Story: "Little Piccola" by Nora A. Smith, retold by Doris Weyl Feyling
Homily: the Rev'd Cameron Partridge
December 24, 2024
Merry Christmas St. Aidan’s Friends! Thank you to Doris for her wonderful story of Piccola, which followed the gospel story of Christmas itself (Luke 2:1-20). This is a time of year for stories and story-tellers. Doris’ story and her gift for sharing them among us, can remind us of our shared calling as story-tellers. There is something about stories that is uniquely powerful, a way that they connect us across barriers that might otherwise divide us. Something about stories that reveal us to one another and create new possibilities in our lives and in our world.
In the beginning was the Word, the gospel passage for tomorrow morning will ring out (John 1:1). But we can say as well, in the beginning was the story. In the beginning we are drawn into words and images, actions and reactions, bridges across difference that help us to come to know and share who we are. At this holy feast at the heart of the Christian calendar we share a story of how God came to dwell among us in the form of a tiny baby. That baby came into this world to renew and reveal possibility in the face of impossibility, to heal the brokenhearted, to liberate the captives, to feed the hungry, to clothe those who need clothing, to bring life out of death, and to draw us all to join in this transformative dream.
In the gospel passage we heard how shepherds keeping watch over their flock were visited by an angel who announced the good news of Jesus’ birth, saying “do not be afraid” (Luke 2:10). “Do not be afraid” is a kind of stock phrase of angelic reassurance. Angels say it repeatedly not because there is nothing to be afraid of in our world. Not because everything is alright. We know otherwise. But the call not to be afraid at the heart of this story is a call not to let our fear lead. It is a call to a certain kind of courage. Not an implacable one. But one that is open-hearted, a call to look for the possibilities of connection and renewal in our lives and in the wider world, despite whatever may seem unlikely or even impossible in this moment.
Doris’ story of Little Piccola reminded me of a small moment from my childhood. My family had recently moved across town. I was about four years old, and I knew no one in our new neighborhood. There was a tall hedge between my parents’ driveway and the house next door. One day, not long after we had arrived, I heard voices through the bushes. I stopped and peered through a gap: there was a little girl on the other side, looking at me. There may have been more than one – was her little sister there? Or another of her friends from the neighborhood? However many of us there were, we stood there and talked through the bushes. We talked, and then we ventured to the ends of the driveways and talked face to face. Before too long we started playing at one another’s houses. We went on to attend the same elementary school. Over time we shared across our various differences, including our religious traditions – she invited me to some Shabbat dinners and I can remember her attending a Christmas Eve party at my parents’ house some years later. Sacred stories, familial and communal, shared with open hearts.
In the midst of change and dislocation, fear and trepidation, out of isolation, new connection and possibility await on the other side of all manner of barriers. What stories might we hear, might we remember, might we share with open hearts? What new possibilities might emerge from such stories to lead us into hope where hope seems dim? May we embrace our call to live and share the sacred stories of our lives this Christmas. May we, with the angels, tell with our lives the glory of God.
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