Vulnerable at Christmas
He was barely six years old. It was Christmas Eve in New York City. And he was out on the streets alone. He was wearing the same grimy brown hat, the same old shoes, the same tattered jacket. He pressed his face against the iron fence which surrounds the garden of the Church of the Holy Trinity in New York City. The priest spotted him. He had seen him before. Several times the priest has spoken to the boy trying to find out who he was, but each time the boy had just looked at the priest with large solemn eyes. Together with his small grim mouth, his whole facial expression conveyed a smoldering distrust. Without a word, he ran off down the street and disappeared.
But then he came back. This time he was peering through the fence at the life size crèche. He ventured timidly through the church gate and across the fresh snow. For a long moment he stood before the huge Nativity scene. Suddenly he climbed inside, and curled up in the straw. Every now and then someone would pass by on the street but no one noticed the little boy curled up under the gentle gaze of the Virgin Mary.
The priest had spotted him again and stood watching through the window for half an hour. He didn't dare to go outside because he knew that the moment he opened the door the boy would run away. Now and again, when there was no one passing by, a little arm would reach up and small fingers would touch the cheek of the Virgin... Then something startled him. In a flash he was up, out of the gate and down the street.i
Such a poignant image. So bittersweet. Sweet because a lonely child might find comfort and connection from the blessed Mary, the mother of Jesus. Bitter because a lonely child had to seek comfort and connection from a statue in the cold. Bitter because he could allow himself to be vulnerable only with a frozen figure of paint and wood.
Vulnerability. Literally, to be vulnerable means to be insufficiently defended. We often think of it as a weakness. So many of us, not unlike that little boy, feel that we can only show our strong, confident side. We believe the face we have to show the world should always be one of politeness, perfection, calm, strength, success, and control. That's how we defend ourselves to the world.
That may be no more better illustrated, especially at Christmastime, than by the tradition of holiday newsletters we send and receive. Ann Landers had a classic column lampooning this Christmas tradition. She included a letter from someone who says, "What really galls me is the way everyone tries to paint such a glowing picture of affluence and success. And she gives several examples. Here's one of them: "Dear Friends, What a wonderful year we've had! Jim was named vice president of the bank, so we celebrated by buying a Mercedes and taking a trip to the Orient. In Addition to his Boy Scout work, Jim served as chairman of the United Fund drive. He remains on the hospital board and is president of Kiwanis. His first love, however, is still conservation, and he continues to work hard as chairman of the committee to fight Dutch Elm disease."ii
It's such a blessing when we are successful, and it's a blessing to share our success with our friends. And it is certainly good and often appropriate to be in control, to be calm, and strong. And there is another side to all of us -- that part of us that feels needy, that part of us that becomes frightened, that part of us that has doubts, that part of us that gets angry, that part of us that feels lonely. That part of us like the little boy with the grimy brown hat, that needs care, love and reassurance that things will be okay. When we get in touch with these needs, and when we express them, we become vulnerable and less than perfect. And so when we start to risk being a little more honest, a little more vulnerable, it doesn't take much to startle us, and we too back away and are off in a flash. Like the little boy in the brown hat, we too disappear into the night. The night of our defenses, ready to show only our strength and confidence, if we can muster them at all.
Yet tonight we come here together because we know somehow it's not supposed to be that way. We want to believe it doesn't have to be that way. We know that because tonight God's heart is bared, and God becomes vulnerable too. Tonight it is God who wears the grimy brown hat and becomes a child who needs care and love.
Last Friday, a week ago tonight, a small group of us from Holy Cross gathered in the chapel for a service of comfort and support. It was a service intended for those of us who are like the boy in the grimy brown hat, those of us who, because of loss in our lives for whatever reason, need to tend to those parts of ourselves that grieve, that have doubts, that get angry, that feel lonely, that have a hard time getting through this time of year. We gathered together, in word and song, in sharing and reflecting, in anointing and laying on of hands, in sharing the peace and the Lord's Supper. Collectively, we were kind of like that little boy, reaching out for comfort and connection. Receiving it as it was offered. We will do it again.
One of my favorite stories is "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" by Barbara Robinson. I was reminded of it again last Sunday during the wonderful pageant our young people put on. The story of "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" is an eye opening reminder for me of just how vulnerable God did become this night. In this little book, we hear the familiar Christmas story through the eyes of a down and out family of six poor and neglected children who have never heard the story before. We see how perfectly disgraceful it was. We hear all about the nice warm stable with all the animals breathing, the sweet-smelling hay -- but that doesn't change the fact that they put Mary in a barn.iii Tonight, God's self-giving vulnerability gives us permission to be vulnerable too. To reach up and touch the face of One who loves us without running away in fear. To build lasting relationships because we share who we really are. A relationship with God can't really even begin until we accept our own powerlessness over certain aspects of our lives.
To lay bare your heart, your very soul, says the poet Alexander T. Coyle, is wholesome and good, But also daring and dangerous. For it makes you vulnerable. You confess your sins and someone now knows what you vowed you'd never tell; Or your bitter tears, Furtively wiped away too late, Expose your wounded humanity; Or, in sudden blazing anger, crying out your undiluted hatred, your heart is laid bare; or you exclaim, "I love you": and for once in your life your poise is shattered, your aloofness is destroyed, your singleness is gone, your defenses are down, you are utterly vulnerable.
"And so it was with God," he continues. "Once hidden by the storm in the burning bush, beyond the snow topped mountains, too terrible to look upon, aloof from human ways, utterly vulnerable, God, with daring and dangerous abandon, bared the divine heart to us, in Bethlehem, laying open to accident and disease, to insanity and poverty, to human ridicule and rejection and wounding and killing. God became vulnerable on Christmas Day -- as do all who say, "I love you."iv
Whenever we gather as a community around Word and Sacrament, we hear "I love you" again as God comes to us in bread and wine and water and the word to meet us at the deepest places of our need, of our fear, of our doubts, of our anger. God becomes vulnerable in earthly elements so we who need care and love can receive a concrete sign that things will be okay. Open your heart. Reach out your hand. God has come tonight for you. AMEN.
Pastor Dana Runestad
Christmas Eve 24 December 2004
Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Livonia
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