Christmas Day Stories, 2005

25 December 2005

First UU Church of Austin

4700 Grover Ave., Austin, TX 78756

www.austinuu.org

Prayer

Let us not forget the spirit of Christmas. Let us keep it in our hearts. The spirit of compassion, the gift of tenderness and love: let us keep these with us always.

Let us remember our most generous and caring gift to someone else this season. For what we did that once, we can do more often, if only we will.

We who are capable of both good and evil, of compassion and of indifference, let us treat one another in ways that beg to be remembered, rather than forgiven.

For there is a spirit that wants to be born within us, and it needs our help. The spirit of simple and direct care for one another wants to be born. The better angels of our nature want to be heard.

And so let us not forget the spirit of Christmas. Let us keep it in our hearts. The spirit of compassion, the gifts of tenderness and love: let us keep these with us: today, tomorrow, and always.

Amen.

HOMILY: The Angel of Marye’s Heights

Jack Harris-Bonham

Introduction: You know the story of Jesus’ birth. Most times it is the second chapter of Luke that’s read in Christmas services, And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed – And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child – And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn (Luke 2:1-7 KJV).

And, of course, this story of a virgin birth and the birth being in a stable, a cave dug into the side of a hill, mirrors the birth of Mithras. This birth from the darkness of a cave into the light also fits the worship of the Sun, which during the Winter Solstice has reached its nadir and after December the 21st the days grow longer. To ancient communities tied to their agricultural traditions, this rebirth of the sun is of absolute importance for without it crops would not grow to maturity and the harvest would fail.

But the New Testament story of the birth of Jesus is still a story unto itself. All stories borrow from other stories, for, in truth, there is nothing new under the sun.

But this is not the only part of the Christmas story that is told in the New Testament. Remember there are four gospels although only Matthew and Luke deal with the birthing of Jesus, Mark and John seem satisfied to begin with the baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist.

But for a storyteller like myself it’s imperative to consider all the elements of the birthing story because it is with all these elements that we begin to get a picture of this man called Jesus. And here I’m not referring to whether or not this man was an historical person, but only to the man known as Jesus within the texts we have – in other words – the man Jesus as a character in his own story.

And so it is that I now turn to the part of the story in Matthew, which has entertained many throughout the ages, and has been a part of every nativity scene since nativity scenes were made, and I’m referring to the Three Wise Men.

For the Western Christian church whose center is still Rome the celebration of the epiphany is simply the visit of the Magi – which symbolizes the Messiah being presented to the Gentiles.

The wise men were not Jews. They are usually identified as Persian Priests, which make them Zoroastrian, or Mithraic Priests. The Christian Church borrowed the Zoroastrian story of people following a special star to find a newborn savior.

Back when the orthodox churches were struggling to make a Christian calendar two separate dates for Jesus’ birth were celebrated. The Eastern Orthodox and Eastern Rite churches chose January 6th. The Roman Catholic Church chose December the 25th. It is between these two dates that we celebrate the 12 days of Christmas. Thank God the merchants haven’t gotten a hold of that one! There are only 10 shopping days till Christmas, or 22 days if you’ve been slow on the uptake!

At the beginning of the movie, “The Life of Bryan,” the three wise men come into a stable and lay their gifts down in front of the child. When they ask the child’s name and find out that it’s Bryan they realize their mistake and begin taking back their gifts. Before it’s all over they have to wrestle the last gifts from Bryan’s mother, eventually knocking her down in the process. It’s a funny moment in the film, but it points to a darker aspect of Jesus’ birth that’s usually not talked about at Christmas time.

Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, Saying. Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east and have come to worship him – And Herod sent them to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also (Matthew 2: 1-2, 8 KJV).

Then of course the wise men, being wise, had a dream in which they were told not to return to Herod, left for their country by another route. And likewise – I love the fairy tale like quality of these stories – Joseph is warned by none other than the Angel of the Lord to flee into Egypt until Herod dies, and he takes his young wife and newborn son and does so.

When Herod found out that he’d been mocked and outsmarted by the wise men he “slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under.”

Now, the Jesus of this story – if he is the Jesus who teaches love your neighbor as yourself, and be good to those who persecute you, then, how does this Jesus feel about his birth being a blood bath for the babies and toddlers of the Bethlehem area?

