Homily given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, Sunday, December 19, 2021.

I wonder, how many of you, at this time of year, have some plants parked in front of your windows? It’s kind of nice, isn’t it, to have some green and growing things indoors? To say nothing of having a tree in the house! Now that’s something special and heartwarming, isn’t it?

Do you know the word “heliotropic?” It’s a scientific term for what some plants do—they turn toward the sun. If you have plants in your window, you may have to rotate them from time to time, because they grow toward the light. 

How many of us, at this time of year, are heliotropic as well? In this chilly season, don’t you find yourself turning toward the light, finding a sunny and warm spot to bask in for a time? Certainly our cats and dogs are experts at finding those sunny spots to claim and enjoy. I can tell you that, on winter afternoons, it’s quite lovely to stand in front of the stove in our little church kitchen, warmed by the sun shining through the window, while brewing a cup of tea.

There’s a little prayer that came to me the other morning, some words by Mary Austin for the start of day, that she calls “Morning Prayer”:

I arise, facing east,
I am asking toward the light:
I am asking that my day
Shall be beautiful with light, 
I am asking that the place
Where my feet are shall be light,
That as far as I can see
I shall follow it aright.
I am asking for the courage 
To go forward through the shadow.
I am asking toward the light!

Isn’t this a good invitation for these days, to be asking toward the light? In this season of dark and cold, in this time when many of us are wearied by the uncertainties and anxieties of our lives and by our troubled world, to rise in the morning, and turn toward the east, asking for a light-filled blessing?

I was listening to Handel’s Messiah in the car the other day, and the bass soloist sang these words, from the prophet Isaiah: 

The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light, and they that
Dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined (Isaiah 9:2).

These may seem like dark times we’re living in, but still, don’t we have plenty to be grateful for? There are always troubles and struggles; in every age people have to choose how they are going to live. Remember what the messengers of God keep saying in the Christmas story: “fear not.” As much as possible, don’t let you fears determine who you are or how you’re going to live.

Do you ever wonder about Mary and Joseph, and the shepherds, and those wise people from the east? What it would be like to be one of them? I love the invitation to enter into the story, and wonder: what would it be like to hear that you’re carrying the child of God, or to be Mary’s boyfriend, wondering how the heck she got pregnant anyway? What would it be like to be out with your sheep, minding your own business, and a choir of angels shows up? Or to set off on a search, following a star, of all things? 

Couldn’t you say that all these ordinary folks, whether following a star, or the advice of an angel, or one they love, aren’t all these taking a leap of faith and hope and love? Aren’t they all asking toward the light? And isn’t that what the story asks of us too? 

I love how Rebecca Parker invites us to take in and take on the Christmas story. “You have to know your body as the home of God,” she says, “and this is the purpose of Christmas”:

The bright star in the night sky
is the sudden clarity of your instinct for joy.

The birth cry in the night
is your child,
falling into the dark,
and your arms holding her.

The terror of Herod’s murderous intent
is your rage that would prefer death to change.

The singing angel is your voice at church,
not sure of the tune
but certain, for a moment, that there is glory.

The animals, breathing their warm breath
in the fragile stable are your emotions
kneeling into the body of earth
at ease in the presence of God.
Mary is you
God in your body.
Joseph is you
sheltering God in the world.

This is the key to the mystery,
The Word became flesh.

We are the dwelling place.

This is the invitation of these days: to see yourself as the dwelling place of the holy. To make room in your heart and soul for this beautiful mystery: God with us, God in us, now and forever,

Amen.