The Holy Fear of Christmas

In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

Before I share this story, I need you to keep in my mind I wasn’t always a pastor. When I was 18, I did something really stupid. My friends and I had plans to go toilet paper a few our friends’ houses and our coach’s house. We were to meet at the high school at 9:30 pm which gave me plenty of time to go out on a date I had previously scheduled. As dates go, it ran a little longer than expected and I sped to meet up with my friends our scheduled time. I took a shortcut and as I went down one of the bigger hills in our town, a police officer passed me. I looked at speedometer, noticed I was going 70 in a 40, and watched as he turned his lights on, and begin to make his U-turn. That is when I made the stupidest decision I have ever made.

Because of the length and height of the hill, the officer had to wait until he was at the top of the hill to safely turn around. Knowing I had a second or two before getting pulled over, I accelerated into the nearby neighborhood, pulled into a driveway, climbed in the back and hid. As I was hiding, I felt this great fear coming over me. Speeding ticket, not a problem, it would be my second in a year. I knew I could pay it and go about my way, as well as my parents just being disappointed. Fleeing the police? That was a whole other level of fear and I did not want the police calling my house again to let them know I was in custody, again. Plus, I was in a stranger’s driveway in Texas, where protective fathers shoot first and eventually ask questions when it comes to young men on their lawns. After I felt enough time had passed, I pulled out of the driveway and exited the neighborhood out of another area, and went on my way. I can still feel the fear I felt inside as I huddled in the backseat, just waiting for the light to shine in and the knock at the window.

In a similar way, perhaps a bit of a stretch, I believe what Christmas brings with it, along with hope, peace, joy, and love, is a bit of holy fear. The type of holy fear Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Lion felt as the approached the holographic head of the wizard. It is the holy fear of the season in which we mark the moment in which God became man and dwelt with us. It is the holy fear we feel each season as we reflect on what it means when the prophet says, “his name shall be called Immanuel. God is with us.” It is a holy fear knowing everything is about to change, and realizing how painful the change will be. And I truly wonder if we have lost touch with that holy fear during this holy season. I wonder if we have lost touch with that holy fear because we simply cannot relate anymore to what is really taking place in the manger.

We live in a fortunate land in which all 42 of our Presidents, to my knowledge, have been professed Christians or at the very least professed believers in God. A majority of our nation’s leaders are professed followers of Jesus and we have strict laws that protect us from religious persecution. We have never experienced the reality of the Christian faith, the cross bearing faith that our ancestors of the early church faced. The worse we seem to face is the possibility of losing our jobs and going home to our nice warm beds. We will never know what it’s like to be dragged from our homes in the middle of the night and placed in camps with deplorable conditions, starved, hung, or crucified. We have, in the truest sense, become spoiled. And in our spoilness we have lost our ability to relate to the holy fear Mary, Joseph, the Shepherds, the wise men three, and the baby must have felt that dark night.

Have you ever stopped and really look, I mean really look, at our nativity scenes? Probably not. We get too caught up in the jingle of the season, and nativities are anywhere and everywhere, often we overlook what is taking place. If we were to stop, and I mean really stop, and stand there staring at the scene, what would we see? We would see Mary, perfect and pristine, clothed in blue with her fragile hands folded in prayer, gazing down adoringly at her child. She sits there with a pleasant and peaceful expression. On the other side is Joseph, clothed in brown, his eyes appear vacant, beard neatly trimmed, and lacks anything distinctive. Everyone there has something distinctive: wings, crowns, gifts, halos, and a shepherd’s crook. Joseph has nothing. He’s just dressed in plain brown. There in the center, the star attraction, is baby Jesus. His tiny arms extended with a halo around his little head. A clean white fabric swaddles him. He smiles an unearthly smile, always happy. He looks like he never sleeps or never cries. It appears he doesn’t want to be held, nursed, or cuddled either. (Andrews, Al. A Walk One Winter Night).

Our mangers paint a Norman Rockwell portrait of this holy family. A portrait we have come to believe is real, no crying he made the carol tells us, but we know differently. We know the reality of Christmas, we know the reality of birthing a child, yet we have chosen every year to display a picture perfect scene of a perfect new family. Why? Is it because we have never really worshiped the reality of Christmas.

