Christmas message from Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori

The altar hanging at an English Advent service was made of midnight blue, with these words across its top: “We thank you that darkness reminds us of light.” Facing all who gathered there to give thanks were images of night creatures – a large moth, an owl, a badger, and a bat – cryptic and somewhat mysterious creatures that can only be encountered in the darkness.

As light ebbs from the days and the skies of fall, many in the Northern Hemisphere associate dark with the spooks and skeletons of secular Hallowe’en celebrations. That English church has reclaimed the connection between creator, creation, and the potential holiness of all that is. It is a fitting reorientation toward the coming of One who has altered those relationships toward new possibilities for healing and redemption.

Advent leads us into darkness and decreasing light. Our bodies slow imperceptibly with shorter days and longer nights, and the merriness and frantic activity around us are often merely signs of eager hunger for light and healing and wholeness.

The Incarnation, the coming of God among us in human flesh, happened in such a quiet and out of the way place that few noticed at first. Yet the impact on human existence has been like a bolt of lightning that continues to grow and generate new life and fire in all who share that hunger. Jesus is among us like a flitting moth – will we notice his presence in the street-sleeper? He pierces the dark like a silent, streaking owl seeking food for hungry and defenseless nestlings. He will overturn this world’s unjust foundations like badgers undermining a crooked wall. Like the bat’s sonar, his call comes to each one uniquely – have we heard his urgent “come and follow”?

God is among us, and within us, and around us, encountering, nudging, loving, transforming the world and its creatures toward the glorious dream the shepherds announced so many years ago, toward the beloved community of prophetic dreams, and the nightwatch that proclaims “all is well, fear not, the Lord is here.”

May Christ be born anew in you this Christmastide. May his light burn in you, and may you labor to spread it in the darkness. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light, and it is the harbinger of peace for all creation.

The Most Rev. Katharine Jefferts Schori Presiding Bishop and Primate The Episcopal Church

The Greatest Christmas Story Ever Told

Here again, my friends, is the greatest Christmas story ever told by a great story teller, Al Martinez, formerly of the Oakland Tribune, Los Angeles Times and the Los Angeles Daily News. Al is known as the "Bard of LA" and has won three Pulitzer prizes since he began writing columns in 1952. He wrote his last column on March 30 of this year, dropped by a newspaper publisher for the third, and probably last time. He had this to say in his last column:

"I think part of it is that I don't write local stuff but reach out for a broader view in a style of writing that just isn't "journalistic" enough. Good writing, as one L.A. Times publisher said when the Otis Chandler era came to an end, isn't a requirement for newspapers anymore. My writing is just too ornate, too stylistic, too gothic and too soft for those who own newspapers. And as they sit in lofty judgment on what the public wants, the product that is a result of their judgment drops deeper into the abyss."

I run this story every year in Fiat Lux, and it brings a tear to my eye every time.  So here it is, the Greatest Christmas Story Ever Told:

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A Christmas Story

By Al Martinez

IT happened one Christmas Eve a long time ago in a place called Oakland on a newspaper called the Tribune with a city editor named Alfred P. Reck.

I was working swing shift on general assignment, writing the story of a boy who was dying of leukemia and whose greatest wish was for fresh peaches.

It was a story which, in the tradition of 1950s journalism, would be milked for every sob we could squeeze from it, because everyone loved a good cry on Christmas.

We knew how to play a tear-jerker in those days, and I was full of the kinds of passions that could make a sailor weep.

I remember it was about 11 o'clock at night and pouring rain outside when I began putting the piece together for the next day's editions.

Deadline was an hour away, but an hour is a lifetime when you're young and fast and never get tired.

Then the telephone rang.

It was Al Reck calling, as he always did at night, and he'd had a few under his belt.

Reck was a drinking man. With diabetes and epilepsy, hard liquor was about the last thing he ought to be messing with, but you didn't tell Al what he ought to or ought not to do.

He was essentially a gentle man who rarely raised his voice, but you knew he was the city editor, and in those days the city editor was the law and the word in the newsroom.

But there was more than fear and tradition at work for Al.

We respected him immensely, not only for his abilities as a newsman, but for his humanity. Al was sensitive both to our needs and the needs of those whose names and faces appeared in the pages of the Oakland Tribune.

"What's up?" he asked me that Christmas Eve in a voice as soft and slurred as a summer breeze.

He already knew what was up because, during 25 years on the city desk, Reck somehow always knew what was up, but he wanted to hear it from the man handling the story.

I told him about the kid dying of leukemia and about the peaches and about how there simply were no fresh peaches, but it still made a good piece. We had art and a hole waiting on page one.

Al listened for a moment and then said, "How long's he got?"

"Not long," I said. "His doctor says maybe a day or two."

There was a long silence and then Al said, "Get the kid his peaches."

"I've called all over," I said. "None of the produce places in the Bay Area have fresh peaches. They're just plain out of season. It's winter."

"Not everywhere. Call Australia."

"Al," I began to argue, "it's after 11 and I have no idea . . .”

"Call Australia," he said, and then hung up.

If Al said call Australia, I would call Australia.

I don't quite remember whom I telephoned, newspapers maybe and agricultural associations, but I ended up finding fresh peaches and an airline that would fly them to the Bay Area before the end of Christmas Day.

There was only one problem. Customs wouldn't clear them. They were an agricultural product and would be hung up at San Francisco International at least for a day, and possibly forever.

Reck called again. He listened to the problem and told me to telephone the secretary of agriculture and have him clear the peaches when they arrived.

"It's close to midnight," I argued. "His office is closed."

"Take this number down," Reck said. "It's his home. Tell him I told you to call."

It was axiomatic among the admirers of Al Reck that he knew everyone and everyone knew him, from cops on the street to government leaders in their Georgetown estates. No one knew how Al knew them or why, but he did.

I made the call. The secretary said he'd have the peaches cleared when they arrived and give Al Reck his best.

