“Getting to the Manger” A Meditation for Christmas Eve by the Rev. Dr. Hilary J. Barrett Preached at Pleasantville UCC, December 24, 2016 Luke 2:1-20 “And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.” (Luke 2:7)
An old friend of mine has spent the better part of 20 years in the Manger on Christmas morning. She works part time over at Merrymead Farm and she feeds cows. Merrymead is a family owned and operated working dairy farm located in Worcester Township. It’s been in the same family for more than a century. And for almost 20 years, my friend, Karen has been the person who rises in the wee hours of Christmas morning, puts on her Carhartts and her work boots, and makes her way to the manger. The manger – of course – being the place where the animals are fed. (The English word we know as “manger” comes from the old French word mangoire, meaning, to eat.) Those who live and work with farm animals know that it doesn’t much matter what day it is on the calendar. Most dairy cows need to be milked about 3:30 a.m. every morning; and they need to be fed about 4:30 a.m. every day. Christmas Day. New Year’s Day. Every day. Think about that the next time you pick up a gallon of milk for $2 at the Giant – and thank a dairy farmer. ╬╬╬ There’s a reason Karen likes to be in the barn on Christmas morning. It’s because she wholly expects to find hope born in that place. It may come in ways unexpected for most of us: in the slant of moonlight through the barn, or the lowing of cattle in their stalls; in the birth of a steaming new calf, or in a heifer chewing her cud in rhythm to “The Little Drummer Boy” as it rings out through the milk parlor.
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For Karen, a big part of “getting to the manger” is being in the manger. Years of experience have taught her that – even in the darkest times of her life – the peace of wild things1 will descend upon her heart and she will be made whole again. I like to think of Jesus showing up in the dairy barn at Merrymead Farm. There – amidst the pungent smells of livestock. There – where mud and straw and manure mix. It’s a far cry from most of the Nativity scenes we are accustomed to seeing – where everything is relatively tidy – “as if [we were] ashamed that God should have lain down in poverty and dirt.”2 But that couldn’t have been how it really was, could it? For the scriptures tell us that Jesus was – in fact – born in a stable – because there was no room for him in the inn. That he did, in fact, lay down in poverty and dirt. That that is precisely the manner in which God came to be with God’s people. And I, for one, find it a relief to know that the One Who Came to Save Us would be well acquainted with the messes of this world – because there certainly are a lot of them. In this past week alone, the world community has witnessed: the assassination of the Russian ambassador to Turkey; the terror attack in Berlin; and the continued disaster which is the Syrian city of Aleppo. And here at home, we’ve got our own mess to deal with. We are a nation adrift in a sea of change, with ever-increasing isolationist tendencies. We have mortally wounded our sense of civility, emboldening those who espouse hate to come out from their dark hiding places. We have forgotten our history; forgotten how we were made to be a great nation by welcoming the immigrant and providing succor to the refugee. It is a mess – no doubt. Thank God we’ve got a Savior who is well acquainted with dirt.
1 From the poem, The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry. 2 Giovanni Papini, Óx and Ass”, Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas, (New York: Orbis
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╬╬╬ There’s a poem that’s been making the rounds in these days of national and global messes. It’s written by the American farmer poet, Wendell Berry. It’s called, The Peace of Wild Things, and it goes like this: When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
╬╬╬ I like to think of Jesus being born in a barn. There – among the wild things. There – amidst the pungent smells of livestock. There – where mud and straw and manure mix. There may have been a slant of moonlight shining through the barn. There probably was the lowing of cattle heard in their stalls. The freshly birthed Savior, steam rising from his newborn flesh, lay nestled on a bed a straw – a feeding trough would have to do for a cradle. And who is not to say that the heifer did not chew her cud to the rhythm of the song of the angels? What a relief it is to know that the Savior of the World is well acquainted with mud. ╬╬╬ About this time every year, Karen and I will ask each other the same question – it’s our own kind of spiritual check-in before Christmas:
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“Are we gettin’ to the manger this year, honey?” “Are we getting to the manger this year?” Getting to the Manger is what this season is all about. Twenty-eight days ago – at the beginning of the season of Advent – we set our foot upon a pilgrim path. And when we did, we hoped that the journey would lead us to the Manger. But that is by no means guaranteed. There’s a difference, of course, between getting to the Manger and getting to Christmas. Getting to Christmas means the presents are wrapped, and the groceries are bought, and the cookies are baked. But getting to the manger is something altogether different. One is about the calendar. The other is about the journey. Getting to the Manger is about getting to the place where hope is born. It’s about getting to the place where hope drops down in the midst of a tired and hopeless world. And that is no simple journey. It truly never was. ╬╬╬ And so we are here tonight – ready to turn towards the manger. Ready to get to the place where broken hearts are put back together; ready to get to the place where hope drops down in the midst of despair; where love drops down in the midst of fear; where compassion drops down in the midst of anger; where resilience drops down in the midst of exhaustion. We don’t have to get our act together in order to get to the manger. Things don’t need to be perfect for the Christ child to enter our hearts. We don’t need to be perfect. Because, ready or not: our God comes to save us. The Savior of the world – who is well acquainted with the mess we can make of things – is ready to receive us, just as we are. So tonight we are here to discover God with us. Tonight we are here to make our way to the manger, to find our place in the stable, to hear the lowing of cattle, to view the baby by moonlight, to watch the heifer chew her cud and to know that she is hearing the songs of angels. Tonight we are here – right here in the manger. Because in the beginning “it was to certain poor
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shepherds abiding in their fields, tired of keeping watch over their flocks by night, rank with the smell of their sheep, that the gospel of great joy was first revealed.3 Let us pray: Make my world your stablecenterpieced with Heaven's Son. Make this night a shepherd's skyquickened bright with Holy dawn. Rush the air with cherub wings, Brush this earth - let angels sing, Make my heart your manger, O King, Be born in me, I pray. 4 Amen.
3 Robert Ellsberg, Blessed Among Us: Day by Day with Saintly Witnesses,(Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2016),
December 25. 4 Max Lucado, © 2005. Barrett -5–