January 2, 2011

Second Sunday after Christmas Day

        That everyone may eat and drink and find satisfaction in all his toil – this is the gift of God… (Ecclesiastes 3:13).  These are the words of Qoheleth, the poet philosopher and author of the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes.  So, whatever other gifts the festive season has brought you, as I wish you a happy New Year, I trust you and yours have also enjoyed the satisfaction of good things to eat and drink in the company of family and friends.  If so then you have been richly blessed.

        It is to another poet philosopher that I want to turn this morning, T. S. Eliot, and his wonderful poem “The Journey of the Magi”.  As the title suggests, the poem recounts the visit of the wise men to Bethlehem and it is told through the eyes of one of them.

        A cold coming we had of it, he begins, the worst time of year for a journey; such a long journey.  Apparently the journey was not a pleasant one.  The camels were sore-footed and bad tempered.  So too were the camel drivers, cursing, grumbling and always on the lookout for drink and women.  And such were the hardships endured, not least the lack of sleep, that on occasions the magi wondered if their journey was folly.

        They persevered and at last they arrived at their destination.  The poem makes no reference to stables, mangers or the Biblical gifts of gold frankincense and myrrh.  Instead it is at this point we learn that the narrator is speaking about something that happened to him a long time ago.

        Evidently he had returned home to his kingdom, the old dispensation, as he describes it, but is no longer at ease.  Something about the journey troubled him – and that disquiet had stayed with him over the years.  That he had been led to make the journey, of that he was in no doubt, but led all that way for what – a birth or a death?  That was what troubled him.

        There had been a birth, he knew.  But rather than being a source of joy and delight, paradoxically he and his companions experienced this birth as hard and bitter agony, like death, their deaths.  Apparently this magus had gone home but no longer felt at home.  Something had happened to him, something had changed him such that he no longer felt at home among his own people.  I should be glad of another death, he concludes.

        If it is the dialogue between life and death that provides Eliot’s poem not just with a surprising twist but also gives it its theological depth, then it is a depth worth exploring.

        No, I haven’t come to church this morning still hung over from the New Year’s festivities.  Nor am I trying to revive the caricature of the Baptist minister frightened in case anyone caught him enjoying himself.  But on this first Sunday of this New Year it would be less than honest not to acknowledge that we are living through difficult times.

        Bad debts, bad practice, human greed, a failure of regulation: whatever the factors that led to the near melt-down of the world’s banking and financial services, we are still experiencing the fall-out.  As the nation’s debt mountain is tackled, budgets are cut and credit is squeezed, we are all left wondering how we will cope and where it will all end up.  Whether as individuals or families, the private or the public sector, like the magi in Eliot’s poem, there is a hard journey ahead of us through the weeks and months of the coming year, and no-one is offering any guarantees that it is all going to work out for the best.

        You might well wonder if it is being so cheerful that keeps me going!  So let me tell you what does.  Each Christmas season you will find it in Edinburgh’s city center at the foot of the Mound on the corner of Princes Street Gardens opposite the National Gallery of Scotland.  Because it is so drab and understated, it is easy to miss, surprisingly easy, and to walk past without noticing.  And in all the rush and pressing activity of the season I suspect most people do just that, walk by and not notice.

        Yet there it is every year, at the foot of the Mound, in the very heart of Edinburgh’s tourist and commercial center, overlooked by the castle, the university, the National Gallery and the Bank of Scotland, unannounced and unadorned, a simple manger scene with a mother and child.  And at this time of year we hear John’s audacious claim that not only did the Word become flesh but that this child is both light and life for us and for the whole world.  Here is the extraordinary claim of Christianity: that light and life came into the world, full of grace and truth, yet surprisingly unadorned, unannounced and overlooked.

        St. John’s words are as simple as they are profound – that the Word was made flesh and came to live among us.  These words point to the mystery at the very heart of Christianity, a mystery transcending time and space but paradoxically revealed within them, that the same God who created time and space chose to become part of it.

        The Word became flesh… but it didn’t happen in a capital city with a blaze of publicity – but in a stable behind the inn of a small Palestinian village.

        The Word became flesh… and the world’s press weren’t there to announce it and exclusive rights weren’t sold to a glossy picture magazine.

        The Word became flesh… and apart from Mary, Joseph and a few shepherds no-one was any the wiser.  This birth was unadorned, unannounced and overlooked, just like that manger scene at the heart of Scotland’s capital.  And that is what I want you to notice, that the truth of what theologians call the Incarnation is not forced upon the world but is offered as a gift.

        A child is born, a Son is given and then or now everything is different, everything changes.  Whatever the darkness now we have the assurance that God is with us.  However uncertain life appears we can live bravely and hopefully because God is with us.  Weak and vulnerable, wrapped in swaddling bands and lying in a manger, as this New Year dawns with all its challenges and opportunities, it is the cry of a new born child that gives us hope.  Amen.