Christmas: Mass at Dawn (Shepherds' Mass)

Readings: Isaiah 62:11-12; Titus 3:4-7; Luke 2:15-20

VIDEO

The Christmas story that we know and love

involves Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus,
and a journey to Bethlehem and no room at the inn, 
and a stable and a manger and a donkey and an ox,
along with angels and shepherds, 
and three good kings and one very bad one.
Assembled from the Gospels of Matthew and Luke
with a bit of the prophet Isaiah thrown in,
this is the story depicted in our nativity pageants 
and in the manger scenes in our homes.

But for the first Mass of Christmas day,
much of that story seems missing.
Our Gospel reading from Luke 
does give us shepherds,
but not the exciting part with the angels 
who exhilarate and terrify them,
announcing the birth of the world’s savior
and peace and good will to all people,
but rather the part where they arrive 
once the excitement is over
and see what to all appearances 
is an ordinary newborn child.
We have Mary and Joseph and the child, 
but we hear not of the search for shelter
or of the birth itself,
but of a moment of repose
when “Mary kept all these things,
reflecting on them in her heart.”

We may feel that we, like the shepherds, 
are arriving in the early light of day
once all the excitement of the night is over.
But in fact we, like Mary, 
have arrived at a moment
of contemplative stillness 
amid momentous events.
And in that stillness we hear 
the true mystery of Christmas.
St. Paul, without mentioning
any of the elements of the Christmas story,
speaks to us of what we celebrate this day:
“the kindness and generous love 
of God our savior appeared, 
not because of any righteous deeds 
we had done
but because of his mercy.”

This is the great mystery we celebrate
each year at this time.
Not the stable, not the manger,
not the donkey, ox, or angels,
not Mary nor Joseph, 
not even little baby Jesus—
but the kindness and generous love
of the one who comes to save us,
not because we are good,
but because God is good.
This is the mystery made flesh
in the infant born in a manger,
watched over by donkey and ox.
This is the true marvel for which 
the shepherds glorify and praise God.
This is what Mary cherishes in her heart.

St. Bede, in a commentary on Luke’s Gospel,
imagines Mary’s reflection on this mystery:
“As I contemplate his greatness, 
which knows no limits, 
I joyfully surrender my whole life, 
my senses, 
my judgment, 
for my spirit rejoices 
in the eternal Godhead 
of that Jesus, 
that Savior, 
whom I have conceived 
in this world of time.”
Cherishing all these things in her heart,
Mary holds within herself still
the mystery to which she has just given birth:
the God whose greatness knows no limits
born within the limitations of time and place
out of love for us 
and for our salvation.
Mary surrenders to that mystery,
so that the joy of Christ conceived in her
might be hers for eternity.

We too are called 
to cherish in our hearts
this mystery that teeters 
on the edge of the incomprehensible:
this divine love that 
no goodness found in us calls forth,
but which explodes into our world 
in a shocking, disorienting, thrilling act 
of sheer mercy given to us 
who deserve no mercy.
The 17th-century mystical author 
known as Angelus Silesius wrote,
“If Christ is born 
a thousand times in Bethlehem 
but not in you,
you remain still forever lost.”
This is the work Christmas calls us to
in this morning of contemplative repose; 
it calls us to the work of Mary:
the work of surrendering ourselves to God 
whose mercy we can never merit,
of cherishing the memory of that mercy, 
so that its mystery might seep into our souls,
of letting that mystery be born in us anew
so that we might become vessels
bearing mercy to our world,
so that God in his mercy
might have mercy on us all.

Advent 4

Reading: Isaiah 7:10-14; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-24

VIDEO

I often end the introductory theology course
that I teach at Loyola University
by asking the students 
how they would spend their time
if they knew that the world was ending 
in twenty-four hours.
A few, in an obvious attempt to curry favor,
say they would pray or go to confession.
But most give more honest answers,
and many of their answers are unsurprising:
spending time with family and friends,
traveling to a place they’ve always wanted to see
or revisiting a place they love,
maxing-out their credit card on a shopping spree
or going skydiving.

This year, one student said she would forgive
those who had hurt her in her life.
She said that she has been told by others
that while she forgives, in the sense of moving on,
she never forgets who it is who has hurt her
and she cuts them ruthlessly out of her life
so they can never hurt her again.
But, she said, if the world were ending
she thought she could really let all that go.
When I asked her why that was,
she said that she would no longer be afraid
that those who had hurt her in the past 
could hurt her again in the future.

Her words sounded a theme 
common in my student’s answers:
they don’t do what they really want to do
because they are afraid.
They are afraid 
that if they do not follow the safe path
of degrees and careers and societal expectations
then they won’t be able to make their lives secure,
to control what happens to them,
to keep pain and sorrow at bay.
But the prospect of the world’s end,
while in one sense terrifying,
in another sense frees them from fear
because it frees them from the illusion of control;
it frees them to live their remaining hours differently.
In this one student’s case, the difference
is between a simulated, half-hearted forgiveness
that is focused on managing hurt
and a forgiveness that is genuinely freeing
both for the one who forgives
and for the one who is forgiven.

I thought of her words as I reflected 
on today’s story of Joseph.
The angel in Joseph’s dream does not simply
offer Joseph an explanation of Mary’s pregnancy
that exonerates her of wrongdoing.
Rather, the angel tells Joseph, “Do not be afraid 
to take Mary your wife into your home.”
Do not be afraid of what the future holds.
Do not be afraid to plumb the depths of mercy.
Do not be afraid,
because the world’s time has grown short,
and the world you know is about to end.
Not, of course, in a chronological sense.
After all, here we are over 2000 years later.
But the world we seek to manage and control
even as it runs ruthlessly toward death,
is about to be brought to an end 
by the birth of Emmanuel—
God who is with us.
The angel announces 
not simply the birth of a child
but the birth of a new world 
and the death of an old one.

In the face of that world’s end,
rather than putting Mary aside,
Joseph puts aside his fear 
and his desire for control
and in mercy welcomes Mary.
St. John Chrysostom says
that when Joseph does this,
“It is like the sun not yet arisen, 
but from afar more than half the world 
is already illuminated by its light.”
The light of mercy that will flood the world
with the birth of Emmanuel
is already appearing in Joseph’s act
of grace and mercy.

And for us who live 
on the near side of that birth,
how much more ought we to live 
lives of fearless mercy?
St. Paul tells us that 
“whoever is in Christ is a new creation: 
the old things have passed away; 
behold, new things have come.”
To believe that Jesus Christ is Emmanuel,
is to believe that the light of God is even now 
pouring into the darkness of our fears,
and bringing the world ruled by fear to an end.
To believe that God was in Christ 
reconciling the world to himself
is to be freed from the task
of making our lives secure,
for it is to believe that even now,
within the dying shell of the old world
a new world is ceaselessly being born,
a world of grace and mercy.

So I ask you, what would you do
if you knew the world was ending 
in twenty-four hours? 
Would you not do that thing 
that is most important?
Would you not spend that time
on acts that can endure beyond this world,
on acts of grace and mercy?
And what is keeping you
from doing those things now,
on this day?
For the world of our fears is ending,
and God is calling us to step into
the world of Emmanuel,
the world of the God who is with us.
Let us pray that God, 
who calls us to mercy,
will have mercy on us all.