Remember (based on Matthew 2:13-23)
Amy Cox
December 29, 2013
Last Sunday we approached the manger through our children. In the innocence of youth, and the fabulous spontaneity and silliness that comes with it, we met the Holy family at the manger and basked in the warmth of divine starlight, serenaded by voices of hope. We watched as they laid cloth in the manger, one by one, preparing a place for the Christ child. With each offering of cloth, they brought so much more than mere fabric. Layer by layer the manger was lined with the fabric of a new Divine reality: Christ, born to an unmarried peasant girl and her carpenter fiancĂ©; Christ born in a feeding trough in a stable while ordinary people dined by candlelight in well-appointed rooms; Christ, the King of Kings, called upon by humble shepherds while the VIPs bowed before Herod; Christ, surrounded by an army of angels announcing God’s glory, while Herod’s armies announce darkness and destruction.
Pageants and carols are powerful ways of remembering our traditions, our history, the great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us—all that is constant and beautiful about the story of God’s coming. We need to sit in awe of God’s mystery and beauty—to let it wash over us like a balm for our tired, busy, torn-in-too-many-directions selves. We need remember that we are part of a narrative of hope that is written on our hearts through the song and laughter of our faith community gathered. We need to kneel together by candlelight and remember that we are taken care of and surrounded by steadfast love and grace. When we pray, listen to scripture, sing, and share in the Holy meal, we remember not only who we are, but whose we are. We remember that we belong to a God who takes the risked disarming completely in order to reside among us and be here for us—a God who put his fate in the hands of Joseph, a simple man, who wasn’t a VIP in any way, but simply faithfully got up and went when and where the angel of the Lord commanded.
Remembering is some of the most important work we do in a community of faith. In today’s gospel, the story we are asked to remember is not an easy or comfortable one. Today we are asked to bear witness to a Holy family who have become refugees, fleeing from a cruel and violent King bent on the child’s destruction, and who will murder countless innocents to insure that he is eliminated. This kind of remembering unsettles us. It asks us to carry our hope into the painful territory of suffering, loss and evil. It asks us to journey where there is weeping, reminding us that “A sound was heard in Ramah, the sound of crying in bitter grief. Rachel was crying for her children. She refused to be comforted because they were dead.” On the face of it, this gospel reading is something we would frankly skip over, thank you very much. But, like Joseph, we are asked to remember—to get up and go, following Christ even into the treacherous places where lamentations become the fabric of God’s story.
It may seem easier to avoid lamentation and skip ahead to the joy. But as people of faith we can’t do that, because God does not do that to us. The journey of our refugee God calls us to remember the whole story. For that’s what makes it Holy—not that it’s clear, perfect, and easy. It is a Holy story because it is the whole story— the pain and the fear, the doubt and the weeping, the praying and the pleading, the mess and searching, are where God goes. God will not abandon us in our anxiety, loneliness, grief, fear, addiction, or our sorrow because God is at home right in the midst of where we are. Even as we struggle, weep, or cry out in anger, God never leaves our side.
Throughout Advent, we have a special way of remembering the whole, Holy story of who God is. From Dec 17th to Dec 23rd the O Antiphons are sung at Vespers, which is evening prayer. Each of the 7 antiphons contains a name for the messiah given by the prophet Isaiah. They are thought to have been composed in the seventh or eighth century when monks put together texts from the Old Testament, particularly from the prophet Isaiah, which looked forward to the coming of our salvation. Through powerful scriptural images, they point to the very character of God. They became very popular in the Middle Ages when it became traditional to ring the great bells of the church each evening as they were being sung. They go like this:
"O Adonai and leader of Israel, you appeared to Moses in a burning bush and you gave him the Law on Sinai. O come and save us with your mighty power."
"O stock of Jesse, you stand as a signal for the nations; kings fall silent before you whom the peoples acclaim. O come to deliver us, and do not delay."
"O key of David and scepter of Israel, what you open no one else can close again; what you close no one can open. O come to lead the captive from prison; free those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death."
