Once upon a time, a gift was given.

And all who received it were changed.  The old found new excitement and enthusiasm; the young found purpose and meaning.  But, more amazingly, frozen hearts were thawed and raging souls calmed.  The love poured from this gift had the power to wash away hatred.  Enemies became family.  Hope-soaked desert lives blossomed and flourished.

Compassion flowed from the gift, filling empty lives; graciousness became a garment; and, strangely, for those who received the gift a new light shone, casting different shadows, illuminating possibilities previously unseen.  Indeed, the gift was light; the gift was compassion; the gift was grace.  All that it touched was made new.

And those who received the gift began to give.  The gift was shared and passed along and thrown around in acts of compassion and signs of grace, in mercy and selflessness. This is a gift that will not be locked away; like the manna of old it can’t be stored for tomorrow.  It has to be given.

And so the gift is given still.

We know because we’ve received it.  We know because our own hearts have been thawed, our own souls drenched with hope.  We know what it is to receive that for which we cannot pay.  And so we too feel now a twinge that nudges us, and we hear the voice that whispers simply, “Give; share; care.”

For us who call ourselves the church, the gift is a way of life.  Have you shared it lately?  Have you offered the grace you have found, or should I say the grace that has found you?  Have you invited someone to come and discover it for themselves?  Sharing the gift is as simple as a word, a gesture, your presence, and as profound as the highest calling, the grandest effort serving the noblest cause.

One size fits all with this gift.  Offer it to a friend; share it with the world.  But try to hang onto it, try to guard it, and it will only fade away.

A while back, I read of a group of astronomers who had discovered 10 hitherto unknown planets circling neighboring stars, the closest of which was 10.5 light-years from earth (in more general terms, that’s a long, long way).  The astronomers weren’t ready to say whether any of the newly discovered planets might sustain life, because they couldn’t really say much about the planets at all.  You see, the planets can’t actually be seen from earth.  So, you might reasonably ask, if we can’t see them, how do we know they exist?

It works like this: The gravitational pull of the planets causes the parent stars to wobble back and forth.  That wobble, in turn, causes a slight wobble in the wavelength of light coming from the stars.  And that wavelength of light is indeed measurable from here on earth.  And so, from a wobbling light, scientists can reason their way back to the presence of a planet.

Makes sense to me.

Not that I know anything about astronomy, but I do understand the logic.  It is, after all, central to our Christian theology.  Call it wobblology, if you will.  We talk about it all the time in the church.

It works like this: If you follow the movement of Christians in the universe, you should discern a certain wobble—an alteration of course that implies the presence of another force.  That wobble might be a word of grace here or a an act of compassion there or a stranger welcomed as friend or some unmerited kindness in an unlikely place that sets the Christian apart from the rest of humanity.  “There, do you see?” I can imagine some objective scientist noting.  “There is definitely something different about the movement of those Christians and the light they emit.”  Reason your way back and you will discover the cause—the presence of Christ and the gravitational pull of his love.

In the end, there is no greater evidence for the existence of a divine love than the people who dwell in that love and no greater evidence for a Savior than the people who have been saved.  So, wobble on, and in your wobbling bear witness to the Christ whose love changes everything.

Back in my days at the Wesleyan Christian Advocate, I was visiting a church one night, hoping  in vain to sell subscriptions, when a woman came to me and announced, “Wish me a happy birthday; I’m 23 today.”  “Poor thing,” I thought, as I nodded, smiled and looked around to see if there was someone who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her.  The woman had to be in her 80s, and clearly she was, well, a little confused.  But then the people standing near her smiled, too, not in an “ah, poor thing; let’s humor her” way, but as though they were all in a joke that I clearly didn’t get.  “What day is it?” one of them finally asked me, and at last I understood.  The date was February 29, and I was wrong; she wasn’t in her 80s at all.

This Leap Year thing has always fascinated me, and I think I more or less understand it.  The intercalary (look it up) day of February 29 synchronizes our Gregorian calendar with the solar calendar, giving us 366 days instead of the normal 365.  But the important thing is this: We get an extra day this year.  Granted, it might not feel that way, but look at the calendar!  There it is.

So, how will you use it?  I mean, bonus days don’t come along that often, so make the most of it.  But be creative.  The day is a gift, after all, so don’t use it to catch up on work or chores or blah stuff like that.  Instead, mark off one item from your bucket list.  Or just make it a play day with your children or grandchildren.  Enjoy it.

If you’re in a generous mood, give the day to a friend.  Sit and talk; go to a movie; share a meal.  If you’re going to catch up, catch up on conversation.  Or, if you prefer, you can give the day to a stranger.  Join with our SafeHouse team one night—serve a meal and worship with folks who probably can’t do a thing in the world for you but be with you.

Spend some time with God.  Sit, read, reflect, pray, watch birds.  You’ll be amazed at the difference a day makes.  If you insist on spending your extra day at work, then give the money to the Children’s Home (That’s the whole idea of the Work Day Offering, after all).

