The Sermon . . .

Bishop Gerald Beaumont

A few years ago, Lyn and I were in Bethlehem.

I had never really wanted to go to the Holy Land. Forty odd years of image building would, I knew, come under threat.

But it really wasn’t loke that at all. Actually my old images of the Holy Land remain intact. Albeit, utterly removed from the reality that is present-day Bethlehem. Somehow the two will not come together. I suppose a part of me doesn’t want them to.

My old imagined Bethlehem began its life in my childhood. It hasn’t changed all that much over the years, defying theological training and all other efforts at renovation.

I see it still in my mind’s eye. Square white buildings; always nightime, with a few stars - and one large one, in particular - beaming down their cool, clear light.

A vaguely Sunday School tableau gathering in a barn with clean straw, and sturdy wooden beams.

A few cattle doing the odd bit of lowing, and some shepherds a little abiding.

Mary - an attractive blonde, I think -an an old and bearded Joseph of no particular consequence.

Not much action in my own old image. All seems rather frozen, as I call it to mind. Maybe you will find some resonance with this image. It’s certainly re-iterated in a thousand churches and in many otherwise secular situations at this time of the year. Even our own little crib scene is styled out of the same vision.

Of course it wasn’t actually like that at all, as well we know in our other more adult reflections.

Palestine has always been at the crossroads of empires competing for territorial dominance.

It certainly is so still, as every Israeli and Palestinian knows most painfully.

But there could hardly be a more vital place in the world.

Subject often to great misery, but always profoundly alive and utterly dynamic. And Bethlehem sits at the heart of that troubled land, torn still by the most bitter conflicts.

Bethlehem is a dusty, noisy place, on a hill, not far from Jerusalem. Israeli troops manned strategic points along its main street when we were visiting and, I imagine, no less than they do today.

The oldest part of the town is cramped and full of traffic, jostling for priority. A perfect setting for the cruelty of terrorism.

As soon as we got out of the car in Bethlehem, next to the large Church of the Holy Nativity, I was accosted by vendors of film and trinkets. Guides appeared from everywhere, noisily persistent in the offering of their services. Even the young man who, I thought had altruistically guided me to a parking place, was a self-employed enrepeneur, relieving me of shekels before I knew where I was.

I wasn’r suprised or offended. In a place where, for many, each day is a struggle just to survive, it seems at least fair that those who have are, for a change, victims of those who have not.

And as for the supposed birthplace of Jesus, what am I to say?

A silver star fastened into a marble slab, each worn smooth and bright by the kisses of a million pilgrims.

What did they come to see or to feel? Was it a joy to them? Was it pain to them? Did the Jesus of their imagination find a harmony with the concrete reality of the place?

Well. I can only say that for me, the old constructed images remain! They are very durable.

But they exist in a kind of paralel universe. Quarantined from the uglier dust and bustle of present day Bethlehem.

In this way, I have to admit that it takes a considerable act of the will to ensure that I do not limit Jesus to a very narrow and constricted life, determined by my own interests and sensitivities.

A Jesus confined in this way could only be, at best, of limited value in the breadth of my life concerns.

It is really quite simple to imprison this vital centre of our faith in an old and unreal past from which he cannot escape into our lives.

As we come together this night, drawn again by the pervasive influence of this extraordinary man, Jesus, we may need to attend to the images we carry very personally into this moment.

We need not abandon that little town of Bethlehem that lives in our child imaginings, for it gives an important and mysterious kind of comfort. But we need also to confront the reality that this same, Jesus, was no figment of our imagination, but the whole power of God compressed, as it were, into a fragile human life. First in the manger, and then on the cross. A Jesus who would still have us know the ways of peace and love. The elements of God’s universe.

There is in all of us, a deep longing for real peace. Not the oblivion of no longer caring about anything, but the peace that this season so persistently proclaims. But it is a tall order as we seek for this peace in our private lives, and in the greater world beyond. One increasingly menaced by the threat of terrorism.

The immensity of the task was underlined for me in an old Tandberg cartoon. In a manger scene, Joseph is saying to his infant son:” You’ll bring peace and joy to the world” - “ the son answers:” How long have I got?”

It’s certainly good to know that we have to do with a very patient and long-suffering God!

But there are signs all around us that give us reason to hope, to believe the promise of this season.

Last Sunday, in this church, we played host to some 50 Muslim men, women and children. We talked about our different faith communities and customs; we sang and prayed together, and we enjoyed some food and conversation. We live different religious lives, but we found a way of listening to one another and liking to be together ,which offered a sign that God’s power for peace is evident in the unlikeliest places.

And again, in a different place, some years ago I met a young man whose life had been very hard indeed. In the course of our conversation together, he produced a copy of the letter he had sent to his de-facto stepfather. It was his Christmas letter. It had a bitter sweetness to it which has stayed with me down through the years. In part he wrote:

” Dear Dave, How are yous? How is everything down there? Good I hope, I would like to have christmas with yous, but I can’t stay around that town, it’s a bad place ......

sorry I have no present for you but I have no money, but what I will share with you about what I realized since I have moved out will be a good enough present. I want to thank yous for looking after us all these years, and being the man of the house there....

I know I have rebelled against you and mum, but I hope you don’t hold anything against me. You have taught me a lot of things: being reliable at work, and at home, not at the pub everyday.

As a young man now I can go out in the world and lead my life.

There are things that mothers can’t show us like a man can.

I want to thank you for showing us the right example. And I owe you this letter, and even more, because I would have been a spoilt sooky little brat, still living with mummy, if you weren’t there.

I hope I can really thank you one day by repaying the favour back.

So I’m going to sign off now. I hope to see yous soon.

Sorry for not being the lad you wanted me to be for them years with you and mum.

See you soon, Dave. Thanks for everything.

Love Graham.”

It is the living, present and powerful Christ, that opens up a thousand doors daily for us to embrace the business of peace.

It is the Chistian mission to show that Christ to the world, and not to allow him to be locked up in that old and mythic Bethlehem of our imagination.

It is in the dusty, dark and dangerous alleyways of the real world that we will most usually encounter the child in the manger who journeys with us as the man for all seasons. The binder of wounds and the bearer of hope.

As we leave this place tonight, touched by the beauty of a lovely traditional celebration, and all that it conveys to the heart of God’s love for us, I pray that you will find peace in your lives, and that you will be energetic in your resolve to share it with all about you as an act of willing gratitude.

May God who is our peace, bless you with all his peace this night and always.