On the Verge

December 24, 2015

Our session, in effect the board of directors of a Presbyterian congregation, held its final meeting of 2015 last Sunday. In the manner of such things, we cast a kind of two-way glance: back at the past year, and forward to the new one on whose verge we sit.

We could look back at a year of tremendous change here – most visibly right here in the room we gather in tonight. We set out a long time ago in what sometimes feels like a galaxy far, far, away to imagine, envision, and create a space in which we could feed people – all kinds of people, fed in all kinds of ways. Church-going people, people with deep and abiding doubts about the whole church enterprise, young and old, and all the in-betweens, who hunger in all kinds of ways, too.

We live in a neighborhood that is rich in the world’s goods, but among a people who still hunger for deep peace, for real grace, for compassionate community.

So we lived through a season of construction, and survived it pretty well. And, this fall, we began taking some baby steps in the direction of using the space to feed the people on the peace, grace, and community connections found in the simple joy of music, shared food, and opportunities to forge new friendships as we serve the wider community by our work with and fundraising for AFAC and A-SPAN, our ongoing work for justice and equality, our witness for peacemaking.

As session talked about 2015, and looked ahead to 2016, I heard the same phrase used several times: it feels like we are on the verge of something big – on the verge.

Now I want to share something about myself: I am a gifted and talented sleeper. This is important to know, or the rest of this makes less sense.

I went to bed last Sunday night anticipating the gift of another good night’s sleep. But in the wee hours I was startled awake by a dream. In the dream I was walking with my family along a high ridge overlooking a sheer drop. For reasons that only make sense in a dream, we jumped. And I woke up!

I rolled over, went back to sleep, and soon was in another dream, driving a winding mountain road with a rock wall on one side and nothing but air on the other. Again, for dream reasons, we turned sharply toward empty space. And I woke up!

I rolled over, went back to sleep, and did the whole thing all over again, this time on mountains that overlook fjords.

After the third awakening, I lay in bed wondering why the heck I kept having the same basic stupid dream. After many sleepless minutes passed, my mind churned up the phrase, “on the verge,” and I realized that was what was troubling my sleep.

To be on the verge is, also, to be on the edge, and when one wanders too close to the edge it is always possible that a big fall will follow.

Don’t you know that thought had to pass through Mary’s mind at many points in her journey to Bethlehem, and well beyond the crazy birth of her first child. From the moment the angel visited her to announce her pregnancy she had to feel that she was on the verge of something. When she went to see her cousin Elizabeth, and Elizabeth said to her, “blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb,” Mary had to feel that she was on the verge of something. When she felt the baby kicking, she had to feel that she was on the verge of something. When she and Joseph began their trek to the city of David she had to feel that she was on the verge of something.

All along the dusty road she must have felt it. When they couldn’t find a place to stay, she must have felt it. When finally they could rest, even if rest was in among the animals, she must have felt it. And, of course, in the midst of the struggle and pain of labor, she must have felt on the verge of something.

Truth be told, everyone in the wondrous tale of Jesus’ birth must have felt on the verge of something. Shepherds keeping the night watch stunned by angelic messengers must have felt on the verge of something. Wise men following a star must have felt on the verge of something. Even the innkeeper, who offers what he can by way of late-night hospitality to a very pregnant woman and her husband, must have felt on the verge of something. Surely Joseph, confused and befuddled but determined also to remain faithful to the promises he made, must have felt on the verge of something much larger than himself.

Whether you take the birth narrative as founding mythology or as history, all of these characters in this enduring story shared that experience of being on the verge of something, and all of them shared something else, as well: when perched on the edge they did not turn away and flee. Instead, they took leaps of faith, forging forth into something they could not possibly comprehend, but trusting that God had brought them to this liminal space, this thin place, the edge of a precipice from which they did not turn away, this moment when the hopes and fears of all the years would be met.

What edge do you stand on tonight? What step is God calling you to take? What leap of faith is before you?

This year’s King’s College service of lessons and carols had a newly commissioned carol whose text, by poet George Szertes, reminds me of the nature of the steps we are called to take in following the child born in the manger in dusty Bethlehem.

The child on the dirtpath
finds the highway blocked
The dogs at the entrance
snarl that doors are locked
The great god of kindness
has his kindness mocked
May those who travel light
Find shelter on the flight
May Bethlehem
Give rest to them.
The sea is a graveyard
the beach is dry bones
the child at the station
is pelted with stones
the cop stands impassive
the ambulance drones
We sleep then awaken
we rest on the way
our sleep might be troubled
but hope is our day
we move on for ever
like children astray
We move on for ever
our feet leave no mark
you won’t hear our voices
once we’re in the dark
but here is our fire
this child is our spark.

You will know the step that lies beckoning before you is the calling of God if taking it mends something that is broken, feeds someone who is hungry, liberates someone who is captive, clothes someone who is naked. For such is the nature of the steps God invites us to take together.

Such steps do not come without risk. It takes courage to stand in solidarity with our Muslim neighbors these days. It takes courage to welcome Syrian refugees into our community these days. It takes courage to speak out for peace these days. You can lose more than sleep when you take such stands.

There are almost always powerful forces whose interests are served by human brokenness, by human hunger, by waves of refugees, by violence, and war. If you stand against such forces, there will be scars.

Nevertheless, we stand on the verge, and we are invited to take the next step. We may stumble, and we may fall. But there’s another hand to lift us up when we follow this risky call, this invitation to seek, still, the one whose birth we celebrate tonight.

We are called to come to the manger, and to risk following the one we find there.

We could be on the verge of so much, if we are but willing to take the next step. Come and see. Come and worship Christ the newborn king. Amen.