2nd Sunday of Christmas

There is a large Georgian terraced house in London, not far from Liverpool Street Station, that has been turned into a living time capsule by an artist called Dennis Severs. Stepping over its threshold is like stepping out of time itself as you are transported back into the daily life of the Huguenot family of weavers who lived there in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

The house is not a museum in the ordinary sense - there are no exhibits behind glass. Instead, each candle-lit room is arranged as though its inhabitants have only just stepped out for a moment. It’s a kind of ‘still-life drama’ designed to create moods that harbour the light and capture the spirit of past ages.

So, in the sitting room, warmed by a crackling coal fire, a clock ticks and chimes; a glass of brandy rests beside a Georgian armchair; a plate of freshly shucked oysters glistens on the table; a cigar smoulders in an ashtray. The cushions on the period sofa still bear the dents of a recent guest.

In the kitchen, there are dishes of Dickensian food, half-cut loaves of bread, herbs scent the air which is warmed by the embers of an old-fashioned range. The invitation is not to rush through each room but to linger - to absorb the atmosphere, to allow yourself to be drawn into another century, another way of being, pulled into the lives of those who used to live there. You walk through the house in silence so to deepen reflection. It is a remarkably effective, immersive way of bringing the past alive.

In much the same way, this short season of Christmastide is not simply an echo or an afterthought of the great feast. It is an invitation to linger and savour something of the life of the Holy Family so to fully appreciate the profound meaning of the Incarnation and the part it plays in the lives of ordinary human beings.

The world moved on from Christmas, as it always does, with the Boxing Day sales, eager to focus on the next distraction as the shops begin to fill with Valentine cards and Easter Eggs. 

But, in her gentle wisdom, the Church invites us to stay behind in Bethlehem for what’s known as the twelve days of Christmas. To take the time to look again and ponder more deeply how God entered the fragility of human life, so that no human being would ever be beyond the reach of His divine love.

The Incarnation is more than a historical event; it is a cosmic mystery which continues to unfold around us. The French theologian, Fr Teilhard de Chardin, said that ‘..by virtue of creation, and even more the incarnation, nothing here below is profane for those who know how to see’. He taught that the effect of the Incarnation is that, in Christ, matter itself is taken up, suffused with grace and oriented towards God.

This teaching stems from the Gospel we have just heard, which feels so different to that we listened to on Christmas Eve from Luke. John does not speak of angels or shepherds. He’s more concerned with Christ’s existence before creation, drawing from this article of faith a deeper appreciation of eternity and a more profound and mystical understanding of who God is.

“The Word became flesh and dwelt among us,” he writes. The Greek word John uses for “dwelt” literally means that God pitched his tent among us. He moved into the neighbourhood. Took on our language and our customs, our limits and, crucially, our vulnerability.

The lesson is clear and radical: there is no part of human life that God refuses to inhabit.

This matters profoundly. For some people, Christmas is not an easy time. It can act like a mirror held up to our lives, and for some, what they see there can sharpen grief, intensify loneliness and disappointment, or heighten anxiety. In families marked by long-standing fractures, the simple act of coming together can press on tender places, reopening old hurts and deepening tension. And so, beneath the lights and music of Christmas, many carry hidden wounds - often quietly and alone.

The seasonal, manufactured cheer of Christmas, brief and superficial – packed up by Boxing Day - does little to bring healing and reconciliation. Conversely, the birth of Christ, the incarnation, moves in the opposite direction, entering precisely what’s broken, accompanying the wounded on their journey and giving a depth of hope which provides a reason to go on when all other reasons have been exhausted.

The essential meaning of the Incarnation is not that life becomes more easy, but that we no longer face its challenges alone. That word we only hear at Christmas – Emmanuel – means ’God is with us’. Yesterday, I anointed an elderly lady in a care home. Not a parishioner here but a lifelong Catholic, she was coming to the end and in those final moments, the sacrament was a sign that she did not not face death alone but that Christ was walking with her over the threshold and into her new life.

The failure to recognise that God is with us is, perhaps, the reason many turn away from faith. They see God as a God who stands apart from the human struggle, distant and untouched, like a detached deity on Mount Olympus. Well, Christmas declares the opposite: God has come close and will not leave us, even if we turn our back on Him.

And in our Christmastide contemplation, the scene of the Nativity opens itself up to greater understanding. We see the meaning of the vulnerability of a child laid in a manger because there was no room at the inn, a vulnerability that will be reflected many years later here, on the cross. We learn lessons from Joseph, a man whose reaction to the confusion wrought by the angel’s message and Mary’s condition is quiet courage and trust in the Lord’s promises, even as his world is turned upside down.

We can look again at Mary, a young woman carrying the weight of the world, entrusted with the astonishing responsibility of bearing God’s Son - not because she was forced to, but because she was faithful. We see in her a supreme example to follow.

If we linger longer still, the shepherds arrive, trusting the angel’s promise that they need not be afraid. And later, the wise men, the Magi, coming from afar with gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh: gold for a king, frankincense to signify His divinity, and myrrh, a more troubling gift. Myrrh is a pungent tree resin used for embalming bodies, so it’s a gift that pointed beyond the stable to a lonely cross on a hill, where love will go to its furthest extreme.

The incarnation is captured by a very simple story of a man who’s walking down the street and suddenly falls into a hole. When he regains his senses after the fall he looks up and sees that the sides of the hole are so steep he can’t get out so, panicked, he begins to shout for help. After a while he hears footsteps and a face peers down at him. It’s the local doctor. Doc, he says, I’m so pleased to see you. I’ve fallen down this hole and I can’t get out. Can you help me? 

The doctor thinks for a moment and then, without saying anything, he takes out his prescription pad, writes out a prescription and throws it down into the hole. He walks away as it flutters at the man’s feet.

So, again, the man begins to shout for help and, after a while, there are more footsteps and another face peering down at him. This time it’s his local priest. Father, he says, I’m so pleased to see you. I’m stuck down this hole and I can’t get out. Can you help me? Like the doctor, the priest says nothing. He thinks for a moment, then he takes out a pad and begins to write out a prayer. He sends the prayer down to the man and it flutters to his feet as the priest walks away.

By now, the man is getting desperate and begins to shout until he’s hoarse. He’s just about to give up when there’s the sound of more footsteps and another face looks down at him. This time it’s his friend. Joe, he says, it’s great to see you. I’ve been stuck in this hole for ages. The doctor came, the priest came, neither of them helped me out. Can help me get out of here. Well, Joe thinks for a moment, then he says ‘yes I can’ and he jumps into the hole and stands shoulder to shoulder with his friend. The man looks at him and says ‘what are doing, we’re both stuck down here now’. Ah, said his friend, but I’ve been down here before and I know how to get out. Follow me….

If we allow ourselves to linger long enough at the manger, we discover that God was not only present in Bethlehem long ago. He is quietly there for us now, often in places and at times we least expect, waiting to guide us home. He’s still pitching his tent. Still moving into the neighbourhood. Still asking to be welcomed into our lives. We can be sure that He can and will help us because ‘he’s been down here before and He knows the way out’. So we welcome Him into our lives this Christmastide season.  His presence with us doesn’t deny that the darkness exists, but reassures us that it does not have the last word.