"All right," Reck said on his third and final call to me, "now arrange for one of our photographers to meet the plane and take the peaches over to the boy's house."

He had been drinking steadily throughout the evening and the slurring had become almost impossible to understand.

By then it was a few minutes past midnight, and just a heartbeat and a half to the final deadline.

"Al," I said, "if I don't start writing this now I'll never get the story in the paper."

I won't forget this moment.

"I didn't say get the story," Reck replied gently. "I said get the kid his peaches."

If there is a flash point in our lives to which we can refer later, moments that shape our attitudes and affect our futures, that was mine.

Alfred Pierce Reck had defined for me the importance of what we do, lifting it beyond newsprint and deadline to a level of humanity that transcends job. He understood not only what we did but what we were supposed to do.

I didn't say get the story. I said get the kid his peaches.

The boy got his peaches and the story made the home edition, and I received a lesson in journalism more important than any I've learned since.

I wanted you to know that this Christmas season.

Al Martinez is a former reporter and columnist for The Oakland Tribune, from 1955 to 1971, The Richmond (Calif.) Independent and Los Angeles Times to now. Born in Oakland, he also has written several novels, for television and the movies. This article first appeared in the Los Angeles Times on Dec. 25, 1986.

The Greatest Christmas Story Ever Told: "Get the kid his peaches"

Here again, my friends, is the greatest Christmas story ever told by a great story teller, Al Martinez, formerly of the Oakland Tribune and Los Angeles Times. 

I run this story every year in Fiat Lux, and it brings a tear to my eye every time. Seems like maybe this year we could use this story a few days early. So here it is:

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A Christmas Story

By Al Martinez

IT happened one Christmas Eve a long time ago in a place called Oakland on a newspaper called the Tribune with a city editor named Alfred P. Reck.

I was working swing shift on general assignment, writing the story of a boy who was dying of leukemia and whose greatest wish was for fresh peaches.

It was a story which, in the tradition of 1950s journalism, would be milked for every sob we could squeeze from it, because everyone loved a good cry on Christmas.

We knew how to play a tear-jerker in those days, and I was full of the kinds of passions that could make a sailor weep.

I remember it was about 11 o'clock at night and pouring rain outside when I began putting the piece together for the next day's editions.

Deadline was an hour away, but an hour is a lifetime when you're young and fast and never get tired.

Then the telephone rang.

It was Al Reck calling, as he always did at night, and he'd had a few under his belt.

Reck was a drinking man. With diabetes and epilepsy, hard liquor was about the last thing he ought to be messing with, but you didn't tell Al what he ought to or ought not to do.

He was essentially a gentle man who rarely raised his voice, but you knew he was the city editor, and in those days the city editor was the law and the word in the newsroom.

But there was more than fear and tradition at work for Al.

We respected him immensely, not only for his abilities as a newsman, but for his humanity. Al was sensitive both to our needs and the needs of those whose names and faces appeared in the pages of the Oakland Tribune.

"What's up?" he asked me that Christmas Eve in a voice as soft and slurred as a summer breeze.

He already knew what was up because, during 25 years on the city desk, Reck somehow always knew what was up, but he wanted to hear it from the man handling the story.

I told him about the kid dying of leukemia and about the peaches and about how there simply were no fresh peaches, but it still made a good piece. We had art and a hole waiting on page one.

Al listened for a moment and then said, "How long's he got?"

"Not long," I said. "His doctor says maybe a day or two."

There was a long silence and then Al said, "Get the kid his peaches."

"I've called all over," I said. "None of the produce places in the Bay Area have fresh peaches. They're just plain out of season. It's winter."

"Not everywhere. Call Australia."

"Al," I began to argue, "it's after 11 and I have no idea . . .”

"Call Australia," he said, and then hung up.

If Al said call Australia, I would call Australia.

I don't quite remember whom I telephoned, newspapers maybe and agricultural associations, but I ended up finding fresh peaches and an airline that would fly them to the Bay Area before the end of Christmas Day.

There was only one problem. Customs wouldn't clear them. They were an agricultural product and would be hung up at San Francisco International at least for a day, and possibly forever.

Reck called again. He listened to the problem and told me to telephone the secretary of agriculture and have him clear the peaches when they arrived.

"It's close to midnight," I argued. "His office is closed."

"Take this number down," Reck said. "It's his home. Tell him I told you to call."

It was axiomatic among the admirers of Al Reck that he knew everyone and everyone knew him, from cops on the street to government leaders in their Georgetown estates. No one knew how Al knew them or why, but he did.

I made the call. The secretary said he'd have the peaches cleared when they arrived and give Al Reck his best.

"All right," Reck said on his third and final call to me, "now arrange for one of our photographers to meet the plane and take the peaches over to the boy's house."

He had been drinking steadily throughout the evening and the slurring had become almost impossible to understand.

By then it was a few minutes past midnight, and just a heartbeat and a half to the final deadline.

"Al," I said, "if I don't start writing this now I'll never get the story in the paper."

I won't forget this moment.

"I didn't say get the story," Reck replied gently. "I said get the kid his peaches."

If there is a flash point in our lives to which we can refer later, moments that shape our attitudes and affect our futures, that was mine.

Alfred Pierce Reck had defined for me the importance of what we do, lifting it beyond newsprint and deadline to a level of humanity that transcends job. He understood not only what we did but what we were supposed to do.

I didn't say get the story. I said get the kid his peaches.

The boy got his peaches and the story made the home edition, and I received a lesson in journalism more important than any I've learned since.

I wanted you to know that this Christmas season.

Al Martinez is a former reporter and columnist for The Oakland Tribune, from 1955 to 1971, The Richmond (Calif.) Independent and Los Angeles Times to now. Born in Oakland, he also has written several novels, for television and the movies. This article first appeared in the Los Angeles Times on Dec. 25, 1986.

