Jesus Christ: Our Friend, Redeemer, and Home

Sermon Notes from December 26th

In the year 1913, the noted journalist, essayist, critic, and humorist, G.K. Chesterton, wrote a poem about Christmastide. He called the poem, “The House of Christmas,” and in it, he meditates upon a central mystery of the Nativity of Jesus. Chesterton describes the world around us as a place where, “men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay on their heads in a foreign land. Whenever the day is done.” No matter where a person wandered or settled, they were “homesick in their homes.” They were missing something. They were longing for something. Until into the world comes a blessed young woman, a courageous and trusting man, and to them - and to the whole world - is born a homeless baby in whom all the world would find their home. The poem continues: “A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam; Only where He was homeless. Are you and I at home; 

To an open house in the evening

Home shall men come,

To an older place than Eden

And a taller town than Rome.

To the end of the way of the wandering star,

To the things that cannot be and that are,

To the place where God was homeless

And all men are at home.

The Gospel from Christmas Day and from today, this first Sunday of Christmas, finds Saint John declaring the words so familiar to us in the prayers of the Angelus: “And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” In the birth of Jesus, God makes his home among us. As the Holy Family searched for a place to rest and welcome their newborn Son, in their “homelessness,” they in fact made God a home. 

But there is another powerful reality here in this mystery of God making a home among us. Because while God indeed made the world his home, the Nativity also reveals to each of us where our own home truly is. “Men were homesick in their homes,” as the poem says, until this precious and holy child was given for us to find our dwelling place. 

Christmas is a particularly good time to come home. That home is alongside the manger, drawn close to the heart of Christ. This is not merely an exercise in contemplation, but a profound way of experiencing life as a person in this strange, often darkened world. Perhaps you have been blessed with a place you love deeply and a family who welcomes you. It is Jesus who prepares the table there. Or perhaps you dread that apparently simple question: “where is home for you?” Perhaps your home was a lonely place or a dangerous one. Perhaps you are not sure where “home” really is. It is Jesus who prepares a place for you. 

When we begin to recognize that Christ is our true home, the world itself seems to change around us. A home in Christ is a different, miraculous sort of home, already full of all the things that the world tells us we must earn or steal or deserve and absent any of the fear that we might not belong. It is a place of goodness, light, and freedom, and at Christmas, we are presented with the keys. 

The heart of Jesus is a secure place. There is no need to defend it. There is no need to fear for our safety. His strength is steadfast and unchangeable. His love is the strong tower of righteousness. In our world that so constantly insists that we protect ourselves, our true home is eternal and abiding safety. 

The Body of Christ is an abundant Body whose nourishment knows no need. There is always more. There is always enough. There is no need to ration the Body of Christ or to hoard it or to go without. No matter the depth of the hunger, the Body of Christ meets it with plenty. The table extends to the ends of the earth. There is always a place for a guest. There is always a plate for the poor. There is always a place for you.

The dignity of Christ is the very dignity of God, and it covers each one of us, made in his image. At home in Christ, our bodies are cared for, our spirits are cherished. We are each crowned with the dignity of the Savior and there is no privileging of power or gender or race or ability. We walk through the halls of this home with our heads held high, faces turned toward the light. Our home is a place where dignity is our birthright, and even those who the world has rejected are given places of beauty around the throne. 

Our home in Christ is a place of companionship. He is our savior, redeemer, and yes, our friend. The friendship of Jesus is no ordinary fellowship. He lives alongside us, a confidante and guide. His hand is in ours. His heart is opened and always opening to us, soothing our uncertainties and making our paths a place of peace. His company is unconditional love. And in our fellowship with him, we are given a beloved family. We are never alone, but instead find ourselves alongside centuries of saints, both departed and among us. Our friends in Christ, who may of course be only human like us, and yet in our home together, there is always more compassion, more forgiveness, more grace. 

The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. And we dwell alongside him. We are invited to come home at Christmas. To security, to abundance, to dignity, to friendship. To the One who, when the world was homesick, invited us in.

Preached by Mother Brit Frazier
Christmas I 2021
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

The Very Stones Cry Out With Praise

Jesus Christ is born this day in Bethlehem, the City of David. He is called Emmanuel, as the prophets declared: “God with us.” All of our Advent waiting, all of our faithful preparations have been to make us ready for this holy night, when into our darkened world is born the Light that cannot be comprehended. And so how can we do anything but celebrate this miraculous birth? Here we are, to come and adore Him. We pray. We prepare. We ask ourselves: what do we need to do? What do we need to do to proclaim the graces of the Incarnation? What do we need to do to show the world the persistence of light? What do we need to do? 