I say that this incident informed Jesus’ ministry, that it was a part of who he was as a teacher and healer. In fact, from a story standpoint, this incident foreshadows his own death. The children that died because Jesus was born in their town, the innocents that were murdered foretell the fact that Jesus himself would be innocent of the charges brought against him, and his death is the other bookend of this Messianic story.

And now I wish to speak about a subject that you will feel is totally unrelated to the birth of Jesus, but it is not. I wish to speak of a Civil War battle, the battle of Fredericksburg, Virginia; especially I wish to speak of the culmination of that battle – that day, 13 December 1862.

On that day Union General Ambrose Burnside sent seven divisions, two brigades in each division, fourteen brigades in all, across the Rappahannock River on pontoon bridges, through the town of Fredericksburg to the southwest corner of the town. From there they had to cross a field on a slight incline of about 400 yards to the base of a hill called Marye’s Hill or Marye’s Heights. At the bottom of that hill there was a stonewall and standing behind that stonewall there were Rebel troops and this is what you could see of those Rebel troops as they aimed at the Yankee boys who came running up that hill. And what you could see of those Billy Yanks? All of them from head to toe. Some of those Yanks had love letters on them and in one diary one soldier had written, “Fredericksburg – today I die!” They had their names pinned to their clothes so that they could be later identified.

Now, if General Burnside really wanted that hill he could have taken all seven divisions, all fourteen brigades and he could have charged them all at once. Oh, he would have lost lots of men, but he could have taken the Heights. But instead of doing it that way he decided he would have brigade at a time attack – sort of an intramural contest – to see which brigade could get there first. So they attacked separately into the teeth and the strength of the enemy – into the teeth and the strength of the enemy – into the teeth and the strength of the enemy – fourteen charges in all!

Now, on top of that hill – out of rifled musket range there stood two Confederate Generals – General Longstreet and General Lee. As the attacks progressed, finally, for lack of anything better to say, General Longstreet turned to General Lee and he said, “Those Union boys are falling like rain off the eves of a house.” General Lee turned to General Longstreet and he said something very profound, he said, “It’s a good thing war is so terrible, otherwise we’d grow even more fond of it.”

At the end of the day, when all fourteen brigades had been repulsed, and the dead and dying lay on the frozen fields in front of the stonewall, Sergeant Richard Kirkland of the 2nd South Carolina approached his commander General Kershaw. Sergeant Kirkland asked General Kershaw if he could hear the cries of the wounded on the other side of the stonewall and then he added, “I can’t stand this! All day and all night I have heard those poor people crying for water, and I can stand it no longer. I – ask permission – to give them water.”

General Kershaw looked at the young sergeant with his neatly mended uniform and his trimmed moustache. “You’re likely enough to get a bullet through the head when you step over that wall.”

The sergeant looked down at his muddied boots. “I know that,” he said, as he looked the general in the eye, he added, “but if you’ll permit me, sir, I am willing to try.”

When Sergeant Kirkland stepped over the wall, Union sharpshooters lowered their barrels in his direction. Funny he wasn’t carrying a weapon and if he was a scavenger why was he carrying all those canteens. Then Sergeant Kirkland knelt at the first wounded Union soldier and gave him water, then another, and another. Both sides watched in disbelief as what became known as the Angel of Marye’s Heights ministered aid and water to the hundreds of wounded union soldiers lying in those fields.

“Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you-” (Matthew 5:43-44 KJV)

Conclusion: In both cases – the birth of Jesus and the slaughter at the stonewall – in both cases the slaughter of innocence was overcome by innocence itself. In unpredictable ways there was a new birth, a new way to be. And it’s not that the slaughter was overcome, but rather witnessed by innocence, and not simply witnessed, but ministered to. There is a way to see Jesus’ ministry as nothing more or less than making up for the death of those innocent babies born near Bethlehem.

It’s a matter of focal points. If Jesus does nothing when he grows up – if the story of Jesus was simply the story of a man who could have cared less for other men, then the focal point of his life would have been the deaths of those innocence children. If Sergeant Kirkland had not crossed that wall what would have been a slaughter would have been nothing more than a slaughter. By the way, that night as the Angel of Marye’s Heights ministered from soldier to soldier, that far south for the first time anyone could remember, the aurora borealis gyrated its brilliance above the battlefield. “And the glory of the Lord shown round about them, and they were sore afraid.” It is in the face of such odds that good people act.

