A Christmas Eve Sermon

A Christmas Eve Sermon The Dover Church

"Oh boy. I really wish I had a fallback plan right about now. What am I going to do? Even making the best of a bad situation will still be exactly that, a bad situation." These were the anxious, harried and slightly bitter thoughts going through my mind as I was turned away from yet a third inn because there was no room. I had hiked 19 miles already that day, from 7 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, with an hour break for lunch. The last seven miles had been a 3000 foot uphill slog to the village where I had hoped one of those three inns would be waiting for me. I had counted on a shower, a meal and a bed. No luck. If my feet and legs hadn't been so discouraged, I would have enjoyed the real humor in the way the three innkeepers pointed out my foolishness to me, "you should have called ahead, Monsieur. All of France is on vacation in August and we have been booked for days." As if I didn't know that I had made a mistake. My legs were doing just fine bringing my attention to that fact.
While walking the labyrinth in Chartres Cathedral seven years ago, I had been seized by the desire to walk the ancient pilgrim trail from France to Santiago de Compostella in Spain, a 50 day hike covering 990 miles. As I came out of the labyrinth that day, the doors to the cathedral stood open with a beckoning vista of the town and surrounding countryside. Next to those open doors was a plaque, which read, "since 985, pilgrims have departed through these doors for the tomb of St. James in Spain." As I stood there, savoring the spiritual high of the labyrinth, all I could think was, "wouldn't that be something? To walk out these doors, down the hill and up that road heading southwest over the fields of France. I could just…go…right now."
But I couldn't just go for several good reasons. My wife was waiting for me at a cafe in town to take the train to Paris where we were visiting a friend. I didn't have my backpack and all the other necessary stuff. I hadn't trained. And my church back home was expecting me in the pulpit in two weeks, not two months. So I settled for a glass of wine and Paris with my wife rather than setting off into the high heather on a quest for the tomb of St. James with God and Jesus.
Five years passed before I was finally able to start my pilgrimage, one week at a time rather than 50 days all at once...with a wife, two young sons and a church, a week was just about all I could cut loose for. On this particular day, I was already five days into my second stage. It had been a glorious hike so far, with beautiful French countryside, charming villages, Romanesque churches, good food, interesting people, and great weather. My feet and legs were holding up nicely. I had been making good time all morning as I walked beside a river, in which I saw the heartbreaking combination of many trout rising and almost no one fishing. Oh for a fly rod and waders instead of this walking staff and backpack! Focus, Max. You’re on a pilgrimage!
It was hot and sunny after lunch when I set off up the seven mile hill to what I expected would be a shower, a dinner and a bed in one of the three inns listed in my guide book. You already know what happened. No room in the inn for the foolish American. The inn keepers were all suitably impressed by how far I had come, but that wasn’t enough to make another bed magically appear.
When all your options involve walking, you might as well get started, which is what I did, weighing the likely outcomes of those options while I did so. They were: one, I might just find another inn that wasn't listed in the guidebook where an open bed awaited me…too good to be true; two, I could walk until twilight and then sleep out somewhere in the woods…true, but not too good; or three, I could just walk all night with my head lamp and arrive a day early at the monastery of St. Fois in Conques. Like I said, option three.
Option one wasn't panning out for me. I did come across unlisted inns, but they were all full. Option two wasn't all that attractive. I didn't have a tarp to put under my sleeping bag and the prospect of being hungry, wet, bug bitten, and perhaps driven off in the early morning hours by a farmer with a shotgun didn't catch my fancy. And then there was option three, the gutsiness and epic will power of 38 miles in 24 hours appealed to me. Now that would be an accomplishment, but could I actually pull it off without seriously injuring myself?
While I walked and weighed my options, I recited the 23rd Psalm and other psalms of trust in God's providence, steadfast love and mercy. At three miles an hour, I wasn’t going anywhere fast, so I was gradually able to reflect on my situation. My legs and feet were holding up, but I was hardly footloose and fancy free. I was living a spiritually conflicted paradox, paradoxically exactly the spiritually conflicted paradox I had set out to put myself in when I decided to go on a pilgrimage. Pilgrimage is about removing yourself from normalcy, from all the usual routines and support systems we depend upon in our normal lives to escape having to trust in, dare I say depend upon, God’s mercy and guidance. I was tired, hungry, worried and feeling very much alone. No cell phone. No friends. No ATMs, let alone anything that could be solved by more money. No car. No bus….no town. I was in the middle of an almost empty French countryside with limited language skills. A little more than I had bargained for perhaps, but I had succeeded in getting myself into exactly the situation I had gone looking for in a pilgrimage.
