Luke 2:1-14(15-20)

In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see-- I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

 “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”

One Can Miss Mountains
and pine. One
can dismiss
a whisper’s
revelations
and go on as
before as if
everything were
perfectly fine.
One does. One
loses wonder
among stores
of things.
One can even miss
the basso boom
of the ocean’s
rumpus room
and its rhythm.
A man can leave
this earth
and take nothing
—not even
longing—along
with him.

This little jewel of a poem came to me from the pages of The New Yorker magazine one rainy winter morning as I waited for my dental appointment in an office in downtown Seattle. We live in a city surrounded by mountains and pines and water, but that day, as I sat glum and rained upon, I was not aware of any of the beauty that surrounded me. I was instead weighed down by worries about what I had or had not done to protect my dental health, and by other demands, all the other things I would need to do later that day.

Yes, one can miss mountains and pine…one does….one loses wonder among stores of things.

I don’t think the poet, of course, was talking about Macy’s or Nordstrom’s when he spoke of the “stores of things” that can cause us to miss the wonder of what is around us or in us. Instead, he probably means the accumulation of physical stuff in our lives and the upkeep it takes. But he may also have meant something more—the “things” that were weighing me down that day, things captured in the Latin word “res,” a kind of wonderful catch-all ancient word that means physical stuff but also means circumstances, situations, conditions, or even the larger affairs of state or of the natural world.

We can and do miss much, the poet says, we can and do lose our sense of wonder, in the midst of things—things we own, things we need to do, things that preoccupy us from the bigger context we live in—politics, the economy, the world.

One way to look at our story from Luke tonight is that it moves from attention to, preoccupation with and being subject to some of these bigger things—the political and economic things of the time—to the recognition of what one 15th century English carol calls ‘res miranda,” a thing of wonder, that shows up in the small, in the human and in the commonplace.

Let me explain.

Luke’s story of the birth of Jesus does not begin with miraculous, other-worldly signs that would typically occur in ancient literature when the divine breaks through into the human world. Rather, Luke’s story begins with government bureaucracy and taxes: the Emperor Augustus commands that all people should be registered—that is, counted, in order for the taxes due to Rome to be tallied up. This meant that Joseph and his pregnant fiancé, Mary, had to return to his hometown of Bethlehem to be counted.

And so from the beginning what we see is that the Holy Family, just like us, is subject to the circumstances and currents of the larger political and economic scene, subject to larger things not in their control. The Holy Family, just like us, is not protected from the things that have the power to push them around—actions of the state, exigencies of the economy, circumstances that they did not create. And finally, as the story goes, the Holy Family, just like us, can be pushed by some of these forces to an inhospitable place, a place where there is no shelter and no room to rest.

Think sad little couple down on their luck, husband having lost his job, house in foreclosure and baby on the way.

And if that doesn’t ring a bell, think you, overwhelmed by this thing or that thing, feeling pushed around and dislocated, not able to live in the home of our heart anymore.

It is here, Luke says, under these kinds of conditions, subject to these kinds of things, that the wondrous event, the res miranda, breaks through and is birthed into the world. The Holy Child, the one who is the sign and symbol of all that is new and fresh and human comes forth, born not when things have gotten better or eased up, but in a time and in a place of dislocation. The Holy Child comes forth born in the flesh, our flesh, born, significantly, in an animal stall, the place of our animal bodies and the place of the earth’s own body.

And so the breaking through of the wondrous Holy Child in the way that Luke describes it has something to say to us tonight.

I believe it’s saying this: God is forever the wondrous event, the breakthrough of wonder itself, is being born and seen in the middle of our preoccupations with other things, especially things that seem to push us around and dislocate us from the home of our hearts.

And what is asked of us is this: that we stop and look around and receive what has been there all along—our mountains and our pine, the basso boom of the ocean’s rumpus room and its rhythm, the whisper of insights and revelations we have had, the spouse or partner or child or parent or friend that we already have as they really are. We need only stop and receive these as gifts from the one who is the source of all gifts.

For wonder in the end is about seeing, taking in, what’s already before us not as we might wish it would be but as it is; taking it all in and realizing that these, and no others, are the gifts that God has given us. Wonder is about opening our eyes and seeing life as a gift—a gift that we did not earn but that somehow has the power to fill us and be the full place from which our life in the world is to be led.

As a college student, I was fortunate enough to be a part of group that met periodically with Coleman Barks, a poet on the faculty at the University of Georgia. In those days Barks was a young bearded professor who said outrageous things to students who fancied themselves to be writers and poets. Who would guess that many years later he would become the most popular translator of the 13th century Persian poet Rumi, and a bit of a cultural phenomenon?

Barks tells the story of the household he grew up in and the kind of consciousness it created in him. He calls that consciousness by another name: ecstasy. I would call that consciousness a sense of wonder—a deep sense of the giftedness of life, an unearned gift that has the power to fill us and be that full place from which we lead our lives..

These Coleman Barks’ words in response to an interviewer’s question: Did religion enter the picture in your childhood?

“We were Presbyterian, but I was sort of a river mystic. There was a curve of the Tennessee River near (where we lived). It was a very beautiful spot. People have been living in that place for fifteen thousand years. That’s where I learned about beauty, just watching that river. There are three mountains there — Elder, Signal, and Lookout — and you could yell at Elder Mountain and hear your name come back. And it was perfectly all right at any time just to wander off from the family and sit by the river. My sister had her own spot out on the bluff where she went. We would see her out there, and we realized that you shouldn’t go and talk to her when she was out there. She was doing what I did — just looking at the river.

…(and so, as a result) I grew up in an ecstatic family. Anybody at any time could burst into song for any reason. My mother would just dance around the house, singing.

I recall those two minutes at the end of the day when a golden light would fall across the floor, especially in April. I would lie down in it and hug myself. One time when I was doing that, I told my mother, “Mama, I’ve got that full feeling again.” She said, “I know you do, honey.” Rumi says just being sentient and in a body is cause for rapture, and I think his reminding us of that is one reason why he’s so popular.”

Tonight, my wish for us all is that we will have that full feeling again— not just from the food and the events of the season—but from a wondrous thing, the Holy Child born in a manger and the realization that the best gift of all is not waiting for a better time or place to come to us. It is here and now and already in our possession—the gift of our lives as they really and already are.

Works Cited or Consulted

The Sun interview with Coleman Barks: “Walking Around in the Heart” by Andrew Lawler
October 2007 | Issue 382

“One Can Miss Mountains” by Todd Boss: The New Yorker, May 12, 2008

 ”There Is No Rose Of Such Virtue”: English Traditional Carol, c. 1420

1. There is no rose of such virtue
As is the rose that bare Jesu;
Alleluia.
2. For in this rose contained was
Heaven and earth in little space;
Res miranda.
3. By that rose we may well see
That he is God in persons three,
Pari forma.
4. The angels sungen the shepherds to:
Gloria in excelsis deo:
Gaudeamus.
5. Leave we all this worldly mirth,
And follow we this joyful birth;
Transeamus.
6. Alleluia, res miranda,
Pares forma, gaudeamus,
Transeamus.

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