The Raising of Lazarus and the emptiness of Hell

Today comes the story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead, found in John 11:17-44, the only place in the New Testament where the story is found. Jesus goes to the tomb where his friend, Lazarus, has been dead for three days. He hears the anguish of Mary and Martha, and so Jesus orders the dead man to come out, and then tells the startled onlookers "Unbind him and let him go."

For many it is a dark, broody disturbing story. Jesus weeps, Jesus is "disturbed in spirit." The dead man has a stench, we are told, and his new life will not last long. The authorities, hearing of this, immediately begin to plot the death of both Jesus and Lazarus.

The incident can also be heard as a foretelling of the Holy Saturday story of Easter, when Jesus himself goes into the tomb, and to Hell itself to unbind everyone and let them go. The unbinding of people in Hell is at the heart of message of the Gospel, and makes Jesus more than a mere rabbi or wisdom teacher. It is why we describe Jesus as "Savior" and divine.

You will note there is no "Jesus died for your sins" in these stories, and maybe that is another reason the story is hard to take for some. This unbinding comes as a pure act of love with no strings attached, no conditions. Lazarus has not asked to be saved, but salvation comes to him.  It makes all this the harder to comprehend. Humans don't act this way. Only the divine is capable of that.

The placement of the story of Lazarus on the last day of Christmas and the Eve of the Epiphany is meant, I think, to show us the true meaning of the light of Christ coming into our lives. It's not really about magi bearing gifts to Christ, but Christ bearing gifts to us. This light comes in the hardest moments and at the gates of death itself. It is a reminder that Christmas is inextricably connected to Easter and the Resurrection and the empty tomb.

Many theologians have tried to explain this, and many a preacher, including me, has tried as well. The poets sometimes explain this better with fewer words, so I leave you with a quote from one of my favorite contemporary theologians and with a short poem:

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“With this we can say… that Hell exists, as the Church has always maintained; nevertheless it is perfectly possible that there is nobody at all there.”

James Alison, Raising Abel, 1996

HELL

But if they were condemned to suffer
this unending torment, sooner or later
wouldn’t they become the holy?

Franz Wright, God’s Silence, 2006

Art: "Mary, Martha and Lazarus," by He Qi

The Twelve Days of Christmas wastes no time

Merry Christmas. Now, back to work.

The Christian calendar wastes no time in reminding us that the “Way” of Christ came with a cost to his earliest followers and to innocent bystanders.

On Monday we celebrated the feast of St. Stephen, the first deacon and an early martyr who forgives his tormenters even as they stone him.

Today we have the feast of St. John – “the one whom Jesus loved” – and who would grieve deeply at the death of Jesus.

Tomorrow, comes perhaps the hardest of all: the remembrance of the “Holy Innocents,” the children murdered by Herod the King.

The Twelve Days of Christmas toss out the wrappings right quick. The baby in the manger does not stay a baby long in the Christmas season.

If you aren’t quite there yet, neither am I.

As for me, I am still in recovery mode. We had a tremendous Christmas, with more than 600 people coming through our doors Christmas Eve. We marched around the church with dozens of children at 5 pm singing “The Friendly Beasts” as we accompanied Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem.

At 8 pm we sang carols and listened to the beautiful harp playing of Margaret Lee. Then at 11 pm we pulled out the stops, lit the incense and sang until we were hoarse.

Christmas morning was clear and lovely. We kept to our regular Sunday service schedule – Christmas came on a Sunday, after all. Attendance was solid, and I was charmed most of all by the five sweet people who came to our 5:30 pm service. With Pastor Heather Warren and myself, that made seven. We sang a few more carols and gathered around the Holy Table for our Christmas Eucharist as the sun faded outside.

And now this week, we get walloped with martyrs, apostles and innocents. What to make of all that?

It is a reminder, if we need it, that Christmas is the opening act of Easter. The crescendo is still to come. The baby in the manger grows up, finds his calling, teaches and heals, and ends up on the Cross. It is a reminder that the Christmas story continues to be written after his birth and death by the people who continue to meet him along their path. Those we saints remember this week remind us that we are still a part of this vast and great Christmas story that began before time and has no end.

The readings for today drive home the point. From Proverbs 8:22-30: “The LORD created me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts long ago… I was his daily delight, rejoicing before him always.”

And from the Gospel of John 13:20-35 we are told of the Last Supper on the night before Jesus died. As Judas goes out to betray him, Jesus tells his followers how to continue writing this great story every day of their life:

“I am giving you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

"The People who walked in darkness have seen a great light"

May you all have a blessed Christmas. My sermon from the 10:30 pm Christmas Eve service is below. The lessons are Isaiah 9:2-7 , Titus 2:11-14  and Luke 2:1-14(15-20).

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The prophet foretold, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

Something happened long ago, in the shadows of an obscure desert town in a far corner of the Roman Empire. It seemed ordinary at first: 

The birth of a baby. 

At first, only his parents knew how extraordinary this was. All parents think their babies are extraordinary, of course. 

At first, no wise men came, no shepherds, no disciples, no adoring masses. No one was there but his parents. 

The gospel writer Luke tells us this baby was born in a stable; born not into wealth, not into power, not into social status or aristocratic inheritance. 

This baby, like so many tens of millions of babies then and now, entered life in relative poverty and without much of a chance. 

The survival of this baby, like tens of millions of other babies then and now, was not so certain at first. 

This baby was born out of wedlock, to Jewish parents from the hill country of Galilee, a land occupied by a foreign power, the Roman Empire. 

The mother was barely a teenager; her name was Miriam, or Mary. She was to have an arranged marriage with a man named Joseph, but she became pregnant – and not by him – before the wedding. 

That fact put her in grave danger because her pregnancy was a violation of the law.
Joseph was a carpenter, and in those days carpenters made simple implements like wooden bowls and mallets. 

Carpenters like Joseph led a meager hand-to-mouth existence. 

Joseph stuck by Mary when he didn’t have to. He could have had her stoned to death for dishonoring him, but instead the two fled their hometown of Nazareth. 

