I’m tired of virtually everything virtual, these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I have been so impressed by the generosity and tech-savvy ways our musicians who have created fantastic pieces of music and video for our worship week after week this year – a lot like what you’ve seen already tonight. But, boy, would I like to just sit and listen – and see the faces of others sitting and listening – without worrying that the computer is about to glitch or that the sound might be just a little bit better if we were together in the sanctuary.

And it’s been convenient, in some ways, to log in to our Bible Study classes or small group discussions – via Zoom – from our home offices or kitchen tables or under the covers in bed with a glass of wine (you know who you are). But it’s also hard to be sure everyone is engaged and for some Pastors to figure out how in the heck to get his PowerPoint presentations to work.

I appreciate that we can livestream a funeral service both to keep people safe and to allow those who can’t make the trip to be part of it from wherever they live. But I’d much rather have family and friends together in the same sacred space for those occasions.

And I really enjoyed our outdoor worship services this summer, I have to say, “socially distanced” as we were out there on the lawn or sitting around in the parking lot. But I can’t wait until we are safe again to break real bread and pour actual wine together instead of taking communion from those self-contained, individual coffee-creamer contraptions!

And I know this is about more than just our life in the church. I loved watching the Indigo Girls on Facebook Live every Thursday night for a few weeks in a row this Spring, but there’s nothing like seeing them in person, among a gathering of other fans who sing every song together like hymns on Easter Sunday.

I’m grateful for the way teachers and schools have been able to keep on keeping on, but online, distance learning can’t compare to what happens in the classroom.

And there have been board meetings and team meetings online. And virtual family reunions, birthday parties and Happy Hours. Online therapy appointments and doctor visits are all of a sudden a thing like they never were before. And it can be hard to wrap our heads and our hearts around those virtual nursing home visits, from the other side of a window, let alone the many – too many – final farewells that have been made from death beds, by way of an iPad, or text message, or social media somehow. It’s all too much – too sad and too exhausting.

(I’m using my imagination, since I can’t see you at the moment, and I trust you’re nodding and smiling on the other side of your phone or computer or television screens right now, because you know where I’m coming from.)

And God knows this, too, people. Christmas reminds us that the creator of the universe is as sick and tired of these close approximations of the real thing as the rest of us are. Don’t get me wrong, I believe God understands why we’ve been doing what we’ve been doing – and would ask us to keep on keeping on until it’s safe to do otherwise. But I believe God is as exhausted by all of this “virtual,” “distanced” living as the rest of us.

And I believe it, because God has grown tired of it before.

There was a time when God led the people of Israel around the wilderness with a pile of clouds by day and a pillar of fire by night, remember. It wasn’t nothing, but…

There were generations when God spoke to the people through the prophets – people who preached and proclaimed some amazing things about love and mercy; equity for the poor, freedom for the captive, justice for the oppressed. Those prophets were nothing to sneeze at, but…

And there have been examples throughout time when God would show up in some strange ways to reveal grace, guidance, and inspiration for the world and its people – socially distanced, “virtual” ways you might say – close approximations of the real thing, it seems to me – in the form of Smoke… Fire…Whirlwinds… Angels… Dreams and Visions… Burning Bushes…, according to scripture, anyway.

God was going virtual long before 2020 gave us anything to complain about.

And when God got sick and tired of it – “going virtual,” I mean – God did something about it, in Jesus. Which is what calls us to worship, wherever we may be, on this Thursday evening in December: because God desires to be as real for the world as the problems and struggles of the world can be for God’s people. So God showed up in Jesus.

But, sadly, too many problems and too much struggle still surround us. This world is still hurting and so broken and this year, in particular, has reminded us, relentlessly, that there is nothing “virtual” about the needs that remain.

There is nothing virtual about the racial inequity and injustice that plague our nation.

There’s nothing virtual about the climate change that threatens our planet.

There’s nothing virtual about the virus that has killed more than 1.7 million children of God – and counting.

And there’s nothing virtual about the economic crisis that threatens to leave too many evicted, or hungry, or jobless, or worse in the days to come.

