This Christmas marks the 20th anniversary of my
father’s sudden death. He died of a heart
attack at the age of 61 on the Sunday before Christmas as he was getting ready
to go to church with my mother. When I
got the news, I was getting ready to go and lead worship at two small, rural
congregations where I was filling in for the local pastor. I went.
I didn’t know those people well, but they surrounded me with Christ’s
love and mercy and promise as a brother in Christ. They ministered to me more than I ministered
to them that morning. They were the
Church for me. My father’s funeral was
held on the afternoon of Christmas Eve in my hometown church in Wisconsin. The women of the church served a dinner for
us following the service. I will forever
be grateful for their willingness to do that on short notice, on Christmas Eve,
no less. After the dinner, we went to
the early Christmas Eve candlelight service as a family.
Throughout those surreal days, as I was overcome by the
shock and grief of my father’s death, that candlelight service was the only
thing that seemed real to me. The story
of the birth of the Christ anchored me.
The familiar story of Mary and Joseph, the angels and shepherds and the
baby in the manger grounded me. But it
was more than just the familiarity of the carols and candlelight that gave me a
solid place to stand. It was the hope
for me and for a world shattered by death contained in that story that carried
me through those awful days. It was the
same hope that moved those small congregations to embrace me, even though I was,
more or less, a stranger, and allowed those hometown women to set aside their
Christmas plans and serve my family dinner.
It is the same hope that has carried disciples of Jesus and the children
of God through thousands of years of history filled with shock and grief,
sadness and sorrow, suffering and struggle.
The Christmas story is real.
Sure, it’s been glossed over by stories of Santa, holiday sales, and a
host of other traditions that seem to have little or nothing to do with the
baby in the manger. But something about
this story keeps bringing people back to congregations all around the world
year after year. I believe that something is hope. Hope is something we all desperately
need. Hope is something we all
desperately crave, especially in a world filled with uncertainty and terror and
tragedy and fear. I believe that a part of all of us is looking
for something to believe in; a faith that matters.
The Christmas story is real.
But, its staying power is not ultimately grounded in a manger in
Bethlehem, but on a cross and in an empty tomb in Jerusalem. It is in Jesus’ death and resurrection some thirty
years following his birth that the hope born on Christmas came to
fruition. It is in the promise that, in
Christ, death will never, ever have the last word that the true meaning of
Christmas can be found. It is there
that we hear the good news of great joy that the Savior, the Messiah, has come for
you, for me, for the people in those small, rural congregations, for the women
who served us, for my father and for all peoples everywhere who live in the
shadow of death.
Peace and Blessed Christmas,
Bishop Mike
Share the hope and promise of the Christ Child with someone this
Christmas! Thanks for reading.
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