The gospel writer gives this a polite patina by saying they were going to Bethlehem to register for a census. Except that historians tell us there was no census. Mary and Joseph were probably fleeing the judgmental eyes of their relatives. 

Getting to Bethlehem was not easy and they were lucky to survive the journey. The road goes over hills and robbers hide along the way. 

They had nowhere to go in Bethlehem; either there were no relatives in Bethlehem or none would take them in. 

And so they had their baby in a stable – a barn. Other legends say they birthed this baby in a dark cave, and Bethlehem is riddled with caves. 

Caves also are where people are buried. To be born in a cave was not a sign of regal distinction. To be born in a cave was a sign of someone living in constant fear. 

There was absolutely nothing outwardly extraordinary about this birth.
Not at first. 

Then, the gospel writer tells us, the angels started showing up. 

The angels came to shepherds in a field, at night. The angels didn’t come to kings, aristocrats and high priests. The angels came to the shepherds. 

Shepherds were an even lower class than carpenters. They lived outdoors, slept in caves, and lived with sheep, and they smelled.

And these particular shepherds had the night watch. These shepherds to whom the angels came this night were the lowest of the low. 

The angels told them something extraordinary was happening: 

The birth of a baby in a stable, and this baby would be the messiah, the One who would bring them salvation and freedom, the anointed One of God they had longed for. 

How could that be?, these shepherds wondered. This baby? Here? 

The shepherds were terrified. We are but lowly shepherds, they said, and this baby is in a barn. 

This is not what we expect. This is very different than anything we have been told by every teacher we’ve ever heard. 

The shepherds went to see for themselves. They found the baby lying in a hay trough.
And then the lowliest of the low understood what this was about. 

It was about them. 

They expected a king on a throne tossing off judgments like thunderbolts, but found a healer who would lead a life of simplicity, prayer and truth. 

They expected a God of war. They got the Prince of Peace. 

Later people would try to explain this with complicated theologies, flavored by ancient Greek philosophy, medieval mysticism, modern scientific inquiry, post-modern skepticism. 

People would cover this baby in many layers of words down through the ages. He would wear a lot of swaddling clothes. 

But tonight we have a baby in a manger, only this baby. We are at the beginning of the story of a very frightened poor family long ago, and a naked baby in a stable. 

This messiah whose birth we mark tonight is different than anyone, or anything the world expects. 

He comes to set people free in their lowest places, in their lowest moments, and to bring unconditional love and unlimited healing that lasts beyond this world. He comes with no conditions, no strings attached. 

What better way for God to tell us this than with a helpless baby, born in the lowest caste, in the most obscure place on earth?

The world of power and politics is turned upside down by this one birth. Human expectations, human economies, human politics is upended. 

The story of Jesus – his birth, his life, and his death on the Cross, begins this night. 

The story of Easter begins on this night, too – the story of how Jesus rose from the grave to appear to his followers and give them strength and courage against all human odds. 

Christmas is this great bookend with Easter, and truly the two must be seen together for they are inseparable. 

Those who first saw the Risen Christ of Easter continued to write this story in the way they lived afterwards. The first Christians called this new religion simply “The Way.” 

Their story is also our story. We continue to write this story of Christmas and Easter each day of our life. 

This way of life, this way of faith, is not just about the afterlife. It is about this life. It is about how we live right now, here, today and tomorrow. 

This Christmas night, I would invite you to find ways to deepen your faith, to set aside a regular time each day for prayer. 

I would invite you to renew your faith by being in this faith community once again.
If you don’t have a regular community of faith, and you live here in Charlottesville, think about joining us here at St. Paul’s. 

If you have been away from this church for a while, make this your first day back.
And ask yourself this: 

How is God tugging at your heart tonight? What acts of kindness and generosity are calling you in the new year? 

What do you want to strengthen in your life, and what is dragging on you that you need to shed? 

Bring it to prayer. Have courage. Act. 

And then let’s get to work together in the new year: We have people feed, the sick to comfort, children to raise, and a hurting world needing every single one of us. 

This way of life will change everything in this world if we let it. 

This way of life begins once again tonight with the birth of a baby long ago. 

And the prophet foretold, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.” 

May you have many blessings this Christmas Night and always. AMEN.

The greatest Christmas story ever told: "Get the kid his peaches"

Here again, my friends, is the greatest Christmas story ever told by a great story teller, Al Martinez, formerly of the Oakland Tribune and Los Angeles Times. 

I run this story every year in Fiat Lux, and it brings a tear to my eye every time.

As you may know, I spent 20+ years as a newspaper reporter in California, and spent many tedious hours on the night desk on holidays.  So, continuing the Christmas tradition of Fiat Lux, here again is Al's great Christmas story. Merry Christmas . . .

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A Christmas Story
By Al Martinez

IT happened one Christmas Eve a long time ago in a place called Oakland on a newspaper called the Tribune with a city editor named Alfred P. Reck.

I was working swing shift on general assignment, writing the story of a boy who was dying of leukemia and whose greatest wish was for fresh peaches.

It was a story which, in the tradition of 1950s journalism, would be milked for every sob we could squeeze from it, because everyone loved a good cry on Christmas.

We knew how to play a tear-jerker in those days, and I was full of the kinds of passions that could make a sailor weep.

I remember it was about 11 o'clock at night and pouring rain outside when I began putting the piece together for the next day's editions.

Deadline was an hour away, but an hour is a lifetime when you're young and fast and never get tired.

Then the telephone rang.

It was Al Reck calling, as he always did at night, and he'd had a few under his belt.

Reck was a drinking man. With diabetes and epilepsy, hard liquor was about the last thing he ought to be messing with, but you didn't tell Al what he ought to or ought not to do.

He was essentially a gentle man who rarely raised his voice, but you knew he was the city editor, and in those days the city editor was the law and the word in the newsroom.

But there was more than fear and tradition at work for Al.

We respected him immensely, not only for his abilities as a newsman, but for his humanity. Al was sensitive both to our needs and the needs of those whose names and faces appeared in the pages of the Oakland Tribune.

"What's up?" he asked me that Christmas Eve in a voice as soft and slurred as a summer breeze.

He already knew what was up because, during 25 years on the city desk, Reck somehow always knew what was up, but he wanted to hear it from the man handling the story.

I told him about the kid dying of leukemia and about the peaches and about how there simply were no fresh peaches, but it still made a good piece. We had art and a hole waiting on page one.

Al listened for a moment and then said, "How long's he got?"

"Not long," I said. "His doctor says maybe a day or two."

There was a long silence and then Al said, "Get the kid his peaches."

"I've called all over," I said. "None of the produce places in the Bay Area have fresh peaches. They're just plain out of season. It's winter."

"Not everywhere. Call Australia."

"Al," I began to argue, "it's after 11 and I have no idea . . .”

"Call Australia," he said, and then hung up.

If Al said call Australia, I would call Australia.

I don't quite remember whom I telephoned, newspapers maybe and agricultural associations, but I ended up finding fresh peaches and an airline that would fly them to the Bay Area before the end of Christmas Day.

There was only one problem. Customs wouldn't clear them. They were an agricultural product and would be hung up at San Francisco International at least for a day, and possibly forever.

Reck called again. He listened to the problem and told me to telephone the secretary of agriculture and have him clear the peaches when they arrived.

"It's close to midnight," I argued. "His office is closed."

"Take this number down," Reck said. "It's his home. Tell him I told you to call."

It was axiomatic among the admirers of Al Reck that he knew everyone and everyone knew him, from cops on the street to government leaders in their Georgetown estates. No one knew how Al knew them or why, but he did.

I made the call. The secretary said he'd have the peaches cleared when they arrived and give Al Reck his best.

"All right," Reck said on his third and final call to me, "now arrange for one of our photographers to meet the plane and take the peaches over to the boy's house."

He had been drinking steadily throughout the evening and the slurring had become almost impossible to understand.

By then it was a few minutes past midnight, and just a heartbeat and a half to the final deadline.

"Al," I said, "if I don't start writing this now I'll never get the story in the paper."

I won't forget this moment.

"I didn't say get the story," Reck replied gently. "I said get the kid his peaches."

If there is a flash point in our lives to which we can refer later, moments that shape our attitudes and affect our futures, that was mine.

Alfred Pierce Reck had defined for me the importance of what we do, lifting it beyond newsprint and deadline to a level of humanity that transcends job. He understood not only what we did but what we were supposed to do.

I didn't say get the story. I said get the kid his peaches.

The boy got his peaches and the story made the home edition, and I received a lesson in journalism more important than any I've learned since.

I wanted you to know that this Christmas season.

Al Martinez is a former reporter and columnist for The Oakland Tribune, from 1955 to 1971, The Richmond (Calif.) Independent and Los Angeles Times to now. Born in Oakland, he also has written several novels, for television and the movies. This article first appeared in the Los Angeles Times on Dec. 25, 1986.

The Longest Night

Tonight at 7 pm at St. Paul's Memorial Church in Charlottesville, we are holding a worship service in a way that we have not done before. We are calling it "The Liturgy of the Longest Night," mindful that today is the Winter Solstice, and mindful that this is a time of year that is difficult for many (including yours truly).

Not everyone finds the Christmas jollies so jolly.

But we are also mindful that the nights now turn shorter and the days turn longer. Some churches call this service "A Blue Christmas," but as we talked about it at St. Paul's, that just seemed, well, too blue. Tonight is still Advent, still the time of waiting before the dawn. The light comes even in the darkest night, and even a glimmer of hope can shine into our hearts.

For many, this is a hard season because of a loss of a loved one, or the loss of a job, or a health issue that is gnawing on body and mind. This is also a time of anxious waiting for many -- a son or daughter away  at school or in a job in a far off city, or in uniform on a battlefield, or aboard a ship-of-war at sea. Or maybe you are like me, living here in Charlottesville with family far away.

Santa down the chimney doesn't seem to ring quite right for some.

So whatever it is that you wait, come join us tonight. We will pray, listen, sit in silence, light candles, hear music, and provide healing prayers for those who seek them. Come join us at St. Paul's tonight, the longest night, but marking the night when the darkness begins to recede and the days begin to brighten.

International prayer service simulcast Saturday from Bethlehem and the Washington National Cathedral

Door at the Church of the Nativity,
Bethlehem;
photo by Lori K. Richardson

Please consider yourself invited tomorrow to this worldwide gathering of prayer in Bethlehem to be broadcast simultaneously with a prayer service at the Washington National Cathedral, via the Internet. Here are the details:

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Bethlehem - D.C. prayer service set for Dec. 17   Simulcast to link Christmas Lutheran Church, National Cathedral   [Anglican Commons] The fifth annual simulcast prayer service linking the congregations gathered in Bethlehem's Evangelical Lutheran Christmas Church and the nave of Washington National Cathedral - with online viewing access worldwide - is set for Saturday, Dec. 17, at 10 a.m. Eastern Time (7 p.m. local time in Bethlehem, and 7 a.m. Pacific). Online viewers may log in  here for the liturgy featuring prayers, readings in Arabic and English, and hymns alternating between Bethlehem and Washington, D.C. Lead partners are the Lutheran and Anglican churches in Bethlehem and Jerusalem, and Palestine/Israel Advocacy Group at Washington Cathedral. The service also raises funds for the Bright Stars of Bethlehem Center for its work in education, health, the arts, and social services. Clergy scheduled to participate include Christmas Church pastor Dr. Mitri Raheb in Bethlehem; Bishop Suheil Dawani and other leaders of theEpiscopal Diocese of Jerusalem; and the Rt. Rev. Munib Younan, bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Jordan and the Holy Land; bishops Mariann Edgar Budde of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington and  Richard H. Graham of the Metropolitan Washington D.C. Synod of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, the Rev. Canon Jan Naylor Cope, cathedral vicar; and the Rev. Canon John L. Peterson. Viewship also is promoted within the Diocese of Jerusalem and its companion dioceses of Washington and Los Angeles, and the Anglican Church of Canada, its partner province. Anglican Commons is a new volunteer effort featuring mission companions and the shared newsfeed of the Digital Faith community. Christmastide features will focus on the church's mission of "acompanamiento," or accompaniment, in El Salvador.

