Christmas Eve - Seeing and Being Seen

Lester Holt shared a story on the NBC Nightly News a few weeks ago that had me thinking about Christmas and what I knew we’d be up to tonight: celebrating that Jesus was born, in the flesh, so that the world could see and feel and experience the power of God in a way they hadn’t before. Check it out…

For my money, this artist – Tomás Bustos – does for people who can’t see the beauty of visual artwork, something like what God did at Christmas – and what God does, still – for anyone looking for the Divine in the world and in their lives. They bend the rules – God and Tomás. They do the unexpected. They go out of their way to let their work be seen by those who have a hard time doing that. They bring beauty and love to life – to be “seen” in new ways that matter for whoever’s looking, and sometimes for those who thought they’d never see it.

The gift of Christmas … what theologians call the Incarnation … the revelation of God in the person of Jesus from Nazareth … is about God re-imagining everything we think we know – or ever thought to look for – in our quest for understanding what makes God, God; and why that changes everything for us and for the world.

What I mean is, until Jesus showed up, God was off-limits, relatively speaking. God was around, and present, and active in the world – and always had been – don’t get me wrong. But in Jesus, God came close in a new way.

As Scripture tells it, before Jesus, in the story of creation, God was like a spirit of some sort that moved over the face of the waters. In Scripture, before Jesus, in the Garden of Eden, God was like the sound of the evening breeze. Before Jesus, God was a burning bush. Before Jesus, God was a pillar of clouds or a pillar of fire. Before Jesus, God was like the untouchable ark of the covenant. (The ark itself was, literally, not to be touched by the average bear.) Before Jesus, God was like the sound of sheer silence – whatever the heaven that means.

In Jesus, though … at Christmas? … God got even more creative than all of that – pillars of clouds, burning bushes, and evening breezes, I mean. Like Tomás Bustos, the artist in that news story, God opened up a whole new world for the world as we know it. What once seemed unknowable and off-limits and untouchable had shown up precisely to be touched, to be felt, to be embraced, and understood differently altogether – in Jesus.

(Think of the sick woman who touched the hem of Jesus’ cloak – as though she were running her fingers along the embroidery of Mona Lisa’s dress – and was healed because of it. Or the other who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears and dried them with her hair – like maybe she was seeing the Mona Lisa smile with her fingertips for the first time ever. Or that disciple whom Jesus loved so much he reclined against him at the Last Supper, like maybe he was resting under Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” sky in a way he never could have appreciated before.)

In Jesus, the beauty and peace and hope and presence of God was no longer out of reach. God wasn’t to be kept in a frame on the wall, or behind a curtain in the holy of holies, or safe and secure from the trials and troubles of life as we know it.

And, while that’s good news – great news, really – it’s nothing many of you haven’t heard me say in one way or another before, especially on Christmas Eve, over the years. So, I thought I’d kick it up a notch and dig a little deeper and take all of this a bit further this time around.

Because way back in the Hebrew scriptures, in the book of Genesis, there’s a story about Hagar, a poor young girl, who was enslaved and forced to carry and to bear the child of her enslavers – Abram and Sarai – when they couldn’t conceive a child of their own because, as the story goes, Sarai was believed to be barren. When Hagar became pregnant she fled, out of fear and contempt for her master and mistress. And she had a run-in with God somewhere in the middle of the desert. And God told her, “You have conceived and shall bear a son and you shall call him…” (Sound familiar?) “…and you shall call him Ishmael, for the Lord has given heed to your affliction.”

And the cool thing about this story – and why it came to mind for me tonight – is that Hagar, this poor, lowly, enslaved young girl with about as much status, credibility, and value in her day as the desert sand beneath her feet, is known for being the first person in all of Scripture to have had the nerve to give God a name – something you just didn’t do way back when. (You didn’t come near... You didn’t touch… And you didn’t speak the name of the almighty.) And the name Hagar gave to God – the God who met her in her darkest hour of deepest need – was “el Roi.” And “el Roi,” according to smarter people than me, means “the God who sees me.”

