Thursday, Jan. 4, 2023
Elizabeth Seton and The Work of Christmas
The Rev. Aaron B. Jenkyn
The full text of the homily preached at Thursday’s Healing Eucharist:
For some of us, Christmas is the most magical time of year. Childhood memories of midnight mass and Santa — presents under the tree, cocoa and cookies and neighbors stopping by to catch up on a years worth of happenings, laughter and love and light abound. We spend years, decades, a lifetime, trying to recreate the magic for our loved ones and for ourselves, carrying forward traditions, telling stories, making new memories trying to gift an inheritance of joy and wonder to those around us.
But there are also some amongst us, for whom that is not the story of Christmas. Whether talking about the birth of Jesus or presents under the tree, the traditions and memories, or the lack of them, are painful, full of complicated family relationships, feelings of resentment and abandonment, longing and loss. Some of us respond to this reality by spending years, decades, a lifetime trying to create something new, trying to break the cycle, trying to do better by our loved ones, trying to create new memories, new stories, and new traditions. Others choose to sit out the holiday season, and overtime they begrudgingly begin to accept the labels bestowed upon them by onlookers, labels like “scrooge”, or “grinch”, “anti-social” or “loner”, names that are far less painful than the disappointment and hurt that Christmas expectations can stir up.
I think it can be easy to look around and assume we know which category the person sitting next us is in. But the reality is that for most of us, if we are honest with ourselves, we know that there have been times in our life when both scenarios have been true. It is the nature of being human, after all, of living in community, of being part of a family. Whether visible or invisible, we are all carrying wounds from years past, we are all shaped by the experiences of our childhoods, of our adulthoods, of the ways that we have walked with, and away, from those we love. We are all grieving for somebody, or something lost. And the spiral of grief and longing often coincides with Christmas.
Anne Williamson does a beautiful job honoring this reality and holding this truth in community in the Blue Christmas service that she offers every year in the days leading up to Christmas. I was so very moved by this service as I watched from home this year, appreciating the ways that space was created for people to say “I am hurting too”, “this season is long, and I am tired”, “I am lonely” “I am lost”, “I am scared”.
There is something profoundly beautiful in the ways that we, and those around us, are changed by witnessing and honoring of someone else’s story. But It is a lot easier to do this when we are telling love stories than when we are telling stories of our hearts broken open. And yet, I have come to know that there is so much power in the naming of our wounds, the sort of power that can turns one life around, that changes the trajectory of your path, that allows you, that allows us to collide (and connect) with the people and places that we need to grow in love.
I think this is the real work of Christmas.
Today in the Episcopal Church we honor the life and witness of Elizabeth Ann Seton. Elizabeth Seton was born in New York City in 1774. She endured a turbulent childhood, experienced the death of her mother and then her stepmother, she had complicated relationships with her blended family, and from a young age suffered serious bouts of depression. Like so many who struggle to put words to their experience, she turned to music, and to poetry and found solace in the prayers and service opportunities in her church community. Rather than hiding her wounds, she sought out those who were suffering, those who were sick, those who had experiences similar to hers, and she committed herself to helping them in whatever way she could.
She eventually married into a very prominent and wealthy family and had five children. She continued her work with the church, and founded the Society for the Relief of Poor Widows with Small Children. An organization that helped young families broken open by grief, the grief that she knew all too well from her childhood.
Not long into her marriage, her husbands business went bankrupt, and then he suddenly developed symptoms of tuberculosis and became quite ill and died. In a tragic turn of events, Elizabeth found herself a young widow, with five small children and very limited resources. As she navigated this reality, she was cared for and loved by a group of Roman Catholics who walked with her in the dark and cared for her children when she could not. Her faith and her courage and commitment to service was shaped by this experience.
When she eventually returned to the United States, her Episcopal family bitterly opposed her new religious leanings and cast her and her children aside, cutting them off from financial, emotional, and spiritual support. Elizabeth turned to the Catholic Church and committed her life to service. In 1809 she took vows and became “Mother Seton” to a small community of seven women who formed The Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph, one of the first religious orders for women in the Unites States. Together, the Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph founded Saint Joseph’s Free School to educate needy girls. The sisters intertwined social ministry, education, and religious formation in all that they did.
Elizabeth is an example of someone who used her life experiences, her wounds, her losses, her aches and her pains, to comfort, care for, love and support girls like her. She walked along side many girls and young widows and taught others to do the same, not in spite of her woundedness, but because of it. Because she understood what it was like to be alone in the dark, and she understood too, what it was like to have someone shine a light when she needed it the most. The Sisters of Charity still exist, and can be found in both the Catholic and the Episcopal traditions, and are still serving the most vulnerable amongst us in the spirit of Elizabeth Seton.
When the feast day of Elizabeth Seton appears in the shadows of Christmas, as it does each year, I can’t help but think of the words of Howard Thurman’s in his poem “The Work of Christmas” - it goes like this:
When the song of the angels is stilled, When the star in the sky is gone, When the kings and princes are home, When the shepherds are back with their flock, The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among others,
To make music in the heart.
As we take stock of our own Christmas, as we move into the new year carrying with us the wounds of our childhood, the aches and pains of the love and losses we have encountered, that have been stirred up this season, may we find the courage to share those stories with someone and name the wounds we carry. And may we be the kind of person who listens when there is a story that needs to be shared. Because in the space between the telling and listening, love is born. And as we see on Christmas Day, love is the most powerful force for change in our world.
Give us grace, O God, to love you in all things, and above all things; that, following the example of your servant Elizabeth Ann Seton, we might express our love for you in the service of others. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, in glory everlasting. Amen