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).