Come, come, whoever you are: A Christmas homily

In a clergy discussion group the question of the Christmas homily came up. The question was this: How do we talk about a story that has been told again and again, year after year and is so familiar it seems difficult to speak of it in a new way? The question itself reveals that we are products of our culture; especially the Christmas culture. If it is not new or original or catchy, or flashy, or have a spin, or promise to make us feel better in some way we are not terribly interested. We preachers feel as though we must respond to a culture that says, Surprise me.

But the answer to the question does not lie in a grand retelling of Christ birth narrative. The preachers’ work is to transmit the core of the biblical meta-narrative, not tell the story. The story has already been told. And that meta-narrative does not change over time. And it cannot be improve upon. Nor can it be added to or parts of it removed. It is central and stable and unmoving. The meta-narrative is an invitation to return to the source of all things, return to God.  Preachers are much less storytellers as we are the re-issuers of the invitation. And the invitation is sent out again and again. Preachers remind the church and the world of God’s invitation to be open to and in communion with the Godhead because it is not just the uninitiated or unaffiliated but Christians themselves who are not always in communion, even though they may profess to be so. We know well when we have lost our way. And we do so with regularity. And we know when it is time to come home. And so the invitation is sent out repeatedly, week after week, day after day, hour after hour, and minute by minute by an army of preachers bearing the scrolls of stories, and proclamations of good news and forgiveness, and promises of grace and the assurance of the gift of unending, unconditional love. 

That is what the Christmas story is, in the final analysis; a grand invitation, the mother of all invitations (pun intended). This night, through song and word, in the reading of the holy and ancient texts, and in the offering of the sacraments are extended various incarnations of invitation.

This invitation to return was very beautifully put into verse by Rumi the 13th-century Persian, Sunni, Muslim poet, jurist, Islamic scholar, theologian, and Sufi mystic. Rumi's influence transcends national borders and ethnic divisions. When he died in 1273 he was mourned by Christians and Jews, as well as Muslims and Buddhists. Given that it was the Persian wise men, the Mystics from the East that saw the star and followed it to the stable to greet the newborn King lying in a manger, makes them part of the story. The wise men recognized the invitation and they accepted. They came bearing gifts and paid homage to the newborn King.

Rumi’s poem, a fitting reflection for us this night, is this: 

“Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.”

Captured here is the eternal call of God to God’s people, Come, come, whoever you are. It includes the wanderer and the worshipper, the lovers of leaving - we are, each one of us, all of those things, wanderers, worshippers (of something) and lovers of leaving. 

When I first read this I was moved to tears. Who among us as not broken our vows. Not the vows that bind us on earth, but the vows between us and our God. The holy texts tell us that we were known intimately by God while we were in our mother’s womb; in the silent world before we knew our mothers we knew only God. There we were formed and shaped and came to have our being. We are wonderfully made. God was with us all the while. But what do we recall of the timeless time before we were born into time? Time alone is counting the seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years we have believed ourselves separated from God. The invitation is to return by remembrance. Remember who you are. 

One of the parts of the prayer over the sacraments in preparation of Holy Communion is the prayer of remembrance. We remember the story of the last supper, the institution of the sacraments, and we are invited into the body through that remembrance. Worship has many kinds of invitations. It is a complex dance with many doors through which we enter to remember. 

The stories we tell are not a caravan of despair. That Jesus was born into scandal is not a story of despair. That the Christ child was born into the most humble, if not difficult of circumstances, is not a story of despair. That Jesus was marked for death at birth by the powers and principalities that ruled over the land is not a story of despair. The shadow of the cross that proceeds our telling of the Good News in Jesus the Christ is not born of despair. It is a proclamation of invitation. 

It does not matter how far you have wandered, what trouble you are in, or how deep your despair. It does not matter with whom you have consorted or followed or pledged loyalty. It doesn’t matter who you betrayed or what you have done, or worse still, all the things you failed to do or left undone. The wounds you did not bind. The hungry you did not feed. The angels you dismissed. Not one of us can claim a clean ticket. It does not matter. If it did, the story would be empty of its power; the invitation would be invalid. There can be no exceptions. It does not matter. You are invited to return, you are invited to remember to whom you belong and for what reason. You have only forgotten.

“Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.”