"O Rising Sun, you are the splendor of eternal light and the sun of justice. O come and enlighten those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death."
"O King whom all the people’s desire, you are the cornerstone which makes all one. O come and save man whom you made from clay."
"O Emmanuel, you are our king and judge, the One whom the peoples await and their Savior. O come and save us, Lord, our God."
The first letter of each of these antiphons in Latin, when read in reverse spell the acrostic "ero cras" which means "Tomorrow I will be there." These do not talk about a distant God, abstract and apart from His people. Rather they name a God whose very being is intricately interwoven with our being; a God who is as close as a burning bush and yet is the light of nations. As people of faith, we know that we have a God who is our advocate. We know that our God will follow us to the ends of the earth, into remote stables, into the treachery of war-torn streets, into the battles we fight in hospitals and the battles we fight in our own souls. We know how important it is to bring all of who we are and all of what we face before God, because God has already set up a tent there in the midst of it all. When we weep for those we have lost, God weeps. When we cry out in righteous anger at the broken systems that allow children to go hungry, God cries out. When we find ourselves homeless, God makes His home beside us. When we find ourselves broken and traumatized by war, God climbs into the trenches of isolation with us.
So as we move forward into the season of Christmas, which in liturgical time has only just begun, let us remember, as K. Mulhern notes, that “our God is not just one of divine transcendence, but a God who stands both outside and inside. A God who raises the dead, but not before he weeps at the graveside. A God who is the very divine gift of Living Water, and yet is desperately thirsty.” For when we remember the whole of our history and our lives before God, we encounter true holiness—not because God makes terrible things into good things, but because makes a home in the midst of us and won’t leave our side. So let us remember that even our laments are holy, because they speak of a God who disarmed himself to live among us. Who didn’t turn away from suffering, but entered into it on our behalf. Just as the children prepared the manger with swaths of cloth, let us take the fabric of Christ’s disarming love out into a broken and hurting world, embodying promise of the God who has always been with us, who is among us, and who will be there tomorrow. Amen.
Amy Cox
December 29, 2013
Last Sunday we approached the manger through our children. In the innocence of youth, and the fabulous spontaneity and silliness that comes with it, we met the Holy family at the manger and basked in the warmth of divine starlight, serenaded by voices of hope. We watched as they laid cloth in the manger, one by one, preparing a place for the Christ child. With each offering of cloth, they brought so much more than mere fabric. Layer by layer the manger was lined with the fabric of a new Divine reality: Christ, born to an unmarried peasant girl and her carpenter fiancĂ©; Christ born in a feeding trough in a stable while ordinary people dined by candlelight in well-appointed rooms; Christ, the King of Kings, called upon by humble shepherds while the VIPs bowed before Herod; Christ, surrounded by an army of angels announcing God’s glory, while Herod’s armies announce darkness and destruction.
Pageants and carols are powerful ways of remembering our traditions, our history, the great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us—all that is constant and beautiful about the story of God’s coming. We need to sit in awe of God’s mystery and beauty—to let it wash over us like a balm for our tired, busy, torn-in-too-many-directions selves. We need remember that we are part of a narrative of hope that is written on our hearts through the song and laughter of our faith community gathered. We need to kneel together by candlelight and remember that we are taken care of and surrounded by steadfast love and grace. When we pray, listen to scripture, sing, and share in the Holy meal, we remember not only who we are, but whose we are. We remember that we belong to a God who takes the risked disarming completely in order to reside among us and be here for us—a God who put his fate in the hands of Joseph, a simple man, who wasn’t a VIP in any way, but simply faithfully got up and went when and where the angel of the Lord commanded.
