From Crib to Cross

Although Christmas day has passed it still seems like Christmas to me because I heard "O Little Town of Bethlehem" on the radio this morning, and because a gift I ordered online for my wife has not yet arrived. Also, we were unable to make it to our daughter's home for Christmas because of snow and ice so we have not yet exchanged gifts. Since it still seems like Christmas I want to share a Christmas communion meditation.*

An episode in the famous television series, MASH, captures some of what Christmas means. It is Christmas day in Korea and the MASH unit is looking forward to a relatively slow day. But the fragile cease fire called for earlier by both sides is broken and casualties will soon be streaming in. The hospital goes into full frenzy, with doctors operating, nurses moving from patient to patient, and Father Mulcahy doing anything he can to help.

Our attention is soon focused on one patient for whom it is obvious that death is waiting nearby. It is Christmas day though, and the staff is determined to keep the soldier alive until December 26 so they won't have to put Dec 25 on the death certificate. They don't want his family to be reminded of his death every Christmas. "Christmas should be a day of birth," says Father Mulcahey.

Long after the rest of the unit has gone off to celebrate the holiday, Hawkeye, B.J., Margaret and Father Mulcahy continue to do all they can to keep the soldier's heart pumping and his lungs filling. Despite their heroic efforts the patient dies around 11:30 PM. All their work seems to have been for naught. In the midst of war and death they had tried to bring a small piece of light. But they had failed. Or so it seems. Just as the tears begin to well up, Hawkeye goes over to the clock on the wall and moves the hands forward to read 12:05 AM. Can they falsify a record? Can they break a serious regulation? Yes. Father Mulcahy reminds them, "Christmas day is a day of birth." So the death certificate reads December 26.

Christmas is, indeed, a day of birth and yet when we gather around the Lord's Table at Christmas time it reminds us of a death. The death of a cherished son. A painful death. A terrible death. But we remember it because our Lord instructed us to remember it.

No one wants to be reminded of a death on Christmas. Especially the death of a cherished son. We know how Hawkeye and his friends felt about remembering a death on this special day. But as we gather with the shepherds around the manger and look at the baby, what do we see? Vulnerability. Helplessness. Just like any other child he is subject to the world around him.

And so we remember. We remember that this one who came on a Christmas night also died on a dark afternoon. We remember that without a death there can be no resurrection. We remember that the one who lived from crib to cross has brought us from cross to crib and given us the gift of new life. And so we remember his words: This is my body ... This is my blood ... and we give thanks.