This Christmas when we sang “Away in a Manger”, I stopped at the part in the carol where it read: “…no crying he made”. Really!? We know Jesus cried as an adult when his friend Lazarus died: “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). If he could cry as an adult, surely he would cry as a baby. He was, after all, human.

And if the baby Jesus cried, did the shepherds hear him cry?

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night.^[1]

The shepherds were outside. And not temporarily. They were “living in the fields”. In Canada at this time, we would be winter camping. But most of us may have experienced camping in the summertime. Outdoors. In nature. When it’s a little warmer. Listening to all the natural sounds of creatures great and small.

Would we hear the baby cry?

The first of four nights we spent on the shores of the Salish Sea last summer, on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State right across the Straits from Vancouver Island. Arriving midweek, we were pleased that there were hardly any people in the small campground right on the water. Below us, where there was room for a tent or two, the sites were not occupied, thankfully! Assured of some days of rest and quiet, I enjoyed the view from our small cabin located on a ridge overlooking the water.

It was peaceful. Quiet. Only the sound of the gentle breeze through the Sitka Spruce trees and Western Hemlocks that guarded the shoreline. Only the chirp of jays and sparrows, and even a couple of ospreys. Occasionally I heard the distant and meditative throb of engines from an ocean tanker going to and coming from the ports at Vancouver and Seattle. It was a pleasure to be outside.

The weekend arrived, bringing more people to the campground including some families with young children to the tent sites below us. The noise levels increased. 

On the last morning, I sat down in my favourite spot in front of our cabin on the ridge beholding another glorious morning. I usually got up early as the sun was rising over the water and most people were still in bed. And it was quiet.

Except the baby crying. Right below us in a tent a family had pitched the night before, the sounds of a wailing infant sliced through the morning reverie. It wasn’t a consistent cry, either. The baby would scream – a desperate plea. Then, stop. And moments later, it would start over again.

My reaction was one of anger and frustration. How dare this baby interrupt my prayer time! I didn’t want to hear the baby’s cry. I wanted to hear the birds, the water, the wind!

But just then I started writing my Christmas Day sermon! Because in a moment of grace, I let go of the need to control my circumstances. In a moment of grace, I let go of my preconceived notions of where God was being revealed to me.

Not always in those uninterrupted, peaceful, and undisturbed moments. Not just in places and circumstances that I can control and manage. But in the spaces and places in between. When I loosened the tight grip on my world, something beautiful happened.

Would the shepherds hear the baby cry? Well, my guess is that they did. Why? Because they were “keeping watch over their flocks by night”. In the nighttime, a dangerous time—in more ways than one considering the violent politics in 1^st century Palestine. In the night when fears mount and dangers lurk in the shadows of our imaginations, they keep watch. They were awake, paying attention.

So, as the baby cried that early morning last August on the Salish Sea, rather than give up, I allowed the noise of the baby’s cry to become part of my prayer. I kept paying attention, listening even more carefully, going with the flow. And, when I did that, I noticed two things:

First, something I hadn’t heard on our trip until that morning when the baby cried, was a loon’s mournful song in the distance. I love loons. To me, the loon’s call is a sign of God’s call. In between the baby’s cries, a loon announced its presence in the cacophony.

And then the baby emerged from the tent, being held by a loving parent who rocked the baby and walked along the shore carrying their bundle of love. The baby didn’t stop crying right away when the parent held them. But I learned an important lesson of faith:

When I let go, when I can’t hold myself any longer—so to speak—God holds me. In love.

When the shepherds heard the baby cry, they moved into action. They didn’t wait till morning. They went right away—running even—to Bethlehem to “see this thing that has taken place”. And visit the Christ child they did, because they were already practised in the art of “keeping watch by night”. They were attuned to the sounds of God reverberating throughout all of creation, all of the time.

Christ is born! Jesus is with us, Immanuel. Will we hear the baby’s cry today?

^[1] Luke 2:1-20

“To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”^[1]

It had to take me reading the Christmas birth story from Matthew and Luke again this year to recall how it was when my children were born.

I had forgotten, now some 18 years ago, how anxious, fearful and disruptive the whole birthing experience was—more for Jessica than for me: The anticipation, then all the things that didn’t go according to plan while in the hospital, not to mention the physical pain and uncertainty surrounding the whole event. I’d forgotten how it was.

Bodies are messy. Birth is messy. 

Unpredictable, dangerous even. If we imagine Mary as only docile and sweet—a virgin—will we forget over two thousand years later Mary’s own sexuality and the real physical pain of bringing a baby into the world? 

