Only The Star Remains; Isaiah 63:7-9; Matthew 2: 1-18
The miraculous, glorious birth is over. The shepherds have probably left the birth-place to return to their keeping watch over their flocks. The friendly beasts that attended this birth, feeling the stir of excitement that animals feel when something is very different, fell back into their normal animal routines, knowing through pure animal instinct that whatever it was that caused their internal stir was complete.
The very pregnant mother is more comfortable now, her months of expectation finally ended. The anxious father who had so much trouble finding a safe, warm place for the birth feels more relaxed. Things worked out after all, and even the stable-place and the rough-hewn manger proved adequate for the birth of this baby.
The angels sang well of the miracle, clear, bell-like voices filling the air with the thrill of hope for a weary world that could now rejoice at the coming of the savior. Even God, I suppose, felt a divine kind of gladness that the savior of the world was safely born and now the plan of the ages would begin to unfold so that all people who had walked in darkness could finally see a brilliant light that meant salvation and hope, joy . . . and finally, a peace on the earth like no peace they had ever known before.
But this morning in churches all over the world, songs are softer, numbers are smaller, candles and carol-books are packed away. Today, when all things wondrous are over, our faith in Christmas is tried and tested and made true by the serious stuff of the world. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.” Just a few short days ago, the earth sang that melody. But today, the noise of traffic and storm, wind and wailing, dying children and raging soldiers and devastated parents breaks in on our worship and threatens to overcome us.
It may help us to meet a little girl named Lucy, a character in the delightful story by C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Lucy found herself in the magical land of Narnia in the company of a Faun named Mr. Tumnus, who told her about the White Witch.
"The White Witch? Who is she?" Lucy asked.
And Mr. Tumnus answered, "Why, it’s she that makes it always winter . . ."
"How awful!" said Lucy, who became quite troubled and distressed about this White Witch. Later in the story, Lucy described the dreadful White Witch to her brother Edmund.
"She is a perfecty terrible person," Lucy told Edmund. "And she has made a magic so that it is always winter in Narnia -- always winter and never Christmas."
Young Lucy was understandably disturbed! Can you blame her? You and I would probably be just as disturbed if our land was in danger of losing Christmas and being stuck forever in frigid winter. Maybe that’s exactly our predicament! Maybe we live in a world more like the land of Narnia than we want to admit. Maybe, like Narnia, our world has a "White Witch" or two just waiting end our Christmas joy and leave us in perpetual winter. It may well be a kind of "White Witch" who robs us of our vision of a velvet, starry night in Bethlehem where a Holy Child was born, and leaves us with only frigid, dark, starless, winter nights.
The lessons from Scripture for this First Sunday after Christmas acknowledge the reality that we face when Chrsitmas is past: that a world of sadness and woe surrounds and envelopes us just as surely as the clouds of winter envelop our spirits and our souls. Isaiah recounts for us and for all people at all times “the gracious deeds of the Lord,” telling us that the presence of this Bethlehem Babe has saved us, and that the God who sent this baby to us is persistent and patient and persevering, calling us out of the darkness and difficulty of our lives and our world into the light of grace.
Matthew’s Gospel proclaims “a voice heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.” And on the television news, we hear mothers wailing over their little ones. Christmas celebrations have come and gone, and still the world presses in. Still, tyrants reign and try to force their murderous agendas on the peoples of the world. Still, tragedies occur, children die, tears are shed, and prayers are lifted up . . .
It was a holy night, the songwriter tells us, that night in Bethlehem. There was “a thrill of hope,” and the weary world rejoiced because a new and glorious morn had broken. It was, indeed, a night divine . . . a holy night when all anyone could do in response was fall to their knees and listen to the music of angels.
Now the holy night is displaced by the reality of the daylight when everything looks boringly normal, like nothing unusual had ever happened. The glory of it all seems lost, just as the words of Edwin Muir describe fleeting miracles: “. . .the world rolled back into its place, and we are here. And all that radiance lies forlorn, as if it had never stirred.”
Modern-day Christmas observances are very much like that first Christmas in some ways. On December 26th the normalcy is palpable, perhaps even depressing. The house is often trashed . . . wrapping paper and ribbon strewn about, gifts that don’t fit piled in a corner, refrigerator full of left-overs. The glorious Advent and Christmas eve worship experiences are over. The Christmas carols have faded into the nostalgic Auld Lang Syne. Family has gone home, and all the Christmas decorations you decked your halls with are begging to be torn down and put up in the attic until next year. I don’t know about you, but I am contemplating the reality of going back to work and resuming a rigid schedule that does not include holiday parties or holiday snacks brought to the office, or getting off a few hours early on Christmas eve. “The world rolls back into its place,” as Edwin Muir says, “and all that radiance lies forlorn, as if it had never stirred.”
