The gospels give us the only stories we know of Jesus’ birth. We really have two very different stories of the first Christmas, and two other introductions to Jesus.
The earliest gospel, the gospel of Mark, dives right in, with John the Baptizer appearing in the wilderness, proclaiming a gospel of repentance—change—and the forgiveness of sins. And that is how Mark introduces us to Jesus: John is preparing the way for Jesus, and Jesus comes to John to be baptized by him, and the Spirit descends on Jesus. What Mark wants us to know about Jesus’s origins is this: John prepared the way for Jesus, and Jesus is the fulfillment of John’s message.
The gospel of John begins in a very different way: with a Poem in the Prologue that harkens back to the book of Genesis and the beginning of time: “In the beginning was the Word—the Logos— and Word was with God, and the Word was God…. It continues: And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” The Gospel of John goes back to the beginning of the creation story, and there was the Word. “Word” in Greek is “Logos”, but this Logos in Greek thought wasn’t just a spoken word, but the divine principle of reason, of thought and ordered mind. And so John is linking Jewish thought and Greek thought in Jesus: Jesus is coming from the Jewish God, but is the Logos, Reason, The Word in flesh, is breaking in to the world. And then John jumps right in where Mark began: Jesus coming to John the Baptizer to be baptized.
And so now we come to the Gospels of Luke and Matthew, which give us the stories of Jesus’ birth that are familiar to us. The stories might actually be too familiar—they’re difficult for us to hear afresh. And though we’ve combined them in our minds into one Christmas story, with shepherds and Magi and Gabriel visiting Mary, Luke and Matthew tell us two very different stories of Jesus’s birth. The story we’ve created is somewhat sentimental, but Matthew & Luke are anything but. The stories are different, and each of them is a mini-gospel—what theologian Marcus Borg calls an “overture”, a statement of the theme of the gospel.
We have to begin, though, by getting our genre correct: we would never mistake John’s Prologue for a newspaper account: that’s a poem. And neither are these birth stories newspaper accounts: instead they tell a true story about who Jesus is, in a genre familiar to ancient readers—where great leaders have great origins— but not quite analogous to anything we’ve got now.
The Gospel of Matthew is perhaps the most “Jewish” of the 4 gospels: it presents Jesus as the New Moses—who gave the Law and who lead the Israelites out of Egypt. Jesus here is the authoritative interpreter of Moses, a Moses for Jews and for Gentiles alike.
Remember the story of Moses: Moses was born as Pharaoh was killing the infants of the Hebrews. Ancient Jewish legend says that Pharoah was murdering the children because he had a dream that a liberator of the slaves would be born.
Matthew’s birth story focuses on a series of dreams to Joseph—Mary doesn’t get a speaking part or a dream in this story. In Matthew’s story, Mary & Joseph are engaged, and they live in Bethlehem. Joseph is going to separate from Mary when he finds out she’s pregnant, but Joseph is told in a dream that it is ok, that Mary will bear a great savior. The Magi—wise men, gentiles from the East—show up in the story, looking for this great child. They encounter the Roman appointed king, Herod, and ask for the child who will be a great ruler. Herod doesn’t like that idea, and so like Pharoah, Herod decides to slaughter the infants to prevent the rise of a new king. God warns Joseph in a dream, and so Mary, Joseph and Jesus flee to Egypt. When Herod dies, they move to Galilee, not to Bethlehem.
This is not a warm and fuzzy Christmas story, but the start of a story where the world is turned upside down: Jesus is the new Moses, who will set his people free. And it is the Roman rulers and Herod, the Jewish collaborator, it is they who play the role of Pharoah; the holy family flees to Egypt, of all places, a refuge. Matthew is telling us that Jesus has come to save the people, not from some eternity in hell, but from living in the midst of oppression and injustice. It’s a story where the poor are blessed, and the dispossessed will inherit the earth, and gentiles are invited into the kingdom of God.
Luke’s story has more of the familiar elements you’d see in a Christmas pageant: pretty much everything, except for the Magi & Herod. Luke begins with two birth stories: first, the birth of John the Baptizer to his parent Elizabeth and Zechariah, and then, of course, the birth of Jesus to Mary and Joseph. Like Abraham and Sarah and other characters in the Hebrew scriptures, Elizabeth and Zechariah are “getting on in years”; they are old and childless, but then are blessed with a miraculous child. Mary also has a miraculous conception—but a type not found in the Hebrew Scriptures: a virgin birth, with a divine father, the start of a new thing. And unlike Matthew, Luke has a strong focus on women, as well as men: Mary & Elizabeth get major parts, and while Zechariah gets a major song, Joseph stays in the background.