Remembering is some of the most important work we do in a community of faith. In today’s gospel, the story we are asked to remember is not an easy or comfortable one. Today we are asked to bear witness to a Holy family who have become refugees, fleeing from a cruel and violent King bent on the child’s destruction, and who will murder countless innocents to insure that he is eliminated. This kind of remembering unsettles us. It asks us to carry our hope into the painful territory of suffering, loss and evil. It asks us to journey where there is weeping, reminding us that “A sound was heard in Ramah, the sound of crying in bitter grief. Rachel was crying for her children. She refused to be comforted because they were dead.” On the face of it, this gospel reading is something we would frankly skip over, thank you very much. But, like Joseph, we are asked to remember—to get up and go, following Christ even into the treacherous places where lamentations become the fabric of God’s story.
It may seem easier to avoid lamentation and skip ahead to the joy. But as people of faith we can’t do that, because God does not do that to us. The journey of our refugee God calls us to remember the whole story. For that’s what makes it Holy—not that it’s clear, perfect, and easy. It is a Holy story because it is the whole story— the pain and the fear, the doubt and the weeping, the praying and the pleading, the mess and searching, are where God goes. God will not abandon us in our anxiety, loneliness, grief, fear, addiction, or our sorrow because God is at home right in the midst of where we are. Even as we struggle, weep, or cry out in anger, God never leaves our side.
Throughout Advent, we have a special way of remembering the whole, Holy story of who God is. From Dec 17th to Dec 23rd the O Antiphons are sung at Vespers, which is evening prayer. Each of the 7 antiphons contains a name for the messiah given by the prophet Isaiah. They are thought to have been composed in the seventh or eighth century when monks put together texts from the Old Testament, particularly from the prophet Isaiah, which looked forward to the coming of our salvation. Through powerful scriptural images, they point to the very character of God. They became very popular in the Middle Ages when it became traditional to ring the great bells of the church each evening as they were being sung. They go like this:
"O Adonai and leader of Israel, you appeared to Moses in a burning bush and you gave him the Law on Sinai. O come and save us with your mighty power."
"O stock of Jesse, you stand as a signal for the nations; kings fall silent before you whom the peoples acclaim. O come to deliver us, and do not delay."
"O key of David and scepter of Israel, what you open no one else can close again; what you close no one can open. O come to lead the captive from prison; free those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death."
"O Rising Sun, you are the splendor of eternal light and the sun of justice. O come and enlighten those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death."
"O King whom all the people’s desire, you are the cornerstone which makes all one. O come and save man whom you made from clay."
"O Emmanuel, you are our king and judge, the One whom the peoples await and their Savior. O come and save us, Lord, our God."
The first letter of each of these antiphons in Latin, when read in reverse spell the acrostic "ero cras" which means "Tomorrow I will be there." These do not talk about a distant God, abstract and apart from His people. Rather they name a God whose very being is intricately interwoven with our being; a God who is as close as a burning bush and yet is the light of nations. As people of faith, we know that we have a God who is our advocate. We know that our God will follow us to the ends of the earth, into remote stables, into the treachery of war-torn streets, into the battles we fight in hospitals and the battles we fight in our own souls. We know how important it is to bring all of who we are and all of what we face before God, because God has already set up a tent there in the midst of it all. When we weep for those we have lost, God weeps. When we cry out in righteous anger at the broken systems that allow children to go hungry, God cries out. When we find ourselves homeless, God makes His home beside us. When we find ourselves broken and traumatized by war, God climbs into the trenches of isolation with us.
So as we move forward into the season of Christmas, which in liturgical time has only just begun, let us remember, as K. Mulhern notes, that “our God is not just one of divine transcendence, but a God who stands both outside and inside. A God who raises the dead, but not before he weeps at the graveside. A God who is the very divine gift of Living Water, and yet is desperately thirsty.” For when we remember the whole of our history and our lives before God, we encounter true holiness—not because God makes terrible things into good things, but because makes a home in the midst of us and won’t leave our side. So let us remember that even our laments are holy, because they speak of a God who disarmed himself to live among us. Who didn’t turn away from suffering, but entered into it on our behalf. Just as the children prepared the manger with swaths of cloth, let us take the fabric of Christ’s disarming love out into a broken and hurting world, embodying promise of the God who has always been with us, who is among us, and who will be there tomorrow. Amen.
