"Earth, Thy Anchor" | The Rev. Heidi Thorsen | December 25, 2024

Sermon Preached: December 25, 2024 at Trinity on the Green

Christmas III: Isaiah 52:7-10 | Hebrews 1:1-4,(5-12) | John 1:1-14

May I speak in the name of Jesus, Emmanuel, God-with-us. Amen.

There is a Christmas song that I’ve never quite understood, the 19th century English Christmas Carol “I Saw Three Ships (Come Sailing In).” It’s a very repetitive song about three ships that come sailing by on Christmas day in the morning. The lyrics are possibly a reference to some form of travel that the magi might have taken, to visit the infant Jesus– though it is worth noting that Bethlehem, where Jesus was born, is at least 20 miles away from the nearest body of water. In any case, some faithful sea-loving Christian penned these words in the Victorian era, re-imagining the Christmas story through the lens of his own life and experiences.

I am not so nautically minded. But I must admit that I’ve been thinking more than usual about ships this Christmas season. The primary reason is a quote I’ve been thinking about, by the French Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. Thérèse wrote: “this earth is thy ship, and not thy home.” She wrote these words during her short life of 24 years, having spent her adolescence and adulthood as a nun in southern France, at the turn of the 20th century, before succumbing to tuberculosis. Despite her limited years and the limits of being a woman in the Roman Catholic Church, Thérèse’s collective writings have earned her the title of Doctor of the Church, one of the highest theological honors in Catholicism.

“This earth is thy ship and not thy home.” It's an understandable sentiment, coming from a woman who would die so young. And yet, perhaps it’s a surprising thing to be thinking about on Christmas Day— Merry Christmas, by the way! Nevertheless, I think these are words worth thinking about at all times, perhaps especially in this season that so often revolves around the home. We deck our homes with greens and lights and stockings; or perhaps you travel home for the holidays; or perhaps you feel the longing for an absent home more than ever in this season of outward celebration. In the midst of all the fanfare of Christmas, it can be a little disorienting to remember that this earth is our ship, and not our home. Nevertheless, I think we can also find a sense of wonder in these words. How wonderful it is that we are here only for a short time, and yet we can still gather together and make the most of the time we have. How wonderful it is to be on this journey, trusting that God’s eternal home is there for us when our journey comes to an end.

I’ve been thinking about this quote from Thérèse of Lisieux. And, more specifically, I’ve been thinking about what this quote would mean for Jesus— for God who became human on Christmas Day. When it comes to Jesus, Thérèse’s words don’t quite fit. Jesus didn’t simply travel through this earth on a passenger ship bound for home. Instead, Jesus profoundly changed the fabric of this world in the act of becoming human. God laid down roots in our lived experience, and because of that our lives are forever changed. Thérèse’s words need to be rewritten, or at least re-thought for Jesus, Emmanuel, God-with-us. For Jesus, we might reframe Thérèse’s words in this way: “this earth is thy anchor, not thy home.” This earth is thy anchor, not thy home.

When Jesus became human, God chose to make this earth, and specifically the human experience, an anchor— in the midst of all of creation. In the vast expanse of interstellar space: galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses (as one of our Eucharistic prayers says [C])— out of all of that God has made, God still chose us to be an anchor. When Jesus became human, God anchored all of divinity to our fragile, precious human lives. God anchored God’s own self to our humanity, dropping that anchor firmly down in the hay of a manger in Bethlehem.

Some of you may know that the anchor was one of the earliest symbols in Christian iconography, even before the cross. The early Christians drew pictures of this symbol in their holy places and on their tombstones, to remember their unfailing hope in Christ, their anchor. This nautical theme makes sense, when we think of all the fishermen in the New Testament, and when we think about an ancient world of trade centered around the Mediterranean Sea. It’s not a common Christmas symbol these days– we prefer our angels, wreaths, mangers, and Christmas Trees. Nevertheless, I invite you to meditate on the symbol of an anchor this Christmas. Not only does it symbolize the sure foundation that we have in Christ, an anchor of faith when the seas of life are rough. It also symbolizes the incredible commitment that God made in choosing to drop an anchor into the heart of our human lives, when Jesus became human for our sake. It symbolizes the anchor of Christ’s incarnation.

There are some times when I think that God could have made a better choice, in choosing where to drop that anchor. We humans, after all, are a tough bet. We make decisions against our better interest; we make decisions against the common good. Our actions threaten the wellbeing of this good earth that God has made. Our behavior towards one another has sparked more than a few wars. And yet, somehow, this is the soil that God chose to anchor in.

And here’s why: God didn’t send an anchor down to earth because we humans were a solid bet. God did it because God loves us. God, the creator of heaven and earth, loves us. And nothing short of love could have inspired God to become human.

This Christmas, I hope you remember how loved you are. Remember all the reasons that God might have chosen not to anchor God’s self to humanity— and pray for those things. Pray for those places where the fabric of our humanity is stretched and frayed. And then, on the other hand, remember all the reasons that God might have chosen to become human, with joy and expectation. Remember the greatest love that you have ever felt. Remember what it is like to gaze up at the stars, or down at a newborn baby. Remember what it is like to be surprised by someone else’s kindness. This earth is our ship, and not our home— but thank God for the journey. And thank God that Jesus, our anchor, has chosen once and forever to be on the journey with us. Amen.