To bring this right into Christmas, the parallels to which I hope you have seen coming long before now, I had put myself in shoes a lot like Mary’s. She had not gone looking for it and I had, which is why I was doing a spiritual practice and she ended up the Mother of God. You’ll remember from our lessons that Mary was minding her own business, when the angel Gabriel showed up and told her that God was about to quite literally fall into her lap. Her first response was disbelief, which is eminently believable. After all, how many of you have had an angel show up? Although scripture doesn’t say so, I am pretty sure this was a first for Mary. When Gabriel explains exactly what God has in store for her, Mary’s not buying it. This is just not possible. Gabriel goes on to spell out how marvelous this thing that is about to begin will be, summing up with some of my favorite lines from the Bible, “For nothing will be impossible with God.” Mary doesn’t run out of the room screaming. Instead, she speaks some more of my favorite lines, “Here I am, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me just as you say.” In modern American, “OK, God. I’m not sure I believe it but I’ll try living it. I’m in!”
Which is where I was on that road that day. “OK God. Here I am, way outside my comfort zone and there's nothing I can do about it. Let’s see some of that mercy, steadfast lov, leading me into green pastures and lying me down beside still waters.” The beauty of the situation was that I didn’t really have any choice, so I had to pull a Mary. Here in Dover, with family and friends, a job, house, car, cellphone, credit cards, the works, I would have struggled mightily. Out there in the middle of nowhere with nothing…sure, here I am, the servant of the Lord.
So what happened? Well, I’m here so I obviously survived. I did better than survive. I had Christmas in August. At exactly 40 kilometers for the day, 26 miles for you marathoners, I was walking down this steep hill with my quads burning up when I came around a corner and found a gate with a sign on it. “Christian family welcomes pilgrims. Free food and bed. Welcome.” “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I thought. Inside the gate was a bell, which I rang and waited to see what would happen. Perhaps 50 yards away across the garden, a door opened in the house and an older woman came out. As she walked towards me, I was hurriedly trying to get my pitch straight for me staying here. I introduced myself and as pitifully as possible explained my predicament. She pursed her lips and brow and said, “I am sorry, Monsieur, the beds are all full for tonight and we are having dinner right now.” “If I could just have a shower and be allowed to sleep in your garden for the night…” To which, she interrupted with, “Oh no, Monsieur. You can certainly shower and then you will sleep in our chapel. Would you like to join us for dinner?” Fearful of abusing her generous hospitality…my heart was still unprepared for no strings attached mercy and steadfast love… I responded, “Oh, thank you, but I am fine.” I had four apples in my pack. And I was in.
I took a delightful shower, got into clean clothes, put my gear in the chapel, and sat on a bench outside the chapel eating apples, watching the sunset, feeling safe and secure and truly blessed. When I went to bed that night on the stone floor, there was the Holy Family looking down at me from icons on the wall, Mary, Joseph and the Baby Jesus. And I knew as I said my prayers that not only had my prayers on the road been answered but I also knew I had been given my Christmas Eve sermon for tonight.
As I let myself out of the gate early the next morning, I saw a little donation jar on a table, which the lady of the house had put out with coffee, tea and juice for passing pilgrims. I took off my pack, dug out my wallet, and put all the money I had in that little jar. There was sure to be an ATM in Conques and her welcome had been priceless.
I never knew that woman’s name, the same way we never know the name of the innkeeper in Bethlehem. But in their acts of no strings attached hospitality, God’s love became physically real, for Mary and Joseph in the manger and for me on the road in France. How about you? We’re all on the road of life somewhere. Where do you really need to open yourself to hospitality right now, either inviting someone into your life or allowing someone to invite you in? Where is Christmas waiting right now to really happen in your life if you’ll just ring that bell and say, “Here I am, God. Let the good times roll.”