There is a story that has been trying to work its way into one of my homilies for awhile now, and I think today may just be the day for it. The event that I’m going to recall for you actually happened a couple years ago, right during the height of the pandemic. You remember how it was. No one exactly knew how to interact socially. We weren’t hugging or shaking hands, and awkward nods or waves were the best we could manage as we attempted keep our germs to ourselves.

One Sunday, my neighbor and I happened to step outside of our homes at the same time and safely greeted each other from across our shared driveway. With slightly raised voices to better hear over the distance, we checked in, swapping stories about the stresses of the this emerging new way of life. Worship was remote at this point, as you will recall, so neither of us had technically been to church that morning, but we had participated in online services. She is an Episcopalian too.

We worked our way through the typical topics: helping our kids with online learning, getting used to wearing masks, dealing with feelings of isolation. Then, suddenly, an object about the size of a baseball dropped from the tree above and smashed into the driveway right between us. We both jumped back and looked up to see a squirrel scurrying along a branch—I’m sure if we had been close enough to read this squirrel’s expression, it would have been one of guilt and pleasure having just interrupted our conversation with such dramatic flare. Looking back to our feet, on closer inspection, this object was no baseball, or pinecone, or anything you might normally expect to fall from above. And, I won’t ask you to guess what it was, because you never will. It was a piece of bread. And not just any piece of bread.

My neighbor began to laugh, having quickly figured out what had happened. “It’s my leftover communion bread from church this morning,” she said. The church she attends had been encouraging parishioners to have their own bread available for consecration during online worship. This is a theologically dubious practice, by the way—a topic for another time—but she and her family had partaken after the Eucharistic prayer and then put the rest outside for the birds. Well, apparently a squirrel had snatched it first, hauled it up the tree for a private snack, and then dropped it. I started laughing too. In an instant our conversation had turned from tales of woe to remarks celebration and wonder. This is the kind of stuff you can’t make up. The world is full of surprises, and sometimes they come just when you need them the most.

To me, and probably for you, this event is just bursting with sacramental implications, and I’ve been pondering it ever since. As Christians, we believe that Christ is really present in the consecrated bread and wine of the Eucharist. When we pray the Eucharistic prayer at the alter, what was merely bread becomes the Body of Christ. We then consume it, becoming ourselves the collective Body of Christ. So, thinking sacramentally: As my neighbor and I conversed in the driveway that day, socially distanced, separated by caution and fear and worn out from anxiety, Christ himself literally came between us, bridging the gap and gifting us with a moment of joy and laughter.

I think it has taken awhile to get this story into a homily because Christmas only comes around once a year—and, to me, this is a Christmas story. Christmas is about the Incarnation, Christ becoming one of us. Emmanuel, as in the Advent carol, means “God with us.” “O come, O come, Emmanuel,” we sing, and on Christmas we celebrate that wondrous occasion when God answered our prayer, and love came down at Christmas (pardon the pun). We have heard the story so many times that it has lost some of its novelty, but like squirrels dropping consecrated bread in driveways, you can’t make this stuff up. Jesus was born in a manger, a feeding trough for animals, to a young, poor, unmarried woman from a backwater town. Our savior came not as a powerful, worldly king, or a seasoned battlefield warrior, as one might expect, but as a vulnerable child, and this child transformed the world not by demanding fealty or stern allegiance, but by capturing our hearts and assuring us of God’s passionate love for us. Jesus came to heal a broken world, a world divided by anger, pain, and pride. He came to bridge the gap and reconcile us to God and one another. The love of Christ is capable of reaching across any boundary and making all relationships new again. Apparently even across driveways.

We may only hear this particular story during the Christmas season, but that doesn’t mean the story of the Incarnation isn’t told in other ways throughout the year. As members of the Body of Christ, whenever we drop into someone’s life and show them love, that’s Christmas. Whenever a neighbor extends hospitality during our times of need, that’s Christmas. Whenever we choose to extend a spirt of generosity to those with whom we may disagree, that’s Christmas. Whenever we’re gifted with a moment of unexpected joy in an otherwise trying time, that’s Christmas. God is with us, indeed, everywhere we look, even in those places we don’t—and that’s when God finds us.

I pray, this Christmas season, that a squirrel drops some bread in your driveway. I hope it brings you joy, and hope you’ll turn around and show that joy to the world.

The Feast of The Holy Name

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