Or maybe you would prefer to take the 24 hours and spread it through the year.  An extra hour in worship here, a 30-minute walk there, a conversation you didn’t think you had time for, a prayer.  The time is there.  Use it.

Now, which day you take as your bonus is entirely up to you.  But if you’re having a hard time deciding, just assume today is the one.  Enjoy it.  Do good with it.  Share it.  It’s a gift.

Last Sunday I quoted a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.  I wanted to share it with you here as well.  At the heart of our being is a profound mystery.  We are made in the image of God, and we bear the mark of Christ, through whom “all things came into being” (John 1:3).  Rilke expresses beautifully the ineffable sense of divine connection that haunts us, the still, small voice that “we dimly hear.”

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
 then walks with us silently out of the night.

 These are words we dimly hear:

 You, sent out beyond your recall,
 go to the limits of your longing.
 Embody me.

Flare up like flame
 and make big shadows I can move in.

 Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
 Just keep going.  No feeling is final.
 Don’t let yourself lose me.

 Nearby is the country they call life.
 You will know it by its seriousnes.

 Give me your hand.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

Have you had time yet to break any of your resolutions for 2012?  If so, let me suggest some replacements—something biblical even (I am, you know, a preacher).  You’ll find them all in the closing chapters of Paul’s Letter to the Romans.

Start at the beginning of chapter 12 (My translations here are all NRSV, unless otherwise noted).  “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds,” Paul writes in verse 2.  OK, I admit that’s a pretty broad resolution, but wait, Paul gets a bit more specific.

He starts by bringing us all down a notch or two: “For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think” (v. 3).  Instead, Paul says, consider the needs of the people around you.  “Let love of the Christian community show itself in mutual affection.  Esteem others more highly than yourself” (v. 10, REB).  Now, that doesn’t mean you should spend the next year putting yourself down.  To the contrary, Paul wants you to know you are God’s gift to the church, a wondrous part of the body of Christ, with important gifts to share.  But share you should.

Paul follows with a series of wonderful admonitions, each a noble resolution for 2012:

“Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep” (12:15).

“Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are” (12:16).

“If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all” (13:18).

“Welcome those who are weak in faith, but not for the purpose of quarreling over opinions” (14:1).

“Let us, then, pursue the things that make for peace and for mutual upbuilding” (14:19).

“In a word, accept one another as Christ accepted us, to the glory of God” (15:7, REB).

Does this still seem a pretty formidable list?  Fear not, for all these resolutions can be summarized in a word, Paul says.  Love.  “Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law” (13:10).  And that, in the end, is a resolution and a truth that can transform your mind and even the world around you.

With pen in hand, we approach each day, you and I, and we write.

Now, maybe you would disagree. “I have no desire to write, Mark,” you might say. Or maybe you prefer a word processor to a pen.  But it doesn’t matter.  One way or another, you’re writing.  Every day, a chapter at a time, a moment at a time, you’re writing your part of the Gospel according to Fayetteville First United Methodist Church.

So far the story is a good one—all about a church with deep roots in Fayette County and its response again and again to the needs of a community that has grown from rural county seat to thriving suburb.  It’s an epic story really, with a cast of thousands through the years. It has involved young and old, women and men, and it’s had its moments of drama and suspense, along with some comedy and maybe even a bit of farce now and then.  But the central theme has remained the same.  This is the gospel you’ve been writing, after all; this is God’s good news.

In one way or another you have told the story of Jesus, shared his forgiveness and mercy, nurtured children in the faith, and offered to hurting people God’s compassion. It’s the old, old story really, but you’ve made it uniquely yours.

Now, with a new year begins a new chapter.  The story will spin from your life and from mine and from ours together.  A sentence at a time, a scene at a time, a day, a month, a lifetime—the story reveals itself as we write.  It’s a bit of suspense this story, except that really it isn’t.  The great story of which we are a part is in the hands of the Author of authors.  We can write with confidence, knowing that the ending will not disappoint.

I don’t remember how old I was—10, 11?—but I remember as though it were yesterday sitting by our lighted Christmas tree, which stood beside the fireplace, in which glowed a fire freshly lit by my father. Alone with him in that flickering light I listened as he told of how his father built a fire in the family fireplace at Christmastime. And so a memory became a memory.

I remember services at the church and the voice of that congregation singing carols. I remember another church at our house, small and plastic with a light inside and glittery snow on its roof. I remember the angel atop the tree, the cookies and milk carefully set on Christmas Eve, and the creak of the kitchen door swinging behind us the next morning as my brother and I launched ourselves through the dining room toward the tree and gifts beyond.

I remember. That seems to be what we do this time of year. In fact, is there any time of year more weighted with memory and tradition than this one?

Sambo’s Christmas Gift, Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory, Dylan Thomas’ A Child’s Christmas in Wales—the memories of others, once read, blend with our own and become treasures to share and pass along. Memories upon memories, Christmas grows, a great oak (not a fir, not a pine) in our midst, and at the heart of the rings upon rings of memories the one story of birth and wonder and mystery, of angels and shepherds, of feed troughs and cattle lowing. We remember the story, and we remember remembering.