Last week I said that we were okay with the ambiguous uncertain joy of Christmas as long as God stays God up in a faraway kingdom with streets of gold. Paraphrasing Clarence Jordan, I said we can handle God if he stays God; and I wish to share the story behind it, one I believe I might have shared before. Clarence writes, “A church in Georgia set up a big twenty-five thousand dollar granite fountain on its lawn, circulating water to the tune of one thousand gallons a minute. Now that ought to satisfy any good Baptist. But what on earth is a church doing taking God Almighty’s money in a time of great need like this and setting up a little old fountain on its lawn to bubble water around? I was thirsty…and ye built me a fountain. We can handle God as long as he stays God. We can build him a fountain. But when he becomes a man we have to give him a cup of water.” (Jordan, Clarence. “The Sons of God” The Substance of Faith and Other Cotton Patch Sermons pg. 13).

Perhaps our reasoning for placing our picture perfect holy family on our front lawns is because we are not prepared to truly see this family as they are. For tonight, before we come to this table and eat the bread and drink from the cup, let us allow the star to shine and show us what Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus really look like. It will be hard, but we must look and see what is really there.

There is Mary, the mother of Jesus, her garment is not a clean brilliant shade of blue. It is faded by the dust of her long journey to Bethlehem. It smells of her sweat and of the mule she rode upon. Her blue is stained red from the blood of birth. It is soiled by the dung of a manger floor. This is her first child and she is worried, she doesn’t have her mother with her, and she feels alone. Her face covered in sweat, tears of pain, anxiety furrows her brow, and she is on the verge of postpartum depression.  (Andrews, pg.38-39).

There is Joseph, he is not a quiet, simple character we have made him out to be. His eyes are not vacant. Hours ago they were full of fire when he grabbed the innkeeper’s tunic with a tight grip and said, “Don’t you tell me that there is not some room some where!” He is a man with a purpose, to go where he was told to go, to lead his family safely there, and they made it. He stands there on guard for they are in danger. His fiery eyes scan his surroundings, opened to see anyone who is out do them harm. He is protective. He is present. He is fearful. He is the keeper of this light (Andrews, 46-50).

There is Jesus in the wood manger. He is thrashing about in the hay, uncomfortable because he has soiled himself. His cloth is twisted. His face, grimacing from the prickly straw, grows red and his cry grows louder, that cry of a hungry infant. His toothless mouth opens and he arches his back. He cries so hard that he runs out of breath, and for a moment there is silence. But then he draws another breath, and wails so loudly, we expect the lights in the nearby houses to turn on and the neighbors to start yelling (Andrews, 55-58).

And in his cry, Emmanuel, God is with us indeed, dwelling here amongst us, speaks. He tells us he is not some distant savior, he is real, and he has crept in beside us, his cry waking us in the dark morning hours. His diaper is dirty, and he needs to be changed. He is hungry and needs to be fed. He is cold and needs to be covered. He is terrified and needs to be held. He is telling us that he is a real as you and me, as real as the air we breathe. God is with us, dwelling in our affairs. He feels everything we have felt. He hurts like we have hurt, cries like we have cried, laugh like we have laughed, he will skin his knee like we have skinned our knees, and have his heart broken like our hearts have been broken. So on such a winter night as this, when we have come face to face with our defeat, our moment of absolute need, we can go to him and say, “You know this too. Be with me and lead me through it.” And he will say, “I will lead you home.” (Andrews, 62).

When I look at the rawness of the manger, Mary's face full of exhaustion from giving birth, the fear in Joseph's eyes, the loud crying of a hungry baby Jesus, the dirty shepherds, and the star that lead them there; I wonder if where the star is leading us today is not to stand with a reality star who sleeps soundly in warm bed with a full belly from a lavish meal with a caring family, but to stand with the child who tosses and turns on a bed of hay, hungry, thirsty, and cold. When I think on that I shamefully confess I have never worshiped the reality of Christmas.

We have forgotten the holy fear of Christmas. We have traded it in for a distant God, up in the by and by, and now in the midst of our wintery season, God reveals himself once again and dwells with us. And a feeling of holy fear is reignited in our hearts, and the rawness of the nativity is finally allowed to shine brightly as God desired. The place where the raw transcendent truth, God became a baby and dwells with us. If we listen carefully, we might hear the shepherd say, “Once you hear the angels sing, you will never be the same. If you listen carefully, they’re always singing” (Andrews, 83).

The Uncertain Joy of God is With Us

(Audio here)

One day a minister was asked to go visit a friend of a friend who had fallen on hard times. He had lost his job, his home, and was living at the local halfway house. While visiting with the man, another homeless man approached him and struck up a conversation. He talked about how he felt safe under the familiar stars. Without the minister’s asking he told him how stayed warm, how he got money. And then he said something that caught his attention.

He said, “Ya want to know how I keep my stuff safe at night?”

“Sure,” the minister replied.

“I put it up in the trees.”

“Why is it safe in the trees?” The minister asked.

“Homeless guys are always looking for treasure on the ground. We never look up. The homeless are always looking for treasure on the ground—coins, something someone’s dropped, half smoked cigarettes. I if I put my stuff in the trees, they’ll never find it because they never look up. Never.” (Andrews, Al. “How a Homeless Man Taught Me about Heaven”. http://storylineblog.com/2013/12/11/how-a-homeless-man-taught-me-about-heaven)

How often do we look towards the ground for our hope? Isaiah urges Ahaz not to look to the power of Assyria for reassurance but to the Lord for a sign. Feigning piety, Ahaz refuses to ask for a sign, an exasperated Isaiah gives him a sign, “A young woman shall conceive and give birth to a son. He shall be called Immanuel.” Isaiah urges Ahaz not to look east for the aide of Assyria but to look to the young woman, to look to the child born in the midst of chaos and pain; to look to birth, for that is the sign God is with us.

How often are we like Ahaz? How often do we place our trust and salvation in the hands of elected leaders or news analysts, and multi-millionaires? How often do we look down instead of up for our salvation? How often do we miss the reminders of Immanuel, of God is with us, because our eyes have fixated on the trivial matters of this season? After all, it is Immanuel, God is with us, that is Christmas, that is Advent, that is the beauty of this season. Not a “We wish you a Merry Christmas” or the things wrapped neatly in boxes, packages, and bags. It is not found in the early morning sales of Black Friday, no the season is found in the bright star which shined above, the star the poor shepherds saw while caring for their flocks by night, the star in which the Angel said, “Fear not! Listen, I’m bringing you good news of a great joy in which all people will share. Today your deliverer is born in the city of David. He is the messiah. And here’s a clue for you: You will find the baby wrapped in a blanket and laying in a manger.”

How the shepherds might have missed it had they been looking down towards the palace gates far off in the distance. How often have we missed the manger because we were told to look down towards the governor mansions? How often have we missed the reminders of God is with us in the faces of our children because we were too busy looking down at our self-important chores? Yes, how often have we been looking down, instead of up, to be guided to the manger?

How often have we sang: O come, o come Emmanuel, looking down instead of up? How often have asked for Emmanuel to ransom captive Israel looking down instead of up? How often have we mourned in lonely exile here among the tombs of our ancestors looking down instead of up? How often have we waited until the Son of God appears, looking down instead of up? How often have we missed the reminders, God is with us?

Immanuel, God is with us: that is Christmas; that is Advent; that is the beauty of this season. As winter begins to take dominion and morning ice covers the cars and grass, we are reminded God is with us. As the nights get longer, the days shorter, we are reminded God is with us. As a family gathers for the first time in ten years to celebrate an 80^th birthday, we are reminded God is with us. As families gather around tables this season, we are reminded God is with us. As people are longing to be fed, given something to drink, clothes to wear, and places to keep warm during these harsh cold nights, we are reminded God is with us. And such reminders ignite the spirit of generosity in our hearts to live out what we tell our children, “It is better to give than to receive.”

Immanuel, God with us: that is Christmas; that is Advent; that is the beauty of this season. It is the ambiguity of Christmas religious truth of Isaiah saying, “Immanuel, God is with us”, and the daring reinterpretation of Matthew, that creates an uncertain joy during this season. It is the religious truth of God taking the initiative, coming to earth, and dwelling among us takes its place front and center, and we are reminded God is with us. The religious truth that man did not become divine, but that God took the initiative and established permanent residence on this earth.  The religious truth that the Word became flesh and dwells with us, an action that is not earth to heaven but heaven to earth. By such action we are reminded God is with us.

How often have we reversed this action? How often by looking to the ground, by placing our faith in wealth and power, have we reversed the coming of God from heaven to earth, to earth to heaven? How often have we reversed this action just so we can better handle, better understand God? Instead of looking up for the star to take us to the manger, we move God from earth to heaven, and we continue to look down. Yes, we want God to be with us, but only in the metaphorical so we can build our churches and raise our special offerings so we do not have to get up and go out. We do not want God dwelling in our workplace, in the lives of our neighbors, our enemies, the strangers, the oppressed, the poor, the lost, the hungry, the naked, the sick, the dying, the lame, the blind, the deaf, the mute, or the different, so we remove him from the manger by feigning piety in the form of Christmas laws. But if we were honest we would see that we simply cannot handle this great religious truth that God became man and dwells among us.

