Dear Parishioners and Friends,

On Christmas Eve, 1971, a man sat in a Siberian prison and wrote a poem entitled "The Twenty-Fourth of December." His name was Joseph Brodsky, and he was finishing his second year of hard labor as an enemy of the state. A year later, he would be expelled and come to these more fertile shores of ours, and go on to win the Nobel Prize for literature. But thirty-seven years ago, Joseph Brodsky was lonely, estranged, imprisoned, and rejected by his homeland and his society. He wrote in his poem: "He comes a mystery. His features are not known beforehand. Men's hearts may not be quick to distinguish this stranger. A shape in a shawl stands revealed, And you discover both a newborn and in yourself a spirit that is holy."

One of the great mysteries of life is that in our lostness, in our loneliness, in our estrangement, you and I have a vision of hope. A new dream is enkindled in our souls: "to you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord." Christmas declares that God has come to walk this highway, to share our struggles with us-- the struggles that you and I have to discover who we are, to become most perfectly ourselves, to use our lives as completely and meaningfully as we can, to absolve this planet of poverty, disease, suspicion, and war. Christmas tells us that we are not alone in our struggles. Emmanuel - God with us. We are given hope.

Our hope comes from the faith that God has in you and me. He has faith in us, he allows us to discover a spirit within us that is holy, because he wants us to be useful, indeed, indispensable to other people. I came across on the internet some time ago this anonymous first-person account of a cab driver’s experience. It begins: "When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. I walked to the door and knocked. ‘Just a minute,’ answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. ‘Would you carry my bag out to the car?’ she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then I returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness. ‘It’s nothing.’ I told her. ‘I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.’ When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, ‘Could you drive through downtown?’ ‘It’s not the shortest way,’ I answered quickly. ‘Oh, I don't mind,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.’ I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. ‘I don’t have any family left,’ she continued. ‘The doctor says I don’t have very long.’ I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing. As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, ‘I’m tired. Let’s go now.’ We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked, reaching into her purse. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘You have to make a living,’ she answered. ‘There are other passengers,’ I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent down and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. ‘Tonight, you gave an old woman a little moment of joy,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light."

Because of the birth of a tiny child in Bethlehem, a new dream has been enkindled in our hearts. Our hope is now in this Emmanuel, this God with us, this Jesus. For he came to walk this highway with us, to share our struggles, to prove to us that we are holy, that God has faith in you and me. God then calls us to useful lives, to be indispensable to other people. He calls us to let them know that it is possible for God’s grace to transform folly and death into atonement and resurrection, so that one day, all of us will be able to stand with that same multitude of the Heavenly Host, and proclaim with them "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!"

May your Christmas this year be one which is holy and full of hope and peace!

Faithfully,

The Reverend Philip W. Stowell