Will we forget that Mary was a real woman, and Jesus a real baby who grew to be a real man? That both were flesh and blood, both had real bodies? Will we forget that a woman’s body was torn open by a baby forcing its way into the world, a hungry, crying, and helpless infant body to feed, wash, and warm?

I hope not. Diana Butler Bass asserts in her recent book, Freeing Jesus, that:

“Eventually, the mystery of God’s glory runs smack into the muck of human bodies; the divine Word became flesh from the same dust and spittle that made us all. Mary’s body brought forth the tiny body of God; Her water breaking and the bloody birth made possible the water and blood of the cross some thirty years later.

“‘To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.’ We emphasize ‘Savior,’ ‘Messiah,’ and ‘Lord,’ but forget the most amazing word in the angelic proclamation: ‘born.’”^[2]

The divine is hidden quietly inside the human. The holy is hidden in the physical and the material. And if in the human of two thousand years ago, God is not finished with us today. If in the material and physical of two thousand years ago, God is not finished with this physical and material world today. 

All is not lost. There is someone, somewhere. There is God whom you will find not in some otherworldly, cerebral, abstract sense. But born on earth. Here and now. Accessible to you, in the flesh. A people. Someone. Somewhere.

Perhaps the problem isn’t that God is missing in all the disruption and anxiety and fear surrounding this COVID Christmas time. Perhaps the problem is our expectations, and where we will look to find Jesus born anew in our time and place. Because God is Emmanuel. God is with us.

We have every reason to live in hope and trust and confidence.

Merry Christmas.

^[1] Luke 2:11

^[2] Cited in her blog, The Cottage (www.dianabutlerbass.com, 20 December 2021)

At one of our recent online confirmation classes, the students were to follow instructions given by Pastor Judith to make a Christmas star ornament – using a couple of sheets of white paper, some glue, a ruler, and a pair of scissors.

This is what it was supposed to look like when I was finished:

Well, after an hour of hard work, this is what I came up with: 

Not exactly what I had hoped for. At the time, even as the class was ending, I was tempted to keep at it, like the proverbial dog with a bone until I got it. But at the end, I had to accept and feel it, that it wasn’t going to work out for me, at that time.

In that class, there were about eight students. I guess I could take comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only one who didn’t get it right. But about four in that zoom room held up a properly made and beautiful star! Some did get it! And I could see and feel their joy at that sense of accomplishment. Even though the end result wasn’t ideal for me, individually, as a class it succeeded.

This might not be the Christmas you had wanted and desired: Family gatherings not happening the way you had always envisioned; Church events and services just not the same; That pall of fear weighing heavily over your soul about COVID-19; The grief over all the deaths; The worry about the ongoing pandemic danger threatening us all. It just might not be working out for you this holiday.

That first Christmas was not what anyone expected. It was quite simple and bare bones, close to earth. Literally. The holy night was indeed silent. No large gatherings and noisy parties. No one decking the halls and filling their bellies. 

And yet, somewhere, someone, experienced profound joy. Initially, just Mary, Joseph, the shepherds. And someone, somewhere, is experiencing the wonder of the season today in 2020. Somewhere, this year, children are having fun. Somewhere, someone is expecting their first child. Newborn babies bringing laughter to joy-filled homes. And yes, there are some whose hearts are filled with peace, gratitude and joy this Christmas.

Being a Christian is not being bound up in ourselves all the time. As Christians we don’t identify exclusively with our isolated selves. There is someone bigger, a greater love, that is part of us, the essential part of us, beyond our self-centred preoccupations. Following Jesus is never just about ‘me’, trapped inside myself. It’s difficult to get this, because we normally are totally identified with our own passing thoughts, feelings, and compulsive patterns of perception.^[1]

Rather than finding meaning in my own self, Christianity is about finding meaning in my relationship within the Body of Christ, the whole. How I connect with and identify within the community is where I find purpose for life in Christ. 

Perhaps this Christmas, I need to be happy that some of the kids hit it out of the park with this star. Perhaps this Christmas, especially those of us who are struggling, need to rejoice that Christmas is still being celebrated and felt by others. And for some, there is inexplicable joy. Thanks be to God!

It may just start with one small act of kindness. It may just start with a generous act of love to surprise someone else with the unexpected from you.

And so, I can say: Have a Merry Christmas.

^[1] Richard Rohr, “Self-Emptying – Letting Go of Our Very Selves” Daily Meditations (www.cac.org, 16 December 2020)