On the road with prayer and study in this new year

Today's sermon for the Second Sunday after Christmas is based on Luke 2:41-52 . May many blessings follow you this new year!

* * *

Many years ago, when I was growing up, we went on family vacations to the mountains. To get there was a good day’s drive, and another full day to get back home.

Year after year, we went to the same cabins with the entire family, and I mean the entire family – aunts, uncles, cousins, babies, kids, teenagers, friends of my parents, and sometimes my sister and I were invited to bring a friend or two along.

Everyone would pile into these behemoth station wagons. The kids sat in the far back so that the adults didn’t have to listen to us, and all the sleeping bags and suitcases and kitchen gear was piled on the roof.

When everything was loaded, off we went in this long caravan of avocado green and drab brown Buicks and Chevys, heading on up U.S. 50, the dads behind the wheel, their primary mission to “make good time.”

Sometimes I rode in my parents’ station wagon, but most of the time in someone else’s. It was always more fun to be riding in a different station wagon than your dad’s. When we got to a gas station, I might change cars again. I rarely arrived in the same station wagon in which I started.

When vacation was over, the caravan of station wagons loaded up kids and cribs and kitchen gear and headed on back down the mountains, and I might be riding in my Uncle Stan’s station wagon or my Uncle Bert’s.

So, when I hear today’s gospel reading, I find it perfectly understandable that Mary and Joseph misplaced Jesus after they came home from their yearly trip to Jerusalem with their extended family.

I can hear Joseph pulling into the garage in Nazareth and saying to his brother: “Hey, I thought he was riding with you.”

And I can just see the look on Mary’s face, telling Joseph to load up, we are going back to Jerusalem and that kid will be so grounded when we find him.

I also find it very believable that when they found Jesus, the know-it-all 12-year-old told his parents, “What are you so worried about? I knew where I was. And I had something much more important to do than just hanging out with my boring old family.”

If Joseph was anything like my dad, he would have given the son-of-God a stare that could turn steam into ice, and then a sharp order to get into the car and say not another word, period.

The gospel story ends by assuring us that Jesus was obedient to his parents ever after.

I’ll bet he was.

Well, what do we make of this story today? What’s it doing here? Is it about how to deal with your teenager? Probably not.

Raymond Brown,* the preeminent New Testament scholar of our time, makes a compelling argument that this vignette was inserted by the gospel writer from an unknown source, and that it doesn’t fit well with the rest of the Gospel of Luke.

Brown notes that the ancient art of hagiography – hero-worshipping biography – usually had at least one legendary story showing the heroism of the hero as a youth. This fits the genre. Besides, Luke needed something to fill the gap between the birth story at the manger and Jesus’ adult ministry.

Scholars also will tell you this story today has a Christological purpose, showing that Jesus knew he had a higher calling even at a young age but that everyone else was puzzled from the start.

That’s all fine with me, but there is another point in this story that I find interesting. Please notice: Jesus is studying. He is asking questions of the most learned rabbis of his time. He is asking questions of his faith and the religion of his ancestors.
If Jesus needed to study, don’t you think we do too?

As I go about being your priest, I am sometimes struck by how people don’t start asking questions about their faith until they hit the shoals of life.

What often happens is they discover what they were taught in Sunday school years and years ago doesn’t hold up very well. They wait so long, catching up is hard to do.
Let me ask you: How many of you would settle for a sixth grade education in your personal and professional life? Why would you settle for that in your religious life?

And while I hope the sermons we give on Sundays feed you, it may not be enough to sustain you when life gets challenging.

And while I believe prayer on Sunday is a very good thing, that also is not enough. Just as each of us needs to eat more than one meal a week to feed our body, so do each of us need to pray more than once a week to feed our souls.

So this coming year, I am challenging each of us to be more intentional in our spiritual life through prayer and study.

I would like each us to set aside time every single day for prayer. Give yourself 15 minutes a day – that isn’t very much – but it will add up. Find a regular time that works for you. Keep at it.

If you aren’t sure how to pray, buy a prayer book. If you can’t afford one, I’ll give you one. If the prayer book isn’t working for you, go to a local book store. You will find many books that will feed your prayer life. Find what works for you.

If you are already praying each day, take a little time this week to examine how that is going for you. Is it still working? What might need tweaking?

Next, I am challenging us as a faith community to study together in the new year.

And study is for all ages. If you have children, get them in the Sunday school. If you have teenagers, get them into the youth group, and then please join the parents group that meets at the same time.

We will have a stellar line-up of adult forums on Sunday mornings after our worship, and I hope you will plan to stay for that.

Come to our Wednesday community night, and join one of the groups like our Centering Prayer group, or our women’s Bible study or the Shalom group for young adults.

Or on Wednesday evenings, Paula Kettlewell leads a book discussion circle, and I lead a class starting next week exploring the basics of the Christian tradition.

If you are a University of Virginia student, you are invited to dinner and discussion across the street at our Canterbury House on Wednesday evenings.

In the new year, we will form new small groups. Some will meet here the daytime, others will be dinner groups in homes. We will pick a book, or a film, or some other topic to spring off from.

And you don’t need to wait for me to get started. Pick a few friends, pick a book and study together. Ask the hard questions, don’t settle for pat answers.

I want to underline something: Prayer and study go to the very essence of life; God made you for this but you need to exercise the spiritual muscles to get anything out of this. This is not just another activity like soccer games and music lessons.

