A Sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas

But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his son, born of a woman...so that we might receive adoption as children.

Well, here we are again. After last Sunday’s Advent celebration of the Annunciation and two Christmas Eve services, some of us, at least, are back here yet again with less than our usual week’s break between times of public worship. And I hope most of us all will be back here again next week celebrate the Epiphany or of our Lord. All of which raises the question -- why are we here yet again?

Put more broadly, why do put such energy into the celebration of this Christmas season? Why do we decorate the Church and fill it with candlelight? Why do organists & choristers work so hard to prepare special music? Why do many of us come to Church at midnight -- MIDNIGHT!!! -- this one time of the year, and why do we then go home, sleep a little bit, get awakened by kids to open presents which we’ve spent days shopping for and wrapping, which are the under the tree we’ve spent hours trimming (along with the rest of the house), and then gather with family and friends for a fancy meal that someone has spent at least a day in the kitchen preparing, not to mention the cookies, pies, and other treats that have been baked in the preceding weeks when we were also addressing and mailing stacks of cards -- well, I think you get the picture.

Why indeed do we put such energy into the celebration of Christmas? There are no doubt many answers to that question. Cultural history, family traditions, commercialism, childhood memories and adult guilt all play a part. But at the core of it all there is something more.

There is a story, a story we somehow do not tire of telling and re-telling, of hearing and re-hearing a story we want to see again in lights and trees and mangers, a story we want to hear again in poetry and music. We celebrate this story so energetically, I believe, because we want to be part of it ourselves. We want this story of angels, shepherds, stars, kings, and above all, the baby in the manger, to become our story.

Curiously, part of what feeds our desire to become part of this story is that, at its beginning, the story is not about us. We are not the center of the story. The center of the story is a baby, that most wondrous of divine and human creations -- and not just any baby. The child that draws us to the crèche is the Word made Flesh, God come to live among us as a human infant. This baby reminds us that this story is much larger than we are. The story is centered on God, on God come to among us to be sure, but still on God.

That the center of this story is the Christ Child, not us, is a reminder, among other important things, that the world does not revolve around us. This baby, the One whom John names the Only Begotten of God, not we, is the center of all that is. Somewhere we know that this reminder that we are not the most important thing in creation is good for us -- especially for us who we live in a culture that is so often trying to seduce us into thinking we are or ought to be the most important thing going.

The headmaster of my son’s elementary school would sometimes notice a child whose behavior revealed an unhealthy dose of self-importance. At such times, he would yell across the gym: “Jonathan Zamboni, you are not the center of the universe!” The kids got the point.

We know that we need such reminders, as well. And so at Christmas time, we draw near to the story of which we are not the center. Whether we know it or not, that is what so much of our seasonal busyness is about – our desire to come close to this story of which we are not the center.

We come to the crèche precisely because we are not the center of this story – and yet want to be part of it. We want to be drawn into this story and have it become our story. It is not that we want to displace Jesus from the center of this story. Rather, we want to become connected to the One who is the center of all that is. We want to draw near; we want to be linked to Jesus, and to the God whom he brings near. We want to be part of this story; maybe we even dare to hope that this story of which we are not e center can still be a story for us. And the great good news is that our hope is the truth.

“But when the fullness of time had come,” Paul writes to the Galatians, “God sent forth his son, born of a woman...so that we might receive adoption as children.” We are not the center of the story, not the One whom John names the Only-Begotten of God. But we are those who through the Only Begotten have been adopted as God’s children, and so are indeed drawn into the story. We are cradled in God’s loving arms as Jesus is cradled in Mary’s, made part of the story of the Word made flesh. Indeed, that is why both St. John and St. Paul say Jesus came into the world -- so that we might be adopted as children of God. The story that, in its beginning, is not about us turns our to be story for us indeed. The story of which we are not the center is a story nonetheless becomes our own.

Given how much energy we expend in our efforts to draw near to the story, it is curious how this happens. Adoption does not happen, cannot happen, as a result of what we do. Our adoption as God’s children, as Jesus’ sisters and brothers, happens not by our effort, but by God’s grace. Though we often don’t know it, all our work at Christmas time is aimed at getting hold of this adoption. It is not that we really want more food or presents or decorations or church services (though we often get confused about all of that). We want a deeper something -- something which our own efforts can’t produce. What we want is our adoption by God. We want the sure, safe, and beloved place in the universe that comes by being one with the One who is the center of all that is.

And like all adoptions, it is not the child who adopts, but the parents. We do not adopt God -- rather God adopts us. Strictly speaking, then, all the energy of our celebrations in not necessary. Adoption is God’s doing, not ours, and it has indeed been done. We don’t need to strive for it desperately. God has adopted us. The gift has been given.

Still far be it from me to suggest that it is a waste of our time to be here today, or to have been in all the places we’ve been this past week celebration. Though it doesn’t accomplish our adoption – and doesn’t need to -- the energy we spend to draw near this story can have its own good purpose. It can remind us that God has already adopted us. And maybe we can put our holiday energy into celebrating that wonderful truth – we are God’s children. What a gift.

The Rev. Jack Zamboni

December 28, 2008