“The God who sees me.”

So, just as I always imagine and celebrate and give thanks that Christmas is about God coming to live and move and breathe among us so that we might see God differently… in the flesh… for a change. Hagar – and Jesus – remind me that God always sees us differently, too. That God shows up even and especially in our darkest, most desperate hours some of the time, and sees in us something the rest of the world – and maybe even we, ourselves – don’t see or refuse to look at.

Like, where the world sees a worthless slave girl, God sees a bold, brave, beautiful force for and source of life.

Where the world sees a Republican or a Democrat; or an “L” a “G” a “B” a “T” or a “Q”; where the world sees an Israeli or a Palestinian; a Russian or a Ukrainian; a Jew, a Muslim, or a Christian – Jesus sees a child of God.

Where the world sees a sinner, God sees forgiveness.

Where the world sees war, God sees the possibility for peace.

Where the world sees despair, God sees hope.

Where the world sees death, God sees new life.

Where the world sees a grudge, God sees grace.

And where we – and the world – look at ourselves and each other and see, too often, the worst thing(s) we’ve ever done, Jesus sees, instead, the beloved children we were created to be – and always are – in the eyes of our maker.

And in seeing all of it, God, in Jesus, gives up his life so that we would know what love looks like, and so that we might live differently – on this side of heaven and the next – in response to that deep, abiding, everlasting gift.

So Merry Christmas in the name of the God who came so that we might see LOVE in all of its fullness and in new ways, every day. And so that we might know that we are seen, each of us – in our joy and our sorrow, in our grief and our gladness – by the fullness of that LOVE, just the same… and just in time, perhaps… and just because we’re worth it, always, in the eyes of our creator.

Amen

A Voice Among Many

John 1:6-8, 19-28

There was a man sent from God whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might come to believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.

This is the testimony given by John when the Jews sent the priests and Levites to ask him, “Who are you?” He confessed and did not deny it, but he confessed, “I am not the Messiah.” They asked him, “What then, are you Elijah?” He said, “I am not.” Are you a prophet? He answered, “No.” “Who are you? Give us an answer for those who sent us? What do you say about yourself?” He said, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘make straight the way of the Lord,’ as the prophet Isaiah said.”

Now they were sent from the Pharisees. And they asked him, “Why then do you baptize, if you are neither the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the prophet?” He said, “I baptize with water. Among you stands one whom you do not know; the one coming after me. I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals.” Now, this took place in Bethany, across the Jordan where John was baptizing.

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So much of what we think we know of John the Baptist is wrapped up in the very little bit we learn about him in the Gospels…all that stuff about what he wore – camel’s hair coats and leather belts; the things he ate – locusts and wild honey; …and the notion that he was doing all of this baptizing in the wilderness somewhere on the outskirts of Jerusalem, down at the Jordan River. He comes off as kind of an oddball and a kook, really.

So, we get the impression that John the Baptist was a renegade, of sorts. This one voice crying out in the wilderness… this lone wolf preaching and teaching and calling people to change their ways… this rebel down by the river, trying to persuade and prepare the hearts and minds of whoever would listen to him for the coming of this Jesus who was on the way. And that’s all true, I suppose.

I heard someone refer to John the Baptist a carnival barker, once. And I kind of liked that at the time, so I’ve tended to think of him as a hot-head, a loud-mouth, a street-preacher-type like you might find outside the stadium on game day with a microphone and a cheap amplifier – or a bull horn, maybe – with pamphlets about how to find your way to a straighter, more faithful and righteous path, you brood of vipers!

But those guys – those street-preacher-types – are loud and pretentious and more sure of themselves than they should be and more sure of themselves than I found John the Baptist to be this time around. And there’s enough yelling in the world these days… and noise... and anger... and certainty about this or that. And I confess to thinking the most un-Christ-like things when I get scolded by those carnival barking street preachers.

So I wondered, for a change, this time around, if John the Baptist might be different than all of that. And when you listen to what we heard this morning, that seems entirely possible. And maybe just as faithful, too, I’ve decided.

What I mean is, John doesn’t pretend to be any more than he is or any greater than what he’s up to – testifying to the light of grace and good news he’d apparently found in Jesus. When the powers-that-be from the synagogue in the big city come asking him to fess up … to explain himself … to give an account for his actions down there by the river … he doesn’t seem to shout or scream. He confesses, humbly, it seems to me; he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than just some guy. He says, “I am not the Messiah. I’m not Elijah. I’m not even a prophet. I’m just one voice, out there in the wilderness, trying to convince people that there’s a better way.”

“I’m just sharing what I’ve learned from scripture … from the prophet, Isaiah. I’m just baptizing with water, because that’s all I have and all I know to do. I’m just trying to give people some hope in something greater than what this world has to offer.”

And this new way of wondering about a humble, compassionate, quieter John the Baptist feels like good news to me. Because I think John the Baptist isn’t just someone we should merely listen to, in this day and age. I believe John the Baptist is someone we should emulate; someone we’re called to imitate; someone we would be blessed to learn from and follow and be more like, in a lot of ways.

And this seems more likely – more possible – when I consider him differently, because I’ve never been as cool or as loud or as certain as the John the Baptist I’ve always pictured and preached about before. And I become less and less cool the older I get – just ask my children. I threw out my camel’s hair coat years ago. I’m good with wild honey, I suppose, but you can keep the locusts, thank you very much. And besides all of that, the “wilderness” of New Palestine, Indiana, just isn’t all that “wild” by the world’s standards, if we’re honest. So when I think about what it would mean to emulate or imitate John the Baptist, I’ve never felt equal to the challenge.

How… here… am I – how are we – supposed to go about “preparing the way of the Lord?” How… here… are we called to go about “making God’s paths straight” for the world around us? How do people like you and me “testify to the light so that others might come to believe” and how do we do it, now, where we are, in the world as we know it, in the days leading up to Christmas? And into what wilderness are we being called to do any of this?

Well, there are relationships in jeopardy that would surprise you. There are kids in the school cafeteria – or in the dorm next door – who are lost and lonely in ways they can’t put into words. There are some illnesses waiting to be diagnosed and others that seem like they’ll have the last word, sooner than we’d like. There are jobs on the line and paychecks that just don’t cut it. There are people in this room holding it together really well on the outside, but falling apart behind the closed doors of their heart of hearts, believe me. (Those social media feeds are a big fat lie a lot of the time.) And there are skeptics and cynics and sinners around every corner – and in our own mirror more often than we’d like to admit it.

And I don’t believe the best way to address all of that wilderness is loudly … or with words at all, even. It can’t be explained away with even the most perfectly chosen verses of Scripture. And it can’t be preached away from the pulpit, or barked into oblivion from the street corner, either.

It might soften, though, with some quiet companionship. The wilderness might feel less desperate with some persistent, patient friendship. It might dissipate with some humble confession about our shared experience and common ground. The wilderness might not feel so scary if we – and others – didn’t have to walk through it alone. And I wonder if all those people were drawn to John the Baptist, because he wasn’t afraid to be himself. He wasn’t pretending to be anything more than who he was. And because who he was – with all of his awkward, strange, oddball ways – was just right for the grace he came to proclaim.

So, maybe we can bring the good news – you and I – like John did. We can be the love of God, crying out in the wilderness, not just with loud words of judgment, but maybe with quiet tears, for a change, of understanding and empathy, too. Like John, we can be a voice for the Word of God that shows up in Jesus, that speaks of comfort for the lonely; forgiveness for the sinner; new life for the dying; hope for the brokenhearted – because we need, hope and long for all of those things, too; just like John did, I’m sure.

I think that’s our call these days … to be one voice … each of us … among many … walking the crooked road of life as we know it in and alongside this crowded, broken world, until the One comes, finally – the One who makes all things new, all paths smooth, all sins forgiven, all life redeemed, all joy forever, all fear relieved, all peace eternal, and all grace for all people in the name of the Father, +Son and Holy Spirit.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.