Nurture | Sermon

May You Unwrap Hope This Christmas

stjohnstmarkchurchburyTuesday, December 26, 2023

Christmas season. When I was a child I always hoped for snow at Christmas. Longed for a beautiful blanket of it. Dreamt of a white Christmas. Enough snow to build a snow man. It rarely happened, but it was always my fervent hope at Christmas time.

Hope – a feeling of expectation and desire according to the Oxford dictionary.  I wonder, what words and images spring to your mind in response to the word ‘hope’? Hope sits close to the word possibility. It is the candle in the night. It is the first light of the dawning sun. Hope.

Dancing between the lines

The Gospel reading set for this Christmas Day has hope dancing between the lines. The word is never mentioned, but the passage is laden with it. Hope. Hope is oxygen to the life of faith and the spiritual path. Hope is essential to our health in every sense of the word. Hope can enable us to stand in bleak places with resilience. Hope can suddenly break forth in joy – and add layers of meaning and nuance to life. Hope is the toast of the Christmas season. Hope will carry us through the winter – through the despair of Good Friday and beyond into Easter Sunday’s promise of a life beyond the horizons of all our todays. This profound hope, born in humble places, is at the heart of Christmas.

The backdrop to our passage is political – a census for taxation purposes ordered by the Emperor Augustus. Everyone had to head to their place of birth to be registered. Not Brexit – but Taxit. I wonder what they hoped for: ‘Will we get accommodation? Hope so.’ ‘I hope we meet the family.’ ‘I hope this won’t lead to more taxation.’ Some of our hopes are relatively small, trivial and often self-interested. But the music of a much greater, a much more profound hope is building throughout the humble setting of our reading.

I wonder

In the midst of all this, Joseph and Mary head to Bethlehem; she’s heavily pregnant. I wonder what they are hoping for. ‘Will we find a clean, warm place to give birth? Hope so. Will the baby be OK? Oh Lord, I hope so.’ I wonder what Mary is thinking. ‘How am I going to do this?’ I wonder if Gabriel’s words of hope are ringing in her ears. This is to be a son who will reign over the House of David, his kingdom will never end. These massive hopes for the future nestle amongst smaller hopes for a manageable labour. For it all to be OK.

Are we any different? Huge spiritual and political hopes often co-exist with the smaller, more personal hopes. I hope for resolution in our political conflicts, I hope for peace. I hope for life beyond the life we know. I hope I stay healthy. I hope for roast potatoes with my Christmas dinner and lots of gravy. Hope – profound hopes, trivial hopes – they coexist.

Shabby shepherds

Notice how profound hope is rooted in places that the powerful might overlook. God lifts up the lowly and raises up the humble. Listen as the music of hope comes to a crescendo when a group of shabby shepherds receive a visitation beyond their wildest dreams. They are amid the normal, humdrum round of shepherding. They are probably scruffy, a tad on the ripe side. Suddenly, the fabric of their normality is rent apart.

The angel of the Lord, shining, stands before them and these rough fellows are terrified. Notice the angel’s first words to them are the same as to Mary – ‘Do not be afraid.’ The angel brings good news of great joy for all the people. This is not a hope for the favoured few, for an elite clique. This is radical hope for all. The Saviour, Messiah and Lord is to be born. Notice that this hope is communicated to outcasts and is to be found in lowly places: ‘You will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’

Eternal hope in the ordinary

God plants his eternal hope in the ordinary. The sacred nestles among the profane. This is hope. God, Emmanuel – the Christ who is with us, Jesus, is born amid the everyday – then as now.

God is to be found over the washing-up, over a cuppa, in a conversation, in a flower, in a beautiful landscape, or seascape – in a mud hut, in our homes, on a bus. Heavenly hope is earthed in the local – available for all.

Hope surrounds us – God is here. Whatever you face today, whatever we face as a society. Whatever the world faces. Never give up hope. God brings light to the dark places; his love pierces the veil of tears; he breaks the rod of the oppressor; he gives us hope in his son who is named: Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. But don’t be fooled – this hope is earthed in skin and found in the vulnerability of a child.

This Christmas – somewhere between the turkey and the washing-up, – may you unwrap deep hope and discover the presence of God. Look in the ordinary places. You’ll be surprised.

‘May you unwrap hope this Christmas’ was delivered by Sheila Beattie at St John with St Mark’s on Christmas Day 2023. It was based on Titus 2.11-14 and Luke 2.1-14.