So what’s left of all that was the glory of Christmas? What was left in and around that rude stable-place when the miraculous birth was over and the singing of angels had silenced? Just the star. The light of the star remained . . . a subtle, silent reminder that something wondrous had occurred. A silent, but very brilliant, sign that what had happened in that stable was bigger and higher than it seemed. A silent, glimmering reminder that all could see that this birth would have eternal significance for all the world.
Only the star remained, but it was a sign that all the earth could see in the night sky. Soon it would lead the Magi to this humble birth-place seeking the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. Soon the world would know, then and forevermore, that a pilgrimage to kneel before this savior, and to worship this child, would change everything in life.
Soon the Magi would see the star in the eastern sky and rejoice with exceeding great joy at the brilliant sight. The star would go before them, leading them toward their faith’s destiny, moving until it found its divine place over the stable where the young child was.
So perhaps this morning we are thinking that nothing is left of our Christmas. We may have a few more “things” and a little less money. We may have an extra pound or two or a refrigerator full of what’s left of our Christmas dinner. We may still have a warm memory of times with family, or perhaps a bittersweet memory of the loss of family. But all in all, Christmas for us is over and the phrase that Lucy speaks in the Chronicles of Narnia seems almost accurate: “It’s always winter and never Christmas.”
“The world rolls back into its place, and all that radiance lies forlorn, as if it had never stirred.” And yet, Isaiah’s prophetic words hold a different reality. “He became their savior,” the prophet proclaimed. “He became their savior in all their distress. It was no messenger or angel, but his presence that saved them; in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.”
The prophet’s words are recorded for us. . . for a people who, for the most part, walk in darkness hoping for a glimmer of light. It is very much our reality that we live with the darkness of pain and sorrow, lost loves and broken dreams, memories of what might have been, bitterness at what never was. And for one glorious moment in time, around December 25th, we almost believe in the Promise of Advent and the Savior of Christmas.
But when the last strains of silent night, holy night fade into oblivion, we discover that nothing at all has changed, that our hearts are just as forlorn as they were before the angels sang, that our destiny is still bogged down in the mire of our own reality, that our spirits still sense the weight of our human existence in a world that is still as weary as it ever was.
But just maybe that one brilliant star of that holy night still lives in our sky. It is quite likely that that very star that led the Magi to the infant messiah is a part of one of the constellations named thousands of years ago. Early cultures who watched the constellations move around in the sky during the year watched to discern the changing of seasons, the times for planting and harvest, the time to prepare for the cold winter. Sailors followed the stars and guided their boats from one place to another with the constellations as their only maps. Perhaps the star that led the Magi remained in our sky, shining over us silently, reminding us that when all the celebration is over, the star would remain reminding us of the birth -- and of the continuing presence -- of our messiah, our savior.
Isaiah was right. “It was no messenger or angel that saved them.” It was the presence of God made real to them, and to us, in the cry of a baby . . . a baby’s cry that promises that God will not permit us to dwell in darkness and despair.
Just as God wept with the mothers of Bethlehem and traveled with the holy family on their midnight flight to Egypt, so God weeps with us and goes with us, not abandoning us to despair, but loving us through and beyond it.
In dreams the Lord appears to Joseph in Matthew’s gospel, calling him to task, leading him away from danger, sounding the all-clear when the time comes to do so. But God doesn’t just talk to Joseph from the distance and darkness of the night. God remains with Joseph and Mary and Jesus and all God’s people, journeying with us, sustaining us, leading us through the trackless desert of Egypt, to all the places of refuge along the way, and wandering toward the destination which God alone knows.
And so for us, it is not the Advent candles or the worship banners or the lights or the Christmas trees. It is not even the Christmas story we read in the Bible or the Christmas carols we sing to proclaim the birth of Christ. Candles burn down and lights eventually go out. Words on a page, even on the page of our sacred text, are just markings made with ink. What remains -- the only thing that remains -- is our faith . . . as silent as the star in the east and just as brilliant. It is our faith in his presence that is our salvation. It is our faith that, even in our distress . . . even when Christmas glories are past and gone . . . even when the world rolls back into its dismal place and all that radiance lies forlorn . . . even when it seems as if it’s always winter and never Christmas . . . this Messiah, this Savior lifts us up and carries us all the days of oour lives . . . forever and ever.