In Luke’s story, Mary & Joseph are living in Galilee; Mary is visited by the angel Gabriel, and she is told the good news: she will bear a son, who will be great: the Son of the Most High, the Son of God—to which Mary essentially responds, “Ok”. A little while later we get Mary’s famous song, the Magnificat, which gives us a window into the meaning of Jesus’s ministry: Mary says her spirit rejoices in God, her Savior— because with Jesus, God has brought down the powerful from their thrones, lifted up the lowly, filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.
And then we come to the birth itself. Remember, Mary & Joseph are living in Galilee here. But, like Matthew, Luke has Jesus born in Bethlehem, the city of King David. And so we get the story of the Roman census , which required Joseph & Mary to travel to Bethlehem. They arrive in Bethlehem, and there is no place for them at the inn, and so Jesus is born in a manager.
Then we get the inspiration for many Christmas carols: angels appear to shepherds in the fields, and give the news that a Savior is born: singing “Glory to God and peace on earth.” It is the shepherds, low class and on the margins of society, who the first to hear of Jesus’ birth.
In his Christmas story, Luke tells us about the kingdom of God: it’s for all people, Jews and non-Jews, it’s here on this earth: there will be peace, the poor will be lifted up. And less obvious to the modern reader—Luke is setting the Kingdom of God against the Empire of Rome. The descriptors of Jesus— Savior, Son of God, Bringer of peace—these are what the Romans claimed for their leaders. But Luke says it’s not the great power, Rome, that will bring peace, but this guy, Jesus, born in a manger, honored by shepherds.
I invite you, this Christmas, to consider what these Christmas stories mean today—for you and how you live your life. The gospels say something very particular, to a particular time. It can be a lot of work to translate that into our own lives. I find inspiration in these stories because that are full of hope and promise, that a better world is possible, that God is breaking into history, that a mighty Savior has shown us the way to living in harmony with God. It can be hard to follow the Way during our Christmas season—shopping and gift giving can seem far from the Way of peace and justice. But there are also seeds of generosity and faithful living that can be planted this season, and with God’s grace, bloom.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sacred Text: Two Verses from Isaiah
From Isaiah 59
Justice is far from us,
and righteousness does not reach us;
We wait… for light, and lo! there is darkness;
… for brightness, but we walk in gloom.
From Isaiah 2
The people who have walked in darkness
have seen a great light.
They that dwell in the land in the shadow of death
Upon them the light has shined.
Justice is far from us,
and righteousness does not reach us;
We wait… for light, and lo! there is darkness;
… for brightness, but we walk in gloom.
From Isaiah 2
The people who have walked in darkness
have seen a great light.
They that dwell in the land in the shadow of death
Upon them the light has shined.
Advent: Waiting
The theme of darkness and light recurs throughout advent. The two sacred texts for today bookend the season of advent: advent is about being in the first passage of Isaiah, dwelling in the land so dark, it is in the shadow of death—but waiting, hopefully, expectantly for the promise of that second passage: the shining forth of the great light.
We’ll sing a verse from O Come, O Come Emannuel each week during advent. The verse for this week—by design— pairs beautifully with the sacred text for this week: we sing from the darkness, imploring the light to come:
And then, the refrain of hope that we proclaim throughout season:
Advent was originally a time of fasting, with the color purple like at Lent; a time of preparation for the coming of the light, of recognizing the darkness we dwell in. This is why John the Baptist, preaching the message of repentance and forgiveness of sins, why he is an advent figure. But Advent has developed into a season of hope amidst the darkness. But you can still hear the edge in the traditional prophetic texts.
So listen again to Isaiah: “Justice is far from us, and righteousness does not reach us; We wait for light, a lo! There is darkness.”
What darkness do you wait in? We live amidst darkness, all of us. You are not alone. We light candles and put up decorations to dispel the vary physical darkness of winter—but there is a darkness we can’t dispel.
The prophetic texts describe the darkness that befalls the entire world: justice is but far away, and righteousness might be moving toward us, but isn’t here yet. The world is broken, but we are looking forward to the coming of the One who will show us the New Way, the way to live in the realm of God.
The Good News is that we are a people of the light. It is because we look forward to the coming of the Light of the World that we can name the darkness, and face it with hope. In the middle of all the trials we bear, even at life’s very bleakest, we can—a little piece of us at least--- we can rejoice, becuas we known Emmanuel has already come. And even in the bleak midwinter of our lives, we can trust that God’s love is constantly breaking into the world, that spring will come.
We’ll sing a verse from O Come, O Come Emannuel each week during advent. The verse for this week—by design— pairs beautifully with the sacred text for this week: we sing from the darkness, imploring the light to come:
O come, Thou Day-Spring, from on high,
and cheer us by Thy drawing nigh.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to
flight.