I guarantee intentional prayer and study will transform you and that will transform this parish. You will find that you have a reservoir of strength you didn’t know you had in those times when you need it the most.

As a parish community, we will see more deeply our connections to each other and the hurting world beyond these walls, and we will see more clearly what we are to do for each other and for the world beyond.

The important thing is to get in the car and go. We all might be riding in a different car, but we are all going to get where we are going together because God will get us there. AMEN

* Raymond E. Brown, An Adult at Christmas, The Liturgical Press, 1978, pages 37-50

Blessings this Christmas Day!

May you be filled with joy this Christmas Day!

Here is my sermon from this morning, based on Luke 2:1-14(15-20):

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

Something happened long ago, something so extraordinary it seemed ordinary at first:

The birth of a baby.

Only his parents knew how extraordinary this was at first.

No wise men came, no shepherds, no disciples, no adoring masses, no one was there but his parents.

The gospel writer tells us this baby was born in a stable; born not into wealth, not

into power, not into social status or aristocratic inheritance.

This baby, like so many tens of millions of babies then and now, entered life in obscurity and relative poverty.

The survival of this baby, like tens of millions of other babies then and now, was not so certain at first.

This baby was born out of wedlock, to Jewish parents living in a land occupied by a foreign power, the Roman Empire.

The mother was barely a teenager; her name was Miriam, or Mary. She was to have an arranged marriage with a man named Joseph, but she became pregnant – and not by him – before the wedding.

Her life was immediately in grave danger.

Joseph was a carpenter, and in those days carpenters made simple implements like wooden bowls and mallets. Carpenters like Joseph led a meager hand-to-mouth existence.

Joseph stuck by Mary when he didn’t have to. He could have had her stoned to death, but instead the two fled their hometown of Nazareth.

The gospel writer gives this a polite patina by saying they were going to Bethlehem to register for a census. Except that historians tell us there was no census. Mary and Joseph were probably fleeing scandal and the judgmental eyes of their relatives.

They had nowhere to go in Bethlehem; either there were no relatives in Bethlehem or none would take them in.

And so they had their baby in a stable – a barn.

There was absolutely nothing outwardly extraordinary about this birth.

Not at first.

Then, the gospel writer tells us, the angels started showing up.

And the angels didn’t come to kings or aristocrats. They came to shepherds in a field, at night.

Shepherds were an even lower class than carpenters. They lived outdoors, they lived with sheep, they smelled. And these particular shepherds had the night watch, the lowest of the low.

The angels came to the shepherds to tell them something extraordinary was happening. The birth of a baby in a stable, and this baby would be the messiah, the one who would bring them salvation and freedom, the one they had been waiting for.

How could that be? This baby? Here?

The shepherds were terrified. We are but lowly shepherds, and look, over there, this baby is in a barn. This is not what we expect. This is very different.

But the shepherds went, and looked, and then they understood. They found the Anointed One, the Christ, lying in a hay trough.

They expected a king on a throne tossing off judgments like thunderbolts, but they got a healer who would lead a life of simplicity, prayer and truth.

They expected a God of war. They got the Prince of Peace.

The truth of the message of Jesus Christ can be heard right here, in the story of his birth. This messiah is different than anyone or anything the world expects. He comes to set people free in their lowest places, their lowest moments, to bring unconditional love and unlimited healing that lasts beyond this world.

What better way for God to tell us this than by coming to us in a helpless baby, born in the lowest caste?

The world of power and politics is turned upside down by this one birth. Everything is now different.

The story of Jesus – his birth, his life, his ministry and his death on the Cross begins this day. So does the story of Easter, and how Jesus after his death appeared to his followers and gave them strength and courage against all odds.

Christmas forms this great bookend with Easter, and truly the two must be seen together.

Those who first saw the Risen Christ of Easter continued to write this story in the way they lived afterwards. The first Christians called this new religion simply “The Way.”

Their story is also our story. We continue to write this story by the way we live our lives.

This way of life, this way of faith, is not just about the afterlife. It is about this life. It is about how we live right now, here, today and tomorrow.

This Christmas season, I would invite you to find ways to deepen your faith, to set aside a regular time each day for prayer, and to join a community of faith if you don’t have one.

If you live here in Charlottesville, and if any of this speaks to you, join us here at St. Paul’s. If you have been away from this church for a while, come back.

Join us and let’s explore this way of life and faith together in this loving caring community.

And then we have work to do, people feed, the sick to comfort, children to rear, and a hurting world that needs every single one of us.

This way of life will change you if you let it. This way of life will change everything in this world if we let it.

This way of life begins today with the birth of a baby long ago.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

May you have many blessings this Christmas Day and always. AMEN.

My favorite Christmas story of all time: "Get the kid his peaches."

Here, my friends, is a great Christmas story told by a great story teller, Al Martinez, formerly of the Oakland Tribune and Los Angeles Times.

As you may know, I spent 20+ years as a newspaper reporter in California, and spent many tedious hours on the night desk on holidays. This story brings a tear to my eye every time I read it. So, continuing the Christmas tradition of Fiat Lux, here again is Al's great Christmas story. Merry Christmas . . .

A Christmas Story
By Al Martinez

IT happened one Christmas Eve a long time ago in a place called Oakland on a newspaper called the Tribune with a city editor named Alfred P. Reck.

I was working swing shift on general assignment, writing the story of a boy who was dying of leukemia and whose greatest wish was for fresh peaches.

It was a story which, in the tradition of 1950s journalism, would be milked for every sob we could squeeze from it, because everyone loved a good cry on Christmas.

We knew how to play a tear-jerker in those days, and I was full of the kinds of passions that could make a sailor weep.

I remember it was about 11 o'clock at night and pouring rain outside when I began putting the piece together for the next day's editions.

Deadline was an hour away, but an hour is a lifetime when you're young and fast and never get tired.

Then the telephone rang.

It was Al Reck calling, as he always did at night, and he'd had a few under his belt.

Reck was a drinking man. With diabetes and epilepsy, hard liquor was about the last thing he ought to be messing with, but you didn't tell Al what he ought to or ought not to do.

He was essentially a gentle man who rarely raised his voice, but you knew he was the city editor, and in those days the city editor was the law and the word in the newsroom.

But there was more than fear and tradition at work for Al.

We respected him immensely, not only for his abilities as a newsman, but for his humanity. Al was sensitive both to our needs and the needs of those whose names and faces appeared in the pages of the Oakland Tribune.

"What's up?" he asked me that Christmas Eve in a voice as soft and slurred as a summer breeze.

He already knew what was up because, during 25 years on the city desk, Reck somehow always knew what was up, but he wanted to hear it from the man handling the story.

I told him about the kid dying of leukemia and about the peaches and about how there simply were no fresh peaches, but it still made a good piece. We had art and a hole waiting on page one.

Al listened for a moment and then said, "How long's he got?"

"Not long," I said. "His doctor says maybe a day or two."

There was a long silence and then Al said, "Get the kid his peaches."

"I've called all over," I said. "None of the produce places in the Bay Area have fresh peaches. They're just plain out of season. It's winter."

"Not everywhere. Call Australia."

"Al," I began to argue, "it's after 11 and I have no idea . . .”

"Call Australia," he said, and then hung up.

If Al said call Australia, I would call Australia.

I don't quite remember whom I telephoned, newspapers maybe and agricultural associations, but I ended up finding fresh peaches and an airline that would fly them to the Bay Area before the end of Christmas Day.

There was only one problem. Customs wouldn't clear them. They were an agricultural product and would be hung up at San Francisco International at least for a day, and possibly forever.

Reck called again. He listened to the problem and told me to telephone the secretary of agriculture and have him clear the peaches when they arrived.

"It's close to midnight," I argued. "His office is closed."

"Take this number down," Reck said. "It's his home. Tell him I told you to call."

It was axiomatic among the admirers of Al Reck that he knew everyone and everyone knew him, from cops on the street to government leaders in their Georgetown estates. No one knew how Al knew them or why, but he did.

I made the call. The secretary said he'd have the peaches cleared when they arrived and give Al Reck his best.

"All right," Reck said on his third and final call to me, "now arrange for one of our photographers to meet the plane and take the peaches over to the boy's house."

He had been drinking steadily throughout the evening and the slurring had become almost impossible to understand.

By then it was a few minutes past midnight, and just a heartbeat and a half to the final deadline.

"Al," I said, "if I don't start writing this now I'll never get the story in the paper."

I won't forget this moment.

"I didn't say get the story," Reck replied gently. "I said get the kid his peaches."

If there is a flash point in our lives to which we can refer later, moments that shape our attitudes and affect our futures, that was mine.

Alfred Pierce Reck had defined for me the importance of what we do, lifting it beyond newsprint and deadline to a level of humanity that transcends job. He understood not only what we did but what we were supposed to do.

I didn't say get the story. I said get the kid his peaches.

The boy got his peaches and the story made the home edition, and I received a lesson in journalism more important than any I've learned since.

I wanted you to know that this Christmas season.

Al Martinez is a former reporter and columnist for The Oakland Tribune, from 1955 to 1971, The Richmond (Calif.) Independent and Los Angeles Times to now. Born in Oakland, he also has written several novels, for television and the movies. This article first appeared in the Los Angeles Times on Dec. 25, 1986.

The Christmas story through the eyes of children

Here is a bonus for your week, the Christmas story as told by the children of St. Paul's Church, Auckland, New Zealand. This is worth a few minutes of your time. Enjoy!

The Heart-in-waiting

This poem came across my email the other day and so I thought I'd share it with you:

The Heart-in-waiting

Jesus walked through whispering wood:
'I am pale blossom, I am blood berry,
I am rough bark, I am sharp thorn.
This is the place where you will be born.'

Jesus went down to the skirl of the sea:
'I am long reach, I am fierce comber,
I am keen saltspray, I am spring tide.'
He pushed the cup of the sea aside

And heard the sky which breathed-and-blew:
'I am the firmament, I am shape-changer,
I cradle and carry and kiss and roar,
I am infinite roof and floor.'

All day he walked, he walked all night,
Then Jesus came to the heart at dawn.
'Here and now,' said the heart-in-waiting,
'This is the place where you must be born.'

By Kevin Crossley-Holland, from Selected Poems, 2001; Photo by Ina Hramacek.

Christmas 2010: A Message from Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. —Isaiah 9:2

That's how the first lesson of Christmas Eve opens. It's familiar and comforting, as the familiar words go on to say that light has shined on those who live in deep darkness, that God has brought joy to people living under oppression, for a child has been borne to us. The name of that child is Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace — and God is bringing an endless peace through an heir to the throne of David (vv 3, 4, 6, 7).

This year we're going to hear a bit we haven't heard in Episcopal churches before, in that missing verse 5. It's pretty shocking, but it helps explain why the hunger for light is so intense, and the joy so great when it comes: "For all the boots of the tramping warriors and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire." The coming of this prince of peace will mean the end of all signs of war and violence. An occupied people will finally live in peace, without anxiety about who or what will confront them the next time they go out their front doors.

People in many parts of this world still live with the echo of tramping boots and the memory of bloody clothing. Many Episcopalians are living with that anxiety right now, particularly in Haiti and Sudan. Americans know it through the ongoing anxiety after September 11 and in the wounded soldiers returning to their families and communities, grievously changed by their experience of war. Remember the terror of war when you hear those words about light on Christmas Eve. Remember the hunger for peace and light when you hear the shocking promise that a poor child born in a stable will lead us all into a world without war. Remember the power of light when you go out into the darkness after hearing those words — and pray that you and those around you may become instruments of peace.

Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors! —Luke 2:14