For Christmas this year, without intending to or really wanting to, I received two gifts, in the form of two new skills that I have acquired.
Most recently- in the past week really - along with our Ministry Resident, Aaron Smith, I have acquired the skill of manger design and construction, admittedly, at the beginner level.
I have been saying for weeks that if attendance at Christmas celebrations was going to be severely restricted because of the coronavirus, and if most people would be prevented from coming to church, then we needed to do something to bring church outside, so that people could at least have a place to go and worship on their own terms, a focus for devotion that’s accessible, and a destination for a pilgrimage, even if the only distance you need to travel is a block and a half.
An outdoor manger would be just the thing! I kept saying this, perhaps in the vain hope that saying it enough would cause such a manger to appear. But no manger appeared on its own. And Christmas was coming. So I recruited Aaron as my helper, and we began by disassembling a wooden pallet on which food had been delivered for the Food Cupboard. I thought we should build the manger out of wood that had already been somewhere and done something good for God’s people.
It was during this first stage of design (if you want to call it that) and construction (if you want to call it that) that Aaron determined that the aesthetic I seemed to be going for was “rustic.” That’s not the actual word he used, but it’s the one we agreed on eventually. Rustic.
You could call the manger we built “crude.” I have. And since the empty manger symbolizes the need to make room for Christ to be born in our hearts, a rough, crude, imperfect and unrefined manger is an apt symbol for many of us, if we’re honest.
In quick succession we realized that if we were going to have a manger, then that manger needed a little stable to shelter it. So we built one.
And we knew we’d need a figure of the baby Jesus, so we convinced someone to make one for us.
And then we realized that it would seem a bit odd to put Jesus in his manger and leave him all alone, without Mary and Joseph to look after him. So we devised a way that two non-carpenter, non-artists could assemble something that might reasonably represent the Virgin Mother and Joseph. You can decide for yourselves if we achieved our aim.
Along the way, something happened to me in this my nineteenth Christmas at Saint Mark’s. You see, I know how Christmas goes here. I know how the Sundays of Advent unfold with various services and events that lead us up to Christmas Eve. I know when I have to ask Max to produce an image for a Christmas card. I know that Daniel will tell me when we need to write to ask for Christmas memorial contributions. I know when the figures for the crèche get carried up from the Undercroft. I know which chalice we’ll use on Christmas Eve, and what order the hymns will come in. I know when I have to start preparations for Christmas dinner. And I know that I’ll be Christmas shopping right up until the 23rd of December. Sure, there are slight variations every year, but the pattern of Christmas is similar from year to year. And I like it that way! Ritual unfolds at many different levels, and this is a parish that specializes in ritual.
But this Christmas wasn’t going the way Christmas goes at Saint Mark’s! Maybe you thought you knew how Christmas went, too, until this year. Of course, the pandemic has upended everything. So, we needed to do things differently; we needed a manger, outside, in the garden. OK. Things are going to be different.
I used to think that there was probably some aspect of Christmas that was hard to experience for those of us who have never had children of our own. Surely there must be a grace, I thought, in sharing that essential human experience with God, who, through the mystery of the Incarnation participates, God’s own self, in the wonder of of human childbirth.
And it must be a blessing, I thought, for a mother to have some insight into what Mary felt like when she delivered that child, or a father to have an idea of what Joseph felt like when he held that boy for the first time. They must share something with God that the childless among us can never share... or so I thought.
But over this past week or so, as Aaron and I have made multiple trips the hardware store, and as we’ve wondered if we have made things the right size for the baby that was being made for us, and as we watched the days tick by, knowing the day was coming when everything had to be ready, and we hoped the paint would be dry before the rain came, somehow I realized that my own preparations for Christmas have been transformed this year, and that I am possessed of a sense of expectation and desire, a desire for this baby to be born, and to take his place in our manger, that we made with our hands (“rustic” though it may be), because everything is different this year, and you can’t take anything for granted; I’ve felt an excitement, and an anticipation, even an anxiety born of uncertainty, almost like... I haven’t done this before... like I don’t actually know how this goes.
And I realize that, of course, at a number of crucial moments in the story of salvation, there have been momentous occasions when God has provided a child to the childless. He did it for Abraham and Sarah, when Sarah laughed at the idea of it. And he did for Hanna and her husband Elkanah, when Hannah prayed fervently. And he did it for Elizabeth in her old age, and for her husband Zechariah, who found it hard to believe that God was going to do this.