We are okay with the ambiguous uncertain joy of Christmas as long as God stays God up in a far off land with streets of gold. We can handle God if he stays God. We can take our money and build him monuments, fountains, refurbish barley worn choir robes, hold our banquets, and maintain our piety in decorations of mangers on the courthouse lawn. But when God becomes man we have to feed him, clothe him, visit him, and give him something to drink. When God becomes man, we have to live with him. There is a responsibility that comes with being a follower of a God who dwells with us. When God becomes man we are forced to acknowledge the great light that shines in the darkness, and acknowledge the sin of this world it exposes. Because that is the great transcendent truth: God Almighty has come into the affairs of humanity and dwells with us. Immanuel, God is with us; that is Christmas; that is Advent; that is the beauty of this season. It is a reminder that God is with us.

Christmas and Advent promises hope, peace, joy, and love, with a mix of wonder and nostalgia; but the ambiguous uncertain joyful reality of Christmas brings God to earth to dwell with us. That heaven to earth action will change everything we thought about God and challenge everything we thought about ourselves. Do we want the light of God to shine in our dark world, revealing our true selves? Only if we wish to be healed and cleansed, but that too hurts. Do we want a God in diapers and suffers? Only if we want to change him and accompany him to the cross. For that, too, is Immanuel, God is with us. (Gaiser, Fred. “Commentary on Isaiah 7:10-16” http://www.workingpreacher.org)

So let us steady ourselves, loosen our grips on traditions of the past and our fears of the unknown future, and together, throw back our shoulders, raise our eyes and look to the star that will lead us to the manger, where we will ask, “What child is this?” and the Angels will say, “Fear not, for he is your deliverer, he is Christ the king.”

Let us, then, raise the song on high, while the virgin sings her lullaby. Joy, indeed, for Christ is born, the babe, the son of Mary! For Immanuel has come, and this is Christmas, this is advent, and this is the beauty of the season: Christ the king is born, God is with us! Let us bring him a joyful and beautiful noise.

1st Sunday in Advent: Are You the One We've Waited For?

(Audio here)

This time of year is a difficult time to preach. I mean, Jesus was born and I guess that’s a pretty big deal, but most of us here are pretty familiar with the Christmas or Advent stories in the scriptures. We’re all probably familiar, in some form, with the prophets foretelling, Mary’s singing, Joseph’s dream, Elizabeth’s surprise pregnancy, Zechariah’s tongue being silent. We may be less familiar with the encounters of Anna and Simeon than we are with the encounters of the shepherds and wise men. And I am very sure most us can recall, in that little town of Bethlehem, the most famous birth of all. While we may be familiar or acquainted with these stories, this time of year allows us to be deliberate and ask out loud, “Are you, Jesus, the one we’ve been expecting? Or should we wait for someone else?”

I am sure we all know what it is like to wait for something important to happen: a birth, a special day like a birthday, Christmas, Easter, graduation, or a wedding day. We all know what it’s like to what for something special to happen, and we carry with us great expectations of those days. We expect good tidings on those days, but what happens when we receive bad tidings on those days?

Early this week, a childhood friend buried his 3 week old daughter. She was born 14 weeks premature and couldn’t overcome the medical problems that followed. So, how do you respond to such tragedy on what was to be a day of celebration? How do you look at the coming of a joyous day in the midst of your darkest hour? How would you react to such a thing after you waited so long?

John the Baptist is locked away in a prison cell because he continually preached a message challenging the King Herod and others; telling Herod, “It isn’t right for you to take Herodias, your brother’s wife.” As with prophets, seeing the inside of a jail comes with the territory, and John is chained to the wall of a jail cell waiting. John has been a faithful servant of the Lord. He faithfully preached out in the wilderness of the one who was to come. He is the first one to recognize Jesus, saying, “This was he of whom I said,” and sending two of his disciples to follow Jesus; yet he sits in a cell waiting.

John sends messengers to Jesus, asking, “Are you the one we’ve been expecting? Or should we wait for another?” He has heard about the doings of Jesus, but facing his darkest hour, John wonders if the one he pointed out in the wilderness was truly the one they were waiting for. Jesus doesn’t give a yes or no answer. Jesus tells the messengers, “Look around you and report what you see. Tell John about the blind seeing, the lame are walking, the mute are talking, the deaf are hearing, the dead are alive, and the poor folks are having good news brought to them. Go now, and tell John all that you see and hear.”