This is a question that just one week ago we were asking very differently. Like many others, I guess I’ve always thought I knew. What do we need to do to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, King of Kings and Lord of Lords? Well, we need to make music, surely. An orchestra, maybe! We need to find miles of poinsettias, a legion of altar servers, our most tasteful Christmas sweaters, and we need to prepare a feast to await us at home. And we need to be together. We need our family in Christ: you, me, all of us here together. We need the Eucharist. We need anticipation. We need that moment where the gentleman behind us in the pew starts singing the tenor line of “Silent Night” that suddenly breaks something rigid within us and lets us weep. We are a people in need. 

In the last twenty-four hours, we have, with our fellow Christians, been forced to once again ask what we need to do to celebrate Christmas. What if we do not make music? What if we do not have our family members close by? What if we do not have a priest? I’ve been surprised to find a passage from the Gospel of Luke has been resounding from the center of my heart. Not the second chapter where Jesus is born and the shepherds come and adore, but a verse all the way from the nineteenth: not a Christmas reading, but a text from Palm Sunday. 

In the nineteenth chapter of the Gospel of Saint Luke, Jesus enters Jerusalem. He arrives on a donkey in triumph, on his way to the city that will crucify him. The crowds are exultant: “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord!” they shout with joy. “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” The infuriated Pharisees say to Jesus: “Teacher, rebuke your disciples!” And Jesus says to them: “I tell you, if they were silent, the very stones would cry out.” This is what I cannot stop hearing: “I tell you, if they were silent, the very stones would cry out.”... The earth itself would praise him…. What if you have no music? What if you have no candlelight? What if you have no priest? What is this earth but a hymn of praise so electric and unstoppable that even what is beneath your feet declares the glory of the Incarnate God? Whatever we do or do not do, Jesus Christ comes among us, and all creation sings with joy. 

It can be difficult to remember this when we cannot sing or gather like we’d hope to together tonight. I don’t like the idea that only the stones of this building are up to any praise and thanksgiving, as much as I am grateful for their witness. And God truly loves the beauty of our worship, hymns, and praise, and it is a very real pain we share in this place together. But the truth in the nineteenth chapter from the Gospel of Saint Luke…and the truth in the second chapter that we read tonight…and the truth of all of holy scriptures meet together this night to reorient us. The Gospel walks us back to the center. Instead of asking what we need to do to celebrate the birth of Jesus, the Gospel invites us to know who it is we are celebrating: Jesus Christ, the Son of God, born as one of us in poverty and darkness to save the world. Jesus, the one for whom even the stones will sing.

Nothing has changed this. Nothing has ever changed this. Nothing takes him away from us. Not what we do or do not do. Not war or destruction or oppression or violence. Not evil or absence or pandemic. What absurdity it is for God to behold the terror of this world and in response, to hold up a child. But therein lies the beauty of Christmas. 

On this most holy night, do not worry about what it is you must do. Ask only to know more truly the One who meets you here. It is the Savior of the World, come down to us, God with us, at last. 

Humankind was like a flower, broken from the vine and fallen into the darkened waters of an unsearchable pond. And then there he was - the Son of God: the Word made flesh who stretched his hand down into the waters and pulled our wilted, starving humanity out from the black. His breath breathed life back into us. His light warmed us into vitality again. His care and sacrifice enlivened our spirit, and by his Body and Blood we were restored, alive and in bloom, to God’s own garland crown of glory. 

This is who we welcome this night. This is the One for whom even the stones will sing. Freshly to this earth and wrapped in swaddling clothes, his little presence is the fulfillment of God’s promise of salvation. He asks with gentleness for our hearts to be opened to him. He is the Prince of Peace, and he has always loved you. Come closer to the manger. Let him look upon you and welcome you home. 

Preached by Mother Brit Frazier
Christmas Eve 2021
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

The Lord Is Near

The prisoner of hope lies in their cell wondering if the Lord is near. 

They are bound in chains; sometimes a hood enshrouds their head.  They are not given shoes to wear, or socks to warm their feet in the cold.  They don’t know why they have been brought here, or what they have done to deserve this.  If there is a ransom that could be paid for their freedom, they don’t know what it is.  They don’t even know if anyone knows they are here.  They only know two things: that they are being subjected to cruelty they could not have imagined; and that hope is their only protection, their only armor, their only bulwark against all that is being done to them.

The prisoner of hope is a double prisoner.  Bound by these chains, this hood, this isolation.  But also bound to God by a covenant, a promise, they may be held captive, but they can only, ever, always be a prisoner of hope, and hope alone.

The point of this other captivity seems to be humiliation, since they have no useful intelligence to share that is not already available to anyone who wants to hear good news.  The isolation is not the worst part; it’s the stress positions, the loud music, the insults and abuse, and the images they are shown, the stories they are told, which they can only assume are true.  Every morning begins with an hour or more of the daily news.  Who knew what torture this could be?  Stories from the Times are read to them, or snippets from the networks are shown to them.  They are stripped naked, chained to the wall in a stress position and made to listen, to watch.

An article about a website that encourages children (among others) to commit suicide and teaches them how to do it is read in its entirety to them.