And then, the refrain of hope that we proclaim throughout season:
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
Advent was originally a time of fasting, with the color purple like at Lent; a time of preparation for the coming of the light, of recognizing the darkness we dwell in. This is why John the Baptist, preaching the message of repentance and forgiveness of sins, why he is an advent figure. But Advent has developed into a season of hope amidst the darkness. But you can still hear the edge in the traditional prophetic texts.
So listen again to Isaiah: “Justice is far from us, and righteousness does not reach us; We wait for light, a lo! There is darkness.”
What darkness do you wait in? We live amidst darkness, all of us. You are not alone. We light candles and put up decorations to dispel the vary physical darkness of winter—but there is a darkness we can’t dispel.
The prophetic texts describe the darkness that befalls the entire world: justice is but far away, and righteousness might be moving toward us, but isn’t here yet. The world is broken, but we are looking forward to the coming of the One who will show us the New Way, the way to live in the realm of God.
The Good News is that we are a people of the light. It is because we look forward to the coming of the Light of the World that we can name the darkness, and face it with hope. In the middle of all the trials we bear, even at life’s very bleakest, we can—a little piece of us at least--- we can rejoice, becuas we known Emmanuel has already come. And even in the bleak midwinter of our lives, we can trust that God’s love is constantly breaking into the world, that spring will come.
Sacred Text for "Thanksgiving"
From Paul’s Letter to the Philippians: [NRSV]
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.
Reflection: Thanksgiving
This week, we continue our series on Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is predictably coming up this month, and predictably we’re going to talk about it.
It’s hard to argue with the idea of giving thanks, whether you’re secular or religious. No one wants to be ungrateful. But because giving thanks is so uncontroversial , it’s less thought out and more hazy—but good— warm fuzzy feelings. And the hazy-ness around giving thanks can leave us with some deep puzzles, and perhaps extra burdens.
One model of thanksgiving is based on reciprocity: someone has done something nice for you, and so you respond with thanks. This is one model of approaching giving thanks to God: we’re created, there’s lots of good parts of life, and we give thanks because God has been good to us. It’s worked ok for a long time.
The puzzles start when we begin to wonder: what if I don’t feel like God has been good to me? On the Thanksgiving holiday, I give thanks for this food, for this house, for harvest, for the family. If God’s been good to me because I’ve received these things, doesn’t that mean God’s mistreated someone who hasn’t had a good harvest, who’s lost their house, who’s lost their family. If those things happen to me, shouldn’t I be peeved at God, not thankful? And if I’ve really suffered, how dare you say I should be thankful—maybe God hasn’t been good to me.
I think there’s an alternative model for Thanksgiving, that of appreciation. When we give thanks, we rejoice in the good in our lives. Rejoice in the Lord always, Paul says. And why do we give thanks and rejoice? Not because we’ve been better treated than we expect or deserve, but because it is a discipline that improves our lives and our harmony with the world.
Paul provides the hint: whatever is good, just, pleasing, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. That’s what we do when we give thanks—we attend to the good things in life. That’s how the disciples could give thanks, even in prison. That’s how Jesus on the night he was to die could give thanks at the Lord’s supper.
Thanksgiving is for us: Keep on doing the things that you have learned, the practice of thanksgiving, the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard our hearts and our minds.
It’s hard to argue with the idea of giving thanks, whether you’re secular or religious. No one wants to be ungrateful. But because giving thanks is so uncontroversial , it’s less thought out and more hazy—but good— warm fuzzy feelings. And the hazy-ness around giving thanks can leave us with some deep puzzles, and perhaps extra burdens.
One model of thanksgiving is based on reciprocity: someone has done something nice for you, and so you respond with thanks. This is one model of approaching giving thanks to God: we’re created, there’s lots of good parts of life, and we give thanks because God has been good to us. It’s worked ok for a long time.
The puzzles start when we begin to wonder: what if I don’t feel like God has been good to me? On the Thanksgiving holiday, I give thanks for this food, for this house, for harvest, for the family. If God’s been good to me because I’ve received these things, doesn’t that mean God’s mistreated someone who hasn’t had a good harvest, who’s lost their house, who’s lost their family. If those things happen to me, shouldn’t I be peeved at God, not thankful? And if I’ve really suffered, how dare you say I should be thankful—maybe God hasn’t been good to me.
I think there’s an alternative model for Thanksgiving, that of appreciation. When we give thanks, we rejoice in the good in our lives. Rejoice in the Lord always, Paul says. And why do we give thanks and rejoice? Not because we’ve been better treated than we expect or deserve, but because it is a discipline that improves our lives and our harmony with the world.
Paul provides the hint: whatever is good, just, pleasing, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. That’s what we do when we give thanks—we attend to the good things in life. That’s how the disciples could give thanks, even in prison. That’s how Jesus on the night he was to die could give thanks at the Lord’s supper.
Thanksgiving is for us: Keep on doing