Jesus doesn’t send John a blunt affirmation but a report of what is being seen. He suggests John remember the words of Isaiah, “He (God) has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” Perhaps John remembered those words of the proclamation to release the prisoners. But Jesus goes further, he tells them to report the miracles happening, and report of the blind receiving sight, a miracle nowhere recorded in the Old Testament or predicated of any previous Biblical prophet.

I am not sure, though, if that’s what John really wanted to hear. I feel John wanted his messengers to return with a message reading, “At midnight, we shall storm the castle and ride to freedom.” John preached about a messiah who would clean house, who would run off the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the kings, and emperors of Rome. He expected a messiah who would raid the castle and set the prisoners free, surely John had earned the right to be rescued; yet Jesus tells his messengers, “Go and report what you see and what you hear.”

It is hard not to fault John for his doubt or for his need for affirmation. He had been waiting, like the others, for this coming messiah, and he went out into the wilderness to be the voice that prepared the way the coming Son of Man, and now he faces life in prison or worse death (something coming very soon). It is hard not to fault him because we too are waiting. We too are waiting on the return of the Son of Man. We too are waiting and we are growing weary of waiting.

Back in the 80s McDonald’s playground used to have a character called Officer Big Mac. He was an enormous (to a child) Big Mac that you could climb up and in and crawl around, he had bars on the crawl space, like you were in jail. When I was four, I climbed up inside and played for a while and as I started to climb back down I got stuck. Not sure what had happened, I just remember being stuck and crying out for someone to help me. A woman told me she couldn’t get in and I heard, “Let go.” So I let go and busted the back of my head open. It was a painful moment in which I waited and waited but the one who came to help couldn’t help me.

We all have been there, haven’t we? We’ve had those experiences in which we cry aloud to the Lord, “Are you the one we’ve been waiting for? Or are we to expect another?” We all have those moments in which we wonder if the light of God will not be overcome by the darkness of the world. Even if we are unwilling to admit it, we at the very least know of someone who has been there. They have been there, facing their darkest hour asking, “Are you the one we have waited for?”

Before she passed away last February, Darcy Donahue and I used to get together, spending our time talking. Most of our time was spent talking about the anxiety of waiting. She had spent most of her life waiting to for a cure or for death. There were days hope would fill her room and her heart and there were days she bluntly asked, “Is he the one I’ve waited for?” There were days when she believed she would be the disease and days when she would climb back in bed and ask me to pray for God to take her into the sweet by and by. Those days were the hardest because they were the realistic struggles of one who is weary of waiting.

It is hard to read Jesus’ response to the messengers as hopeful if you are in the midst of the painful waiting place, where no one is going anywhere, where people are disappearing, where people are stuck, where people are sick, where people are hurting, where people are fighting, and where people are dying. It is hard to hear Jesus say, “Go and report what you see and hear” and not respond, “What I see? What I see is a world in chaos. What I hear are people getting shot over televisions in Walmart. What I see are babies dying from incurable diseases. What I see are people starving. What I see are governments funding new ways to kill one another. What I hear are teenagers dying freak accidents. What I see and hear is a world in disarray. That is what I see and hear.” I wonder if that was John’s response when they said, “Jesus told us to tell you what we see and what we hear.”

It is hard to hear Jesus’ words of the blind receiving sight, of the lame walking, of the mute talking, of the deaf are hearing, the dead are alive, and the poor are having good news brought to them. It is hard to hear them in the midst of our chaotic world and our own chaotic lives. Yet we must hear them because he is affirming the signs that say, “Yes, I am the one you have been waiting for.” We must hear them because it gives us strength to stand, to throw back our shoulders, to raise up our heads, even with tears in our eyes, for we know our freedom is arriving.

Yes it is hard to hear Jesus’ words but we need to hear them. We need to know of these things taking place because it gives us hope in the waiting place. It gives us reassurance of the one who was, is and is to come. It gives us strength to sit with one another in our darkest hours, reassured that the light of God has indeed come into this world and the darkness cannot, nor ever will, overcome it. We need to hear, even in the midst of our pain, Jesus say, “the blind are receiving sight, the lame are walking, the deaf are hearing, the dead are alive, and the poor are having good news brought to them.” We need those words for when we ask, “Are you the one we’ve waited for? Or should we expect another?”

Let us join hands as we wait together in the waiting place of Advent, sing our songs of hope, peace, joy, and love, and hear Jesus tell us, “the blind are receiving sight, the lame are walking, the deaf are hearing, the dead are alive, and the poor are having good news brought to them.” And let us all together say, amen.