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We were living in New York City when our first child was born. There is something about a baby that melts the chilly urban
defensiveness of New Yorkers. In a city where it is an invasion of privacy to make more-than-superficial eye contact, people
on subways would "oooow" and "aaah" over baby Allison and make conversation. "Is it a boy or a girl?"
"What's her name?" They would touch or tickle with familiar intimacy. Stone commuter faces looked up and smiled.
Jewish mothers in the checkout line would cluck possessively over the baby in the front-pack. "The strap is cutting
her face. You need to move her over so the strap won't cut her."
There is something fundamentally good and beautiful and hopeful about a baby, an infant, a child. We connect to something
basic whenever we see a little one. It's the most natural thing in the world. We all identify with babies, and we wish them
all the blessings of a most abundant life. Somehow we know, deep in our bones, when we look upon a baby, we are looking upon
something good, something precious. Looking upon an infant can be enlightening. It can be a way of looking at ourselves;
a way of seeing all human beings in the light of our true beginnings, our true selves.
There was a time when everyone looked upon you with such wonder. The infant that was born as you is still you today.
All of the DNA and most of the parts are still there, just as from the beginning. Today, now, just as back when you were
carried in another's arms, you are created in the image and likeness of God. Every person is a word of God to the world.
A good word. A word of light and hope. Looking at a newborn and remembering your own journey is like looking into a mirror.
The fundamental goodness and beauty and hope that you see in an infant is also present in you; in fact, it is your basic core.
Thomas Keating says, "The fundamental goodness of human nature ...is an essential element of Christian faith. Our basic
core of goodness is our true Self. Its center of gravity is God." He goes on to say, "The acceptance of our basic
goodness is a quantum leap in the spiritual journey." (Open Mind, Open Heart, p. 127)
Those of you who attended our Blue Christmas service this past Thursday heard a story that Suzanne told in her homily,
and I thought it was so compelling that I want to repeat it tonight. It's a story about a seminarian whose turn to preach
came about in the homiletics class. The text was from Isaiah 9:2 -- "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great
light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness -- on them light has shined." The student-preacher asked the class
to follow her to the place where she would begin the sermon.
They walked into the underground tunnels of the Chicago seminary where the students could move from building to building
during the months of snow and ice. Down two levels to the squash court, a completely enclosed structure without windows or
lights. She explained that they would sit in darkness and stillness for a full minute before she would begin her sermon.
The door was shut, and the darkness was absolute. Shocking darkness. Darkness so complete that you couldn't see your
hand in front of your face, much less the neighbor next to you. There was nervous tittering; a couple of jokes, that kind
of defensive humor that covers discomfort. Some too-loud laughter. Then anxious, ssshhh-shing. After a while they began
to enter an uncomfortable silence that never got quiet. There was constant shuffling of arms and legs; the scrape of material
and the creak of joints. The preacher waited. Waiting for that single minute of total stillness and complete quiet. Minutes
passed. The nervous shuffling continued.
...It's not going to happen. There is too much anxiety. Sixty seconds of quiet stillness seems impossible. So, the
preacher begins. She will make her sermon's point anyway.
Without speaking, she lights a match. The flame lights every person, every corner of the room. They look around and
see the familiar faces of each friend, surrounding one another, illuminated by the fire. The single flame is reflected and
magnified by the eyes of everyone present. Immediate relief. The group relaxes, oriented, grounded. Awe is evident.
The preacher remains silent. The match burns itself out. When the darkness returns, the room is completely still. Completely
quiet. Peaceful.
There they sit. Ten minutes pass in silent, reflective stillness. Peace. Calm. Too soon, it seems, the preacher opens
the door, saying "Amen."
Jesus came into the world as a light into deep darkness. He came as a child, an infant. Led by a light, the shepherds
and others came to his presence, and there saw reflected the very light of God. God with us. God's being one with us. And
it is good.
Let me quote from Thomas Keating again. "The chief thing that separates us from God is the thought that we are separated
from God. If we get rid of that thought, our troubles will be greatly reduced." Keating says that our darkness is our
simple failure "to believe that we are always with God and that God is part of every reality. The present moment, every
object we see, our inmost nature are all rooted in God. But we hesitate to believe this until personal experience gives us
confidence to believe it."
If I could give a Christmas gift to each person here, I would wish that you would see and feel the reality of your own
fundamental basic core of goodness with the same reality and power the students in that homiletics class experienced when
the match burst into flame in the darkness. At the core of your being is the light of the very presence and reality of God.
You are God's child. You are one with God in your inmost being. If that becomes real to you, you make a quantum leap in
your spiritual journey. As Thomas Keating says, "The acceptance of our basic goodness is a quantum leap in the spiritual
journey."
The light in the darkness is this. You are one with God. You are good, because the center of your being is God. Nothing
can separate you from God and from God's love. You are God's child.
That is the meaning of Christmas. "Incarnation" is the word we use. God with us. God in us. And an infant
is a perfect metaphor. Look upon the child and see God. Look upon the child and see yourself. Cherished eternally. A gift
of goodness and wonder.
What I am preaching tonight is orthodox, traditional, Biblical Christianity. It may not be what you were taught, though.
You may have grown up in a church that told you that you were bad, a sinner condemned to hell. Or you may have been demeaned
by parent or teacher or friend or spouse or boss or colleague to the point to where you didn't believe that you were truly
good, you didn't know your basic core of goodness. You may have been led into darkness.
If so, look at the flame of God's love ignited in Jesus on this Christmas feast. God is not enemy or angry judge, but
our loving creator who pours out the divine life so completely that God is one-with-us. God comes to us so gently and lovingly,
like a newborn child. All is well. And all manner of things shall be well. All is good. You are good. The illumination
of the goodness within you is like a match lit in a pitch black room; it changes everything. That illumination is the motivation
that allows us to grow, to repent, to be whole.
There is something fundamentally good and beautiful and hopeful about you. The acceptance of your basic goodness is a
quantum leap in the spiritual journey. Let that light be struck to illuminate your self-image. Then, look around at the
lighted room, the enlightened universe. There is something fundamentally good and beautiful and hopeful about all human beings,
all creation. "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness
-- on them light has shined." Alleluia! Merry Christmas!
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