Kyle Dresbach

Dear Friends,

During an otherwise enjoyable service a few Sundays back, I looked down to see my 7-year-old gazing up wide-eyed at the stained glass image of a very stern looking St. Stephen. That look often brings a barrage of questions. One thing I appreciate about worship at St. Philips is that my children are confronted with an entire symbolic universe that sharpens and aims their curiosities:

“When do we cross ourselves?”
“Why does that bell ring?”
“Who’s this statue of?” 

These are meaningful conversations, rich with the idea that we are part of a bigger world rather than a smaller one. In this moment, however, as I played out the line of questioning in my mind, I winced a little:

“Why does that man look so mad?”
“Who’s he talking to?”
“What did they do to him?”

Please don’t ask. It's not a pleasant story and it has been such a nice morning.

As the story of St. Stephen’s martyrdom stares down at us on the day after Christmas, it occurs to me again that this may be what the liturgy is for—calling us regularly out of our immediate circumstances and emotions and into a larger story. This has been both reassuring and discomforting for me.

We have just spent four weeks anticipating the coming light in a dark world, a reminder that tragedy does not have the last word. But no sooner does that light arrive with song and celebration then we must reckon again with the tragedy of death and injustice and wounds that we both give and receive. It is during this very time of year, after all, that those wounds ache most for so many.

Maybe Stephen’s martyrdom today is an unwelcome intrusion to an otherwise joyous celebration. Or maybe it comes as yet another familiar reminder that things aren’t the way they should be. The gospel story affirms both the tragedy and the comedy of our own stories and at the same time calls us into a larger story, in which we can say of the birth of a king into a wounded world:

He comes to make his blessing flow
Far as the curse is found

Merry Christmas,

—Kyle