Yesterday they were made to watch images of the devastation and destruction caused by tornadoes that seem to have the power of atomic weapons.

For almost two years, now, the prisoner has been told of a virus for which a vaccine exists. But the stories the prisoner of hope is told suggest a population that is too selfish to protect itself, even though it could.

Sometimes the guards just read climate statistics to them.

The prisoner of hope weeps. And repeats over and over to themselves that the Lord is near, the Lord is near. They must say this silently, in their hearts.  If they speak the words, the guards will come with dogs that they threaten to unleash. The dogs haven’t been unleashed yet, but the prisoner has felt the hot canine breath on their neck while the barking rings violently in their ears. They know the dog’s teeth would clamp down on their flesh if the guards allowed it, and it’s clear that the guards want to allow it.  Something restrains the guards this small amount, but the prisoner of hope cannot tell what it is.

And so this is the daily existence of the prisoner of hope.  Sleep deprived.  Sensory deprived.  Love deprived.  But not hope deprived.  The prisoner of hope has only their inner life: the hymns they can remember from church, the snippets of the psalms. The Bible stories which remind them of other prisoners like them.  And these fragments of faith have been woven into something in the soul of the prisoner of hope: something real and whole that provides an alternative to this present reality of pain.

Are there other prisoners like them here on this island?  Is there another prisoner of hope in a cell on the other side of the wall?  It is impossible to tell.  The prisoner of hope knows that their hope would be strengthened if they knew that there was another soul hoping in such close proximity.  So the prisoner of hope chooses to believe that they are surrounded by others just like them: tortured, suffering, chained not only to this wall, but also to the hope that they cannot be forced to give up.

Sometimes the guards are not so good at what they do, and the prisoner is left alone for long enough to dream, and to sing silently in their soul.  And they dream of a vision of a new Jerusalem coming down from heaven where love will be restored.  They smell the olive oil, and they taste the pomegranate juice.  And they hear the music, and they sing inside of the soothing balm that makes the wounded whole, that heals the sin-sick soul.

The prisoner of hope is reminded, in the silence of their own heart, that they are not without sin, that they are not without the need to to repent.  But they also know that they didn’t do anything to deserve this.  And they are correct.

So they sing silently to themselves, because the hymns bind them fast to hope.  And they remember that though they walk through the valley of the shadow of death they shall fear no evil.  And they recall the incongruous instruction to rejoice always because the Lord is near.  And they cannot imagine where they will find the means for rejoicing, but they know that they must find the will to do so.  And so their soul sings silently about the balm in Gilead.  And they feel the embrace of love: warm arms enfolding them.  And they know that the Lord is near; the Lord is near; the Lord is near.

The prisoner of hope clings to this truth that the Lord is near.  It was true when Moses led his prisoners out of their captivity. It was true when Daniel’s friends were thrown into the fiery furnace.  It was true when the prophet called the people to return to their stronghold.  It was true when John proclaimed good news to the people.  It was true when Paul reminded the Philippians to rejoice always.  And it is true now, that the Lord is near; yes, O prisoner of hope, the Lord is near.

Chances are, these days, that someone is trying to bind you in their chains: chains of debt, or chains of addiction, or chains of abuse, or chains of death.  Everyone who wants something from you wants you in their chains.

But the Lord wants you bound fast only with the chains of hope.  And he forges the links of those chains with the regular reminder and promise that he is near.  That is the purpose of this gathering: to taste and see and hear and feel and smell that the Lord is near, so that we might become no one’s prisoner, because we are prisoners only of hope.  And so we come as we are called.  We stretch out our hands.  We lift up our hearts.  We taste and see that the Lord is good.  And that the Lord is near.

It seems incongruous to be told in a world of such suffering, foolishness, cruelty, and selfishness that we should rejoice always.  It seems preposterous to allow violet to lighten into rose.  It seems outrageous to utter the words, “do not worry about anything.”  Only one thing makes any of this plausible: that the Lord is near.

Perhaps you are a prisoner of hope.  If not, perhaps you want to be, since prisoners of hope are the only prisoners who can ever be free.  And perhaps you are wondering if the Lord is near.  Perhaps you are wondering how you can survive in this world, how you can thrive.

This is how: you come as you are called.   You stretch out your hands.  You lift up our heart.  You taste and see that the Lord is good.  You let the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard your hearts and your mind.  And you discover that the Lord is near.

And then you seek regular reminders of the promise that the Lord is near, the Lord is near, the Lord is near.  You sing out loud about the balm that makes the wounded whole, because you can, and because the hymns bind you fast to hope.  And you remember that though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death you shall fear no evil.  And you recall the incongruous instruction to rejoice always because the Lord is near.  And even if you cannot imagine where you will find the means for rejoicing you know that you must find the will to do so.  You bind yourself to God by this promise, this covenant, and you will only, ever, always be a prisoner of hope, and hope alone, and you rejoice, for the Lord is near.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
12 December 2021
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia