes a king, and God himself, the shepherd who leads us beside still waters and feed us in green pastures. But the truth is that shepherds at the time of Christ were often regarded as very disreputable. They seem to have had a reputation for dishonesty too, often accused of grazing their flocks on other people’s land.  So maybe these shepherds are meant to foreshadow all the other sinners and outcasts whom Christ welcomed and honoured.

There is a third possibility too. These are, specifically, shepherds living just outside Bethlehem, which is just a few miles from Jerusalem. In ancient times this seems to have been where the lambs were raised that were used as sacrifices in the Temple. These lambs had to be perfect, without any blemish if they were to be acceptable. Maybe Luke is reminding us that Jesus is the Lamb of God, the perfect sacrifice that ended the need for sacrifice? It’s all speculation – Luke doesn’t spell it out and we probably miss things that would have been obvious to those he was writing for. But whoever they are it is clear that the shepherds aren’t the kind of people who would have expected to be first in line to hear about a royal birth. This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to them. Except that now it has.

A multitude of angels appear in the sky, praising God and singing the song which forms the beginning of the canticle we sing every Sunday at communion, the Gloria. “Glory to God in the highest heaven. and on earth peace among those whom he favours!”, or, as we know it, “Glory to God in the highest and peace to his people on earth.” The Greek can be translated in a number of ways, but the key to it all is the first word, Glory. This is a song that acclaims the Glory of God, the glory that is now spilling out onto the shepherds.

Glory was a very significant word in both the Old and New Testaments. Luke uses the  Greek word -“doxa” – but it is the direct equivalents of the Hebrew word “Kabod” (pronounced “kavothe”). Kabod wasn’t just a metaphor or an abstract noun to the people of the Bible. The Glory of God was an actual thing, a distinct phenomenon. The root from which it is derives means heavy or substantial. Although it is often described in terms of shining light, there was nothing ethereal about it. It was a weighty thing, full and abundant, but often terrifying as well.  Moses encountered the glory of God on Mount Sinai and  “the appearance of the glory of the Lord was like a devouring fire,” we are told. (Exodus 24.17)  And when he came down the mountain, his own face shone with glory so brightly that he had to wear a veil to stop it dazzling people.

It was the visible sign of God’s presence. Ezekiel the prophet described seeing the glory of the Lord leaving the Temple in Jerusalem before the Babylonians destroyed it. It wheeled up into the sky and over the mountains that surrounded the city until it was gone from sight. It was a powerful symbol of his despair for his nation. But he also had a vision of it returning just as it had gone. One day the Temple would be restored.

But now this kabod, this glory, is spilling out of heaven and landing where? In the midst of a bunch of shepherds. It isn’t shining in the Temple. It isn’t shining on some High Priest or king. It is shining on some anonymous, poor, ordinary shepherds.  And it is directing them to a manger, not a palace, and to the son of a couple around whom there was at least a whiff of scandal – a child born too soon after their wedding to be strictly respectable. This is where God’s glory is now coming to rest. This is where God’s presence is. Who would have thought it?

 “Peace among those who he favours” sing the angels, which sounds like a rather barbed comment. It’s fine if you are one of the favoured ones, but what if you aren’t? But the good news of the angels’ message is that in this child God’s favour rests on anyone who is open to it. Jew and Greek, slave and free, men and women, the respectable and the outcast, the rich and the poor.

As Paul reminds the Colossians we can look into ourselves and into each other and see “Christ in you, the hope of glory”. We don’t have to go up Mount Sinai. We don’t have to look in the Temple. We don’t have to wait for some religious expert to dispense it to us. God has come to live in each of us, and in those around us, in all his glory. In the silence tonight, let’s ask ourselves whether we really believe that – about ourselves, about others. If the answer is no, or not as much as we should do, let’s ask ourselves what difference it would make if we really did.

Amen