Christmas sermon 2023

There is the story of a little girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old, and learning to sleep in her own room. The little girl would often wake up in the middle of the night and make her way through the dark house to her mother’s bedroom, where she’d climb in bed and wrap her arms around her mummy, terrified of the loneliness and darkness. One night, the mother, frustrated with her daughter, tried a new tack. “Love, whenever you are scared, simply pray to God. God will be with you in the darkness.” The young girl looked into her mother’s face, and said, “Mummy, that’s fine, but I need God with some skin on.”

In the manger of Bethlehem lay God with some skin on. Emmanuel. God with us in the flesh of a little baby.

Most probably a teenager, Mary, cradled him in her arms, touching the skin of God. She felt his breath, the same breath that would breathe upon his disciples after the Resurrection, as God had breathed the breath of life into Adam. She felt his beating heart, the same beating heart of the one who would speak of hardened hearts being closed to faith and the pure in heart being blessed, and would assuring his disciples not to let their hearts be troubled.

We see that classic image in our minds of the virgin with child; the panagia of Orthodox iconography. A few years ago, I painted an icon of the scene during a course at the Bethlehem Icon School. By a minor miracle she emerged from the gessoed board during the course of a week’s tuition. Her eyes looking out onto the world. The baby has an old face, which in Byzantine icons conveys wisdom. The circling lines of halos and face and garments interlock to create a dynamic flow across the icon.

But this morning I see that ancient image in contemporary ways in my mind’s eye. This traditional image feels all too sanitised and sentimental a vision. It does not convey the rawness of much of the world which this child came to be amongst. I apologise in advance, I need to give this sermon a health warning, because to encounter the Christ-child of Bethlehem is to have a reality check and notice the hurting mothers the world over. It is also to see our complicity in the sins of the world through negligence, ignorance and wilful self-interest. The Christ-child should move us with compassion to seek to mend the world, but in the words of Isaiah, we need to ‘prepare the way, make the path, clear the debris, hoist high the flag of a better way’. The coming of God in the Christ-child at Bethlehem’s manger is a revolution; an act through which God draws all things to himself. 

So, this morning, I see . . .

A young woman, holding her new-born baby tight in a small flat in this city. But this is not a still image. She is shivering and her stomach aches for lack of much food. She, like a quarter of families in the UK surveyed by The Children’s Society for their 2023 Good Childhood Report, is regularly unable to pay her bills, and like ten percent of others families has run out of money every single month. I look into her face and see Mary’s eyes looking out onto the world. Her baby’s eyes have already seen poverty all around him. It does not have to continue to be this way. And she draws him close to her, feels his cold skin, his breath, his beating heart.

This morning, I see . . .

A young woman, holding her new-born baby tight in Asia. But this is not a still image. She is up to her waist in water, leaving her flooded home, and walking to higher ground miles away. On the front line of climate change, she has taken no flights this year, she hasn’t travelled in a car, she’s not thrown much away because even the rubbish she has is precious. I look into her face and see Mary’s eyes looking out onto the world. Her baby’s eyes have already seen what is happening to our single island planet home. It does not have to continue to be this way. And she draws him close to her, feels his wet skin, his breath, his beating heart.

This morning, I see . . .

A young mother holding her new-born baby tight in Gaza. But this is not a still image. She is fleeing through rubble strewn streets, as other women had fled with their children through their kibbutzim just a few miles away on 7^th October. One of less than 1,000 Christians left in Gaza, this Palastinian woman’s relatives are named on the list of the 20,000 killed so far, including some of the 9,000 children slaughtered in this war that is fast becoming a genocide. Throughout her pregnancy she has embroidered to make some money, including this stole given to me when I visited the Anglican hospital in Gaza City just three days before the war began. I look into her face and see Mary’s eyes looking out onto the world. Her baby’s eyes have already seen the worst of humanity. It does not have to continue to be this way. And she draws him close to her, feels his warm skin, his breath, his beating heart.

The child of Bethlehem comes to be with each of these women, and to be with each of us. He offers them his yearnings for love, hope and peace. Love in places of poverty. Hope in places of despair. Peace in places of war.

And he asks us to find room in our lives for his love, his hope, his peace.

In him even the poverty of our lives can be transformed by the riches of his love.

In him even the despair in our lives can be transformed by the promises of his hope.

In him even the grudges and conflicts in our lives can be transformed by the bridges of his peace.

Mary holds him tight, feels his skin, his breath, his heart. Hold tight those you love this Christmas. And go from this place with skin in the game, filled with the breath of the Holy Spirit, to mend with all your heart that bit of the world you can influence, by holding Jesus close to you, and being apostles of his love, his hope and his peace.