Or, to put it another way: 'Once upon a time...' These few words are surely familiar to us all from the stories we heard, and then read ourselves, as children. On hearing or reading them we know that we are about to be transported far away from the chair in which we sit to distant lands, to wild adventures in the company of heroes and villains, to walk with dinosaurs and fight with dragons, to defeat terrible foes and to win the hand of the beautiful princess (or the handsome prince).
And even now, when we have put away childish things, we experience still something of that thrill of anticipation as the lights of the cinema go down, as the stage curtains part, as we turn to the first page of a novel. 'Once upon a time...' There is nothing like a good story, on that we are all agreed.
And it has ever been thus. Some 3,000 years before the birth we celebrate this night, some scribe in the ancient biblical city of Nineveh committed to tablets of clay a epic poem. These tablets lay beneath the Mesopotamian sands until the nineteenth century before being discovered by a British explorer. It took twenty years for a scholar at the British Museum to decipher the wedge-shaped markings of the cuneiform script. And then, in the 1870s, the Epic of Gilgamesh was revealed.
It tells 'how the kingdom of Uruk has fallen under the shadow of a great and mysterious evil. The source of the threat is traced to a monstrous figure, Humbaba, who lives half across the world, in an underground cavern as the heart of a remote forest. The hero, Gilgamesh, goes to the armourers who equip him with special weapons, a great bow and a mighty axe.
'He sets out on a long, hazardous journey to Humbaba's distant lair, where he finally comes face to face with the monster. They enjoy a series of taunting exchanges, then embark on a titanic struggle. Against such supernatural powers, it seems Gilgamesh cannot possibly win. But finally, by a superhuman feat, he manages to kill his monstrous opponent. The shadow has been lifted, Gilgamesh has saved his kingdom and can return home triumphant.'
So much for ancient Mesopotamia. What about something a bit more modern than the Epic of Gilgamesh? What about, for example, a good James Bond film? It is said that the Bond epics, made over the last 45 years, constitute the most popular series of films ever made. With the gadgets and the girls, the violence and car chases, what could be further removed from the myth of Gilgamesh?
'Yet consider the story which launched the series of Bond films [one autumn] night in 1962. The Western world falls under the shadow of a great and mysterious evil. The source of the threat is traced to a monstrous figure, the mad and deformed scientist Dr No, who lives half across the world in an underground cavern on a remote island. The hero James Bond goes to the armourer who equips him with special weapons.
'He sets out on a long, hazardous journey to Dr No's distant lair, where he finally comes face to face with the monster. They enjoy a series of taunting exchanges, then embark on a titanic struggle. Against such near-supernatural powers, it seems Bond cannot possibly win. But finally, by a superhuman feat, he manages to kill his monstrous opponent. The shadowy threat has been lifted. The Western world has been saved. Bond can return home triumphant.'1
So, what does this tell us? That there is nothing new under the sun? That all the stories we have ever heard or read, all the stories we have ever seen enacted on stage or screen, have all been told before? According to the thesis of Christopher Booker's monumental volume, The Seven Basic Plots, there are only a very small number of basic stories in the world. Whether you favour great literature or television soap operas or popular films, the stories into which we escape are all the same.
Except one.
There is one story, endlessly retold on paper, stage or screen, in paintings, sculpture and stained glass, that is different to all the rest. It is, of course, the story that we have gathered here to celebrate tonight. 'Once upon a time... a decree went out from Caesar Augustus.'
The story of God's involvement with our world, is about of redemption. But, you might say, there are plenty of books and films and plays that deal with the theme of redemption.
The story of God's involvement with our world, is about being freed from the evil of Satan's power and might. But, you might say, there are plenty of stories that deal with such themes of deliverance, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to Dr No.
But this story is different, not least because it is not over yet; we have not reached the last page, the final reel, the concluding scene. The story continues. And this story is different in another very important way. For this is not a story to which we escape from where we are. This is a story in which we play a part. This is our story too.
Fr Ian celebrated Mass last Saturday morning at the high altar. As we stood for the gospel reading, Fr Ian read the familiar response of Mary to the angel Gabriel's astonishing news, the response we know as the Magnificat, familiar to us from Evensong as well as from the gospel narratives of this story.
As Fr Ian read Luke's words, I looked at the east windows above the altar. The left-hand side depicts the Annunciation, that moment when Gabriel speaks to Mary and Mary responds. As I looked at the scene of the Annunciation, with the dove of the Holy Spirit in the roundel above Gabriel and Mary, I was aware of shadowy movement on the other side of the glass.
A pigeon fluttered to and fro in the space between the stained glass depictions of Mary and the Holy Spirit. It was an arresting sight, for it spoke powerfully to me of something that we know know, yet forget: this is not just a story. It is not just an invention, one we like to listen to again at this time of year. It is living; it is in here and out there.
The fluttering bird outside the glass made me think of this night, of preaching this sermon. I realised as I looked at the light filled window on Saturday morning that the window was visible to us inside, but to those outside it is little more than a dark jumble of leaded pieces. Obvious, I know.
Equally obvious perhaps, is that tonight, as we celebrate the birth of Jesus - the events depicted in the right-hand windows behind the altar - tonight, the windows are dark to us gathered in here, but out there, the light from inside the church illuminates the story to all passing by.
This idea should remind us, if we need reminding, of our part in the story. If we are lucky enough to be 'inside' the Church, if we are lucky enough to know the story, lucky enough to experience the joy of this child being born in our hearts again, then we have a duty. We have a duty to take the story, take the child, take the light, out there into the world, the world that so desperately needs the good news this birth represents.
We have a duty to give this greatest of gifts to the world. The gift is that we are all loved by God, more than we can imagine, certainly more than we deserve. The gift is that God's love is absolutely unconditional. The gift is that Christ is Emmanuel, God-with-us: not with us on the page, on the screen, on the stage, in the painting, in the stained glass; but with us today and tomorrow, in the sorrow and the joy, in work and play, in every single aspect and every single moment of our lives.
The story of God's involvement with our world is many things, but above all else it is a love story. No, not a love story, the love story, the one that has no end.
Sermon by: Jonathan Mason