Christmas Dawn Mass 2024
Isaiah 62:11-12; Titus 3:4-7; Luke 2:15-20
“And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God……………” And then what? Did life return to its old routine, with the memory of what they had seen and heard gradually fading? Or was a lasting impression made on them? Would they continue to glorify and praise God? Might they have been changed, internally if not externally?
Would they have tried to follow the exploits of the Messiah whom they had seen? Likely enough, that would have been impossible, since he faded from view for thirty years, by which time they would probably have died. Would they have been disappointed that he hadn’t made a mark in that time, perhaps overthrowing Roman rule, or might they have understood things at a deeper level, touched in the depth of their being by the God whom they had been privileged to encounter in human form? Surely the latter must have happened to a greater or lesser degree: to some extent, this event must have marked them for life.
What about us? I suspect that all of us must carry memories of Christmases past, especially childhood memories: making Christmas decorations in primary school, learning the exacting and often witty lines required for the Nativity Play, nowadays tragically reduced to a pageant for the Infants, to be left behind at the age of seven, rather than a stimulating challenge for Top Juniors.
You may remember the thrill of being allowed to attend Midnight Mass for the first time. Then there was Christmas Day itself, and the magic of opening the presents: the new toys, and for me, especially the books. I still remember lying full length on the hearthrug, devouring every word of “Treasure Island”. After that came Christmas dinner, with shandy to drink from tall glasses, followed by the sweet and actually thrilling aroma of Dad’s cigar. I haven’t smelt cigar smoke in years, but if ever I do, it takes me straight back to Christmas past.
And then what? The new toys would take their place alongside their older fellows in the toy box: the books would be finished, and lined up on the bookshelves. Down would come the decorations, with the Christmas tree baubles and the crib figures wrapped and stored for next year. Soon would come the horror of going back to school.
I actually started school in January, seventy years ago. It was snowing, and I wore a pair of my Mum’s zip up long boots. As I was putting them back on to go outside at playtime, a big girl told me that they were on the wrong feet, which was silly, because they were the only feet I had.
Christmas faded into the background for another year, but not everything disappeared. My toy soldiers, my cars, and my cowboys and Indians reappeared regularly, and my plastic sword, eventually repaired with Sellotape, was well used as I, mounted on my trusty steed (aka the arm of the settee) and with a tea cosy (metal on the outside) on my head as a helmet, reproduced all the duels as I reread King Arthur, acting out both parts in turn. As for Treasure Island, I have read it more times than I have had hot dinners, and was given a new, very smart copy a few Christmases ago.
Has anything else remained? I think, I hope that my understanding of the feast has deepened, and continues to do so. I hope that I have come a little closer to grasping the reality of the Incarnation, of God stripping Himself with glory and taking on Himself our human flesh, with its hopes, its fears, its, joys, its pain, and its capacity for mental and physical suffering beyond anything imaginable by us lesser characters—but also for ultimate transcendence of everything, even death.
I hope too that I have learned to take seriously the word Emmanuel—God with us—and to realise that this is an ongoing reality; that God is always with us, here and now in our mundane, always messy, often painful existence. In my better moments I strive to see Him in others, in the events of life; to respond to His presence in His word, in the sacraments, and in the often distracted struggle of my private prayer.
The underlying message of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” is that Scrooge’s experiences changed him forever. May our celebration of this feast, year by year, have the same lasting effect on us. “And so, as Tiny Tim observed: God bless us, every one.”