And of course, Mary was a virgin: she was childless and she could not have a child, since she had not known a man. This detail is often regarded these days with extreme suspicion, and is seen by many as an obvious indication that the story can’t possibly be true. But the point is that, for Mary, too, God provided a child to the childless. It is Mary’s virginity that puts her in the category of the childless. And perhaps those of us who are childless ourselves can identify with Mary in way that others can’t, since she had no expectation at all that she could or would bring a child into the world yet. It seemed quite impossible. She told Gabriel so. Mary’s unpreparedness, and yes, her inability to have conceived a child (because she’s a virgin) are not incidental embellishments to the story - they are crucial signs of the depth of wonder and the fullness of God’s love in sending his child into the world in this way.
When God gives a child to the childless, he is including many of us who have not always known that God’s blessings are completely and entirely meant for us, too, since by doing so, God gives us the gift that we always knew could only come from his hand, but which we thought we could never receive. God extends his blessing to those who wondered if they might be beyond his reach, in order to show that no one is so far from him that his arms cannot reach all the way around them. And every detail of the nativity that contributes to its unlikelihood - Mary’s virginity, Joseph’s reluctance, no room at the inn, Herod’s campaign of terror - each amplifies the good news of this birth, this impossible gift of a child to the childless.
It’s been surprising to me to learn that a “rustic” manger could convey all that meaning, and teach me so much. And I hope that this Christmas you’ll visit our little manger on Locust Street, yourself.
I said that in these past weeks I’d acquired two new skills. The second new thing I have learned how to do, in addition to manger design and construction, is to hum.
Singing, of course, has never before so threatened the world. Choir rooms have never been so dangerous. And since singing is the most reliable way I can communicate with God, it has seemed like a severe blow to me to have to give up singing in church, and nearly everywhere else too.
Guidelines from scientists and bishops, alike, informed us, however, that while we cannot sing in church, we are permitted to hum behind our masks. I must admit that I took this direction badly. Humming has never much interested me. And if you look up the words “hum” and “humming,” see what you find out about this “inarticulate nasal sound,” as one definition calls it.
To say that to hum is “to make a sound with lips closed” is kind. Because to hum is also “to drone, like certain insects,” “to murmur without articulation,” to “mumble.” Humming is “monotonous” and “inarticulate.” “Distant traffic” is said to hum - doesn’t that sound nice? Even hummingbirds don’t actually hum (they have no lips!), rather, they buzz with their wings. So, I was inclined to look rather snidely at humming as a practice that offered not a lot of potential.
Trying to put on a brave face, I encouraged the congregation here (when we could have small congregations) to hum, by telling them that to hum is to sing with your mouth closed. These are the rules, after all, and we should follow them for good reason. And I thought I was very clever. I was also wrong.
When I began to look into humming more seriously I discovered that my definition was close, but wrong about one crucial detail. For, to hum is not to sing with your mouth closed. In fact, you can hum with your mouth open or closed, (behind your lips). But when you are humming, your lips must be closed. As far back as the 15th century, I’m told, they referred to humming as “sing[ing] with lips closed.” And I have been coming around to the idea that maybe it’s OK to sing with your lips closed!
A more charitable view of humming reveals that to hum is “to be busily active, like a beehive,” which sounds like quite a good thing to me. To make things hum is to “set things agoing briskly,” according to one source. A “humming ale” is an ale that “froths up well.” Who knew? But it sounds nice! And of course people have been humming along with music, as a way of joining in, for as long as there’s been music.
Eventually, I decided to give it a go, and to sing with my lips closed. It’s called humming, and it’s not nearly as bad as I feared it would be. In fact, I feel grateful that I can “make a sound with [my] vocal chords without pronouncing any real words, with lips closed” and still glorify the Lord!
These musings suggest that tonight we should gather outside by the “rustic” manger, and hum “Silent Night.” I suppose that’s what the shepherds did, so as not to wake the baby.
And we did gather outside by the manger earlier today, and place the little handmade Christ-child in the manger there.
And tonight, I will get down on my knees and hum Silent Night - which is a carol that somehow lends itself to humming unlike any other. It’s almost easier to hum: there’s no danger of mixing up the words in the second verse that way. I hope you will hum Silent Night too - whether you’re here in church, or at home worshiping with us online. Go ahead and sing all you like - just do it with your lips closed!
Oh, it’s a hard Christmas this year, to be sure. But I have found that some of the things that make it hard, also seem to place us in closer communion with Mary and Joseph, and the shepherds, and maybe even the angels, some of whom may well have been humming!
And if having to celebrate a hard Christmas seems like more than you can bear, I recommend that you try thinking of it as a “rustic” Christmas, and see if things don’t look better from a different angle!
Christ is coming to whatever manger you have prepared, and if you haven’t got one ready, he’ll settle for the straw at the bottom of your heart.
Christ is listening to you hum, as you sing to him with your lips closed, and he loves every note of it.
God is giving us this unimaginable and impossible gift - a child to the childless. What choice do we have but to give him a home? What else can we do but close our lips, and sing?
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Christmas Eve, 2020
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia
