The Time Being to redeem

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green
Readings: Jeremiah 31:7-14, Ephesians 1:3-14; John 1:1-18

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us”

Some words from WH Auden:

“Well, so that is that.  Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes – 
Some have got broken – and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school.  There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week – 
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted – quite unsuccessfully – 
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers...  

 The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off...  

                            ...In the meantime
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair,
Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem
From insignificance.  The happy morning is over,
The night of agony still to come; the time is noon:”
       (Auden - For the Time Being)

As a child I passionately hated the first of January. School was imminent. Rain unrelenting (it always rains in Wales). The anticipation, expectation of magic stripped away by the anti-climax of Christmas. The hollow feeling that despite the hype, the sparkle, nothing has changed. I couldn’t wait for the thin tinsel which twinkled so merrily on the 24th to be stripped down back to bare surfaces. And it’s not just the physical hangover of food and drink and idle watching of television we have to recover from.  There is also the metaphysical hangover – because for as much as we were able to invest in the magical beauty and the hopeful dreaming of Christmas – the quickly disappointed peace on earth, good will to men – we now have accustom ourselves once again to the daily slog. 

The happy morning is over, 
The night of agony still to come; the time is noon. 

Or, as another twentieth-century poet put it: 

       How shall we behave the day after the feast?
       If there’s no elation to recall at least
       There’s little enough disappointment : so act
       As if things were usual, which they are in fact. 

How shall we behave the day after the feast? For our ancestors winter mostly did mean holing up, eating and drinking until the days lengthen and Spring gets underway. Our church gardeners still take January and February off, I presume feasting until Ash Wednesday. But for most of us, school crashes in, work begins with the inevitable first week demands of a giant catch up before we reach even keel. Where are the young women rejoicing in the dance? When will my mourning turn into joy? 

This may sound like New Year’s blues, but it reminds us that as Christians we live perpetually after the joy of the Christmas morning and before the trial and hope of Holy Week.  We celebrate the promises associated with these events in our seasons, but time and again we find ourselves in the middle of the way, overwhelmed by washing-up, laundry and surprise guests, in a world that turns and turns in apparent ignorance of Christian hope. 

And now, we’re about to enter the season of Epiphany. I always feel that just as Christmas seems to be about children, Epiphany is about age. It begins with entrance of the magi, who I think have a sort of grandparently feel, with their extravagant gifts and short visit. “Change a nappy? Actually, we’d better be on our way, the camels are getting restless and it’s a long way to the orient” And Epiphany ends with the Presentation at the Temple at Candlemas, where the baby is received by Simeon and Anna, great-grandparents perhaps, who find in this moment the time to leave behind the world, Simeon famously declaring: ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; to be a light to lighten the Gentiles and to be the glory of thy people Israel’. The words immortalised by evensong sung daily at the dying of the light.

There is a reminder here in these slightly marginal figures that we are not the centre. In this turning world that has spun us into existence and will turn us out, we are bit parts who strut and fret our hour on the stage before falling silent. This may seem like terrible news. Like Richard Griffiths declaiming: ‘It is the most shattering experience of a young man's life when one morning he awakes and quite reasonably says to himself "I will never play the Dane." When that moment comes, one's ambition ceases.’

But it’s really a reminder that worship is a double movement. At once it’s the act of acknowledging, giving thanks, praising what is divine; but it’s also the acknowledgement of our own fragile, temporary, small part in this creation. I think, for many, it is harder to acknowledge the second than the first. But sometimes leaving behind the pressure to be special, to be worshipped, can be a relief, and we can enjoy losing ourselves in our attention to another.

At Christmas we hear today’s Gospel reading, perhaps at the carol service, perhaps midnight mass, and it seems very dramatic, cosmic: ‘In the beginning was the Word.’ And it seems triumphant: ‘the light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.’

When we hear it in the morning, it sounds different to me. I don’t hear it as a ‘big bang’, the final victory at the last battle. I hear it, not as the lit Easter candle being processed into church, but as the small candle in a side chapel reminding quietly of the presence of God. Which makes more sense of the reading since the world did not know him, did not accept and receive him.

So despite the mayor reading at the carols, the excited children cramming the pews at the Christingle, perhaps this is the real Christmas. The quiet faith of Christmas 2, the day after the feast; as the children are gearing up again for school, and already the things of Christmas are packed away, or like our trees, on their last legs. Life is rolling on in scarves and sandwiches and doctor’s appointments; the real Christmas is this Word made flesh, God in the very ordinary business of life. Sometimes a little hard to make out, but somewhere in the gloomy building, on a dull wet day, a small light is shining. A light which if we take the time is there to redeem the Time being, to give significance to these ordinary events, in work, in life, in death; a light to pull us out of the importance we give to ourselves and our moment, into a light that has a longer wick than our short years.       

So as we come out of the Christmas feast, with (as the Old Testament lesson had it) its young women dancing, its young and old men being merry, and its priests having their fill of fatness - I can vouch for this one; let us warm ourselves one final time in this light. 

It’s the last day of Christmas and already twelve drummers drumming may seem like too much. We have the seal of the Spirit and so we do not need to look for the gathering up of the Kingdom in leaping lords, ladies dancing and such like.  But as the world sets itself back into the solid efficiency of the working week, with the horrors of dry January, or worse Veganuary, let us remember that small candle burning perpetually in the side chapel; that promise that God is with us for life, not just for Christmas. And as our Christmas trees are shedding, our presents gathering dust, and our waistbands expanding, let us this morning commit ourselves to carrying this light within us from that happy morning through the night of agony, to reach our Easter day of resurrection. Amen.