But here’s the strange thing about it all. The Christmas story, once remembered, ceases to be a memory. If it does not speak to our lives right now, and to our hopes and our future and our mission, then it is little more than one more pretty tale retold, one more batch of traditions consumed like so much comfort food.

What does it mean for our world today that Emmanuel, “God with us,” was born in the midst of poverty? What does it mean for you that the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God, was as human as you? What does it mean that God should come to us now in the ordinariness of life, offering love, mercy and a WAY of life that is truth and grace? Forget remembering for a moment. What does this birth have to say to you today, in this moment, with life as it is, not as it was?

And so, remembering once more through services traditional and carols familiar, we will tell the ancient and glorious story.  But listen … listen.  The Word divine and living comes to you now, always now.

I’m jealous of musicians.  OK, I’m not actually jealous enough to put in the study and practice necessary to become one myself, but I’m most definitely jealous.  You see, when I have gone as far as I can with my words—when I am struck dumb in the presence of the mystery that is life or love or God or us or whatever—the musician shoves me aside and says, “I’ve got it from here.”  And, sure enough, with a few notes artfully arranged, with voices or instruments wondrously harmonized or even discordantly clashing, the musician carries us higher—or is it deeper?—into that place of truth and emotion, wonder or praise, that a few moments before seemed beyond our reach.

That just doesn’t seem fair somehow.

So, I’m jealous, but I have to admit I’m thankful, too.  We preachers feel this need to explain stuff—shoot, everything—but when it comes to the glories of the Gospel, sometimes it isn’t explanation we need.  Take, for instance, this season of Advent.  The one who comes to us makes all things new.  The one who comes to us bears the very being of God.  The one who comes to us comes with a power unlike anything we have seen before.  The one who comes to us speaks a word of grace to our souls and calls us to follow him into God’s realm right here, right now, in the midst of the mess of our world.  And when we follow him into that realm, we become that realm in the world.  Do you really want me to explain all that, or would you prefer to experience it?

And so, music.

This Sunday (appropriately, the day when we light the candle that reminds us of the joy to be found in this season), our musicians—singers, orchestra, children, adults—will guide us into the beauty, glory and mystery of the season.  Our Service of Nine Lessons and Carols combines the great story of our relationship with God—from Garden to Stable—with songs that speak God’s truth to our souls.  You and I will even join in a couple of carols.

So, come and be still and receive the one who is born to us, the one borne to us on this day on notes artfully arranged.  Come and listen; come and be; come and discover the simple, wondrous, living story of our salvation.  I promise I won’t try to explain a note of it.

A few years ago, Barbara Sjoholm wrote a column in Smithsonian magazine about her visit to a little post office just north of Rovaniemi, Finland.  It is the official Santa Claus Village for the world.  Part tourist site, part working post office, this simple but pretty wooden building is the destination for thousands of letters on their way to Santa Claus.

Every year about this time, tourism students from the University of Lapland come to Santa Claus Village to help handle the deluge of mail that arrives for Santa.  The volunteers send form letters to the 40,000 or so people who give return addresses, but another 1,000 or 2,000 letters demand hand-written responses.  These are the ones asking for medical help for a dying parent or for a new home in the wake of a disaster or for a new limb to replace one blown off by a land mine.  These are the ones that break the hearts of the volunteers.

Film crews from all over the world come to Rovaniemi each year looking for feel-good Christmas stories, but one worker confided, “Sometimes, I get fed up with the film crews. All they want is footage of the letters or of the addresses. But all of us who work here, we’re affected by what we read. The sadness of children’s lives, their hopes and dreams. People used to have the saints to call on when they felt they couldn’t reach God himself.  Now, some of them think, ‘If God can’t help me, maybe Santa can.’”

Are you looking for Jesus this season?  Look to the places of suffering—to the neighbor forgotten at the end of the street, to the victims of war or natural catastrophe, to service men and women far from home, to the hungry and sick, to the imprisoned and oppressed.  Jesus is there already, waiting for his saints to join him.

And who are today’s saints?  They are the people who go looking for Christ in this world and who find along the way the people Christ loves.  Saints are the ones who make themselves available to the folks who have trouble reaching God.

So, this is Advent,

And what will you do?

Thanksgiving is over,

And the church year is new.

No, this isn’t Christmas,

Though the world tell you so.

Still time to get ready,

Four Sundays to go.

Refrain:

A very holy Advent!

Let us all praise and pray.

Tune your heart to the good news

Before Christmas day.

Some words from the prophets,

The Baptizer, too,

Made way for the Christ child

Who makes all things new.

And so we should listen.

The message can’t fail.

There’s more to the season

Than parties and sales.

Refrain

Each Sunday is different,

Each Sunday brings cheer.

Hope, peace, joy and love now

Can banish all fear.

No, this isn’t Christmas,

Nary Santa nor Elf.

Take time from the bustle

To ready yourself.

Refrain