Our struggles and challenges couldn’t be more real these days. But so has God’s presence among us been.

… there has been nothing “virtual” about the work that teachers and professors have offered up on behalf of our kids – it has been innovative, creative, monotonous, at times, I know – but real and present and fruitful and hard-won.

… there has been nothing virtual about what our kids have learned in all of those strange ways, either. They have learned from and practiced how to adapt to obstacles, crisis, and change; they have benefitted from a whole lot of concern and compassion, patience and persistence extended in their direction.

… there was nothing virtual about the baskets of gifts we shared with our friends at Agape, downtown; nothing virtual about the thanksgiving meals we passed out a couple of weeks ago to local families; nothing virtual about the pile of gifts I delivered, on behalf of many of you, to a family on the eastside on Tuesday; nothing virtual about the houses our money keeps building in Fondwa, Haiti.

And there’s nothing virtual about the worship we bring – even when it happens online – because it is Word and sacrament … where God’s grace is proclaimed and God’s forgiveness is promised and God’s love is shared, and received, and multiplied, too.

And those hospital and nursing home visits from behind glass matter. They are smiling eyes and encouraging words. They are proof of life and evidence of love for those who are blessed and better because of them.

Those deathbed farewells aren’t what any would ask for or desire. But I believe, if the God of the universe can bring life from death, then that same power can speak love and comfort and compassion, even through the pixels of a computer screen or in the unfamiliar voice of a nurse, or doctor, or hospital chaplain. And, for what it’s worth, I believe that strange voice – from wherever it comes – sounds surprisingly familiar when we need to hear it most.

And from a personal perspective, let me say, there has been nothing “virtual” about the cancer that has weaseled its way into my wife’s body and into the center of our family’s life this year – and I know that’s true for so many others, too. But there hasn’t been anything more real than the love and generosity and encouragement that has showed up in more ways than we can count, because of it.

And all of that is how and why God took on flesh and bones; blood and a body; hair and hands; feet and fingers. God stepped into skin, mustered a voice, took a breath, and began to experience life from the perspective of God’s most prized possessions and most cherished creations: people, like you and me.

And God did that, in Jesus, so that the love of God would be as real as the rest of us. In Jesus, the love of God was … IS … no longer “virtual” in the way it had seemed before he choked on his first breath, stumbled through his first steps, offered up his first miracle, forgave his first sinner, or loved his first enemy.

And God did all of that so that we would too – embody the divine, I mean; love one another, I mean; forgive sins, turn the other cheek, befriend the friendless, love our enemies, find neighbors in strange, scary, unfamiliar people and places, do justice, love kindness, walk humbly, and all the rest.

So, starting now, with Christmas, let’s stop using the word “virtual” when it comes to anything connected with the God we know in Jesus. Our worship is real. Our ministry to others in his name is real. The grace we promise, the love we share, the forgiveness we receive, the hope we proclaim – every bit of it is as real as the nose on your face; as your face in the mirror; as the sound of my voice – and of your voice, too.

So let’s be the voice and the presence and the power of God’s love – you and I – because Jesus is born to show us just exactly what all of that looks like, for real… in the flesh… so that the world would be changed and blessed and better because of it.

Amen. Merry Christmas.

I remember a day when most of us were gathered together here at Cross of Grace on a Sunday morning. The date was March 8, 2020 to be exact. It was a morning full of the usual Sunday morning buzz. The parking lot was full. People filled the sanctuary to sing, pray, listen, pass the peace, and take communion. Kids were in class down in the Sunday school wing. The narthex hosted many handshakes, hugs, and outbursts of laughter. In the fellowship hall, there was conversation over donuts and fair-trade coffee or chocolate milk. It was a usual Sunday morning at Cross of Grace.

In the midst of all that activity I was gathered with a small group in a walled-off room in the fellowship hall to continue our discussion of the book we had been reading: The Universal Christ by Richard Rohr. The last chapter we discussed that morning addressed the topic of suffering and it was titled “It Can’t Be Carried Alone.”

A few days after the events of the morning I just described, we made the difficult but necessary decision to temporarily halt in-person worship due to something being referred to as the Coronavirus. We realized there was a significant chance we might not be able to gather together for Easter Sunday. We had no idea what the next months would entail. The past nine months...well, they defy description. And you’ve lived through it, so you don’t need me to remind you of what we’ve been through...or what we still have to go through.

I feel like if I had been a little more self-aware, the chapter titled “It Can’t Be Carried Alone” could have had me well-positioned to deal with and adapt to the challenges of life and ministry in a pandemic world. But the turmoil was so abrupt and thoroughly disruptive that I didn’t give the contents of that chapter another thought after that Sunday. Instead, I guess you could say I tried to carry it alone...and let me tell you it has not gone well for me. These last few months have brought me into contact with some intense emotional pain from which I am still reeling.

In preparation for this Blue Christmas worship service I returned to that chapter in The Universal Christ, vaguely recalling that there were some important ideas there that I would do well to revisit. I re-read Richard Rohr’s first-person account of feeling the weight of the world’s suffering so profoundly that he became sad not just about one thing, but sad about everything. If you were here with me I’d ask for an “Amen” in response to that idea. We’ve been sad not just about one thing but about everything. Amen?

Richard Rohr claims the only way for him to make sense of great sadness is to remember that God also experiences and carries the weight of the world’s suffering. He writes, “Once I know that all suffering is both our suffering and God’s suffering, I can better endure and trust the desolations and disappointments that come my way.” (167)

From the beginning, God chose to be one with all of creation. God’s creation has never carried its suffering alone. Christ, the Son of God, has existed throughout history, independent of time and space; independent, and yet intimately connected to the fabric of being. Rohr invites us to think about the incarnation (or enfleshment of God) in two phases. The first incarnation is the beginning of everything...because everything bears the image of God; while the second incarnation is God’s participation in human life and death in the person of Jesus. When we celebrate the birth of the Son of God, Immanuel, God with us, we are celebrating something that happened two thousand years ago, as well as something that happened at the very beginning...of everything. And, it should be noted, something that continues to happen today. Still today, Christ is with us.

This pandemic is a new experience for everyone, except for Christ, who has experienced the suffering of God’s creation from the very beginning. So it makes sense, then, why it would be important not to try to carry our suffering alone. It can’t be carried alone. It was never meant for us to carry it alone. And we’re never alone.

You are not the only one who has experienced this pandemic and suffered through it. That’s not meant as a guilt-laden dismissal of what you’ve been through or are feeling, as though your experiences don’t matter because someone else has had it worse. You are not the only one who has experienced this pandemic and suffered through it. That’s simply a reminder that you’ve never been alone and whatever suffering you are carrying cannot be carried alone.

One of the gifts of Christian theology is the promise that God is with us in our suffering. God knows what it is like to suffer, to be rejected, to love, to lose a child, to watch as best laid plans fall by the wayside, to want so desperately to be close to someone who always remains at a distance. God does not wait until we get better, or achieve something, or become successful, or do it right; God does not wait for any of those things before showering us with divine love and grace.

Recall that Immanuel, God-with-us, little baby Jesus was born as a completely helpless newborn in a feeding trough in the middle of nowhere. God cannot become any more vulnerable than that. That newborn baby, divine as he may be, could not carry anything alone. And neither can we.

So, fix your eyes and your attention on that vulnerable Christ-child. “God is in a vulnerable newborn baby in a feeding trough. We need to see the mystery of incarnation in that one ordinary concrete moment, and struggle with, fight, resist, and fall in love with it there. What is true in one particular place finally universalizes and ends up being true everywhere.”

This is not the Christmas any of us would have wanted. But maybe this is exactly the type of Christmas that we were made for. Perhaps the gift of this difficult and unique pandemic Christmas is that we will realize anew that God carries all our pain and disappointment with us and, in so doing, shows us what it means to be the hands and feet of God for the sake of the world, helping one another shoulder the load, because we can’t carry it alone.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.