And that’s my point this morning. The birth of Jesus and the Angel of Marye’s Heights – they are a mirror of every age and our own time. What do you make the focal point of life – it’s meaninglessness, the slaughter of innocence, the horror of war – or are there acts of redemption, small but powerful focal points which put this hard world into perspective?

What do you focus on and what do you make background? Maybe aesthetics bleeds into ethics here? Envisioning a better world with better myths and better stories – that’s how things start. Everything manmade that you can see was once an idea. When an idea catches on a new reality appears. What are you imaging this Christmas – for yourselves – your families – your town – your country – your world – your universe?

It’s time to cross over the wall and go forth into the battlefield. It’s time to succor the injured, feed the poor, water the thirsty.

Yes, it’s absurd, but someone has to do it – who better than those who propose to believe in the principles of unity and the universal?

The birth of Jesus.

Sergeant Kirkland, The Angel of Marye’s Heights.

The power of an act of love.

All of these simple remedies for unbelievably hard times.

HOMILY: Christmas Stories

Davidson Loehr

For your Christmas morning, both Jack and I decided to bring you stories. I had never before heard that wonderful story from the War Between the States – what Northerners, but not Southerners, call the Civil War. It reminded me of another war story, that happened 91 years ago today.

It’s the story of the Christmas Truce that took place along the Western Front during World War I. The Western Front was a fierce battle line extending hundreds of miles, and it may be best known as part of the title of the 1930 film “All Quiet on the Western Front,” one of the most powerful anti-war movies ever made.

But several days before Christmas in 1914, soldiers from a German regiment lobbed a carefully packaged chocolate cake across no-man’s land into the British trenches. A message was attached asking whether holding a one-hour ceasefire that evening might be possible, so that the troops could celebrate their captain’s birthday.

The British stopped firing, stood on their edge of their trenches and applauded as a German band struck up a rendition of “Happy Birthday”. Besides the mortars made of chocolate cake, thousands of German Christmas trees delivered to the front line helped transform the battlefield. “It was pure illumination – along the walls of sandbags along the trenches, there were Christmas trees lit up by burning candles. The British responded by shouting and clapping.”

What followed was a bout of unprecedented fraternization between enemy forces that has never been repeated on an equivalent scale. German soldiers bearing candles, chunks of cake and cigars met British soldiers carrying cigarettes and Christmas pudding into the no-man’s land between their opposing trenches. Soldiers left their weapons behind, as the two sides exchanged presents, sang songs and played football, using tin cans for makeshift balls and spiked German helmets for goalposts.

The truce collapsed shortly after Christmas when news of the ceasefire reached the horrified high commands on both sides, and strict military discipline was reinstated. – Though in one area in Belgium, the ceasefire continued until the end of February 1915. (© 2003 Independent Digital (UK) Ltd, by Tony Patterson, 12-24-03)

There may not be another war story like this, or another Christmas story like this, in all of human history.

The second story I want to share with you was sent to me by Hannah Wells, our ministerial intern of two years ago. It’s adapted from a story that took place in 1994, the last time Christmas fell on a Sunday.

THE GIFT

by Nancy Dahlberg (adapted)

(While I left most of the original writing, I rewrote some to fit my style, added a couple paragraphs, added the ending, and changed the sexes of the speaker and the baby. In the original story, the mother told the story about her baby son.)

It was Sunday, Christmas. Our family had spent the holidays in San Francisco with my wife’s parents. But in order for us to be back to work on Monday, we found ourselves driving the four hundred miles home to Los Angeles on Christmas Day.

It was normally an eight hour drive; but with kids it can be a fourteen hour endurance test. When we could stand it no longer, we stopped for lunch in King City. This little metropolis is made up of six gas stations and three diners, and it was into one of those diners that the four of us trooped, road weary and saddle sore.

As I sat little Mary, our one year old, in a high chair, I looked around the room and wondered, “What are we doing in this place?”

The restaurant was nearly empty. We were the only family, and ours were the only children. Everyone else was busy eating, talking quietly, aware perhaps that we were all somehow out of place on this special day.

My reverie was interrupted when I heard Mary squeal with glee: “Hiya, Hiya!” She pounded her fat little baby hands – whack, whack – on the metal high chair tray. Her face was alive with excitement, eyes wide, gums bared in a toothless grin. She wriggled, and chirped, and giggled all her little girlish giggles. Then I saw the source of her excitement, and I was repulsed.

There was a tattered old rag of a coat – obviously bought by someone else many years ago – dirty, greasy, and worn. Baggy pants, both they and the zipper at about half-mast over a spindly old body. Toes that poked out of what used to be shoes. A shirt that had ring-around-the-collar all over, and a face from another place and time, maybe another universe. He didn’t have many more teeth than our baby did. His hair was uncombed, unwashed and unbearable, and a nose so varicose that it looked like the map of a big city. I was too far away to smell him, but I knew he smelled. And his hands were waving in the air, flapping around on loose wrists, with no shame at all.

“Hiya, Hiya baby! I see you, cutie!” I looked at my wife, who was somewhere between nausea and panic.

But Baby Mary continued to laugh and scream “Hiya Hiya!” Every call was answered. I noticed waitresses’ eyebrows shoot to their foreheads, and several people sitting near us made those “ahem!” and “harrumph!” noises.

This old geezer was creating a nuisance and using my baby to do it! Not that she seemed to mind, as she bounced up and down shouting “Hiya Hiya.” I’m glad she’s friendly, but when she grows up she’ll learn there are boundaries, limits, for this kind of easy friendliness. If you don’t watch it, it can get you into a lot of trouble.

Our meal came, but the nuisance continued. Now the old bum was shouting from across the room: “Do ya know patty cake? – Atta girl – Do ya know peek-a-boo? – Hey, look, she knows peek-a-boo!” Nobody thought it was cute. The guy was drunk and a disturbance. I was embarrassed. My wife was humiliated. Even our six-year-old wanted to know why that old man was talking so loud.

I thought, “Come on, you miserable old goat! It’s Christmas! People are just trying to eat, visit, and recover from long rides in cramped, noisy cars. If you can’t respect our fatigue, can’t you at least care that it’s Christmas?

We ate in silence – except Baby Mary, who was in her own little world, running through her whole repertoire for the admiring applause of a skid-row bum. My wife went to pay the check, begging me to get the baby and meet her at the car.

It’s funny, though not fair, how just one person who doesn’t get it can ruin a day for so many others. I bundled Mary up and looked toward the exit where we could escape. The old man sat poised and waiting, his chair directly between us and the door. I thought, “Lord, just let me out of here before he says another word!” We headed toward the door.

But Mary had other plans. As I got closer to the man, I turned my back, walking to sidestep him and any air he might be breathing. As I turned, Mary, all the while with her eyes riveted to her new best friend, leaned far over my arm, reaching with both arms in a baby’s “pick me up” posture.

In a split second of balancing my baby and turning to counter her shifting weight, I came eye to eye with the old man. Mary was lunging for him, arms spread wide.

The bum’s eyes both asked and implored, “Would you let me hold your baby?” There was no need for me to answer, since Mary propelled herself from my arms to the man’s.

Suddenly a very old man and a very young baby were involved in a love relationship. Mary laid her tiny head upon the man’s ragged shoulder. The man’s eyes closed, and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime, and pain, and hard labor – gently, so gently, cradled my baby’s bottom and stroked her back.

I stood dumbstruck. The old man rocked and cradled Mary in his arms for a moment, and then his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm commanding voice, “You take care of this baby.” Somehow I muttered “I will,” from a throat that was suddenly tight. He pried Mary from his chest – unwillingly, longingly – as though he were in pain.

I held my arms open to receive my baby and again the gentleman addressed me. “God bless you, sir. You’ve given me my Christmas gift.” I said nothing more than a slurred thanks. With Mary back in my arms, I ran for the car. My wife didn’t understand why I was crying and holding little Mary so tightly, or why I kept saying, “My God, My God, forgive me!”

It was the Christmas that will never die, and never stop giving its painful, embarrassing gift of something so pure it could only have been of God. Lovely stories!

The last living participant in that World War I Christmas Truce died last month, at the age of 109. And a new movie has been released in Europe about the Truce. So 91 years later, the story lives on as a reminder of our higher calling.

And we know there’s a penalty for not honoring those better angels of our nature. It’s that feeling you had when the father in the last story cried out “My God, my God, forgive me!” Forgive me for forgetting. Forgive me for treating this homeless man no better than my society does. Forgive me for building walls rather than bridges. Forgive me for forgetting that he was my brother.

We have fewer than twelve hours left of this Christmas when those angels, those spirits, are so openly welcomed into our hearts. We do not want to forget them again. We do not want to forget. Before it slips away for another year, let us close by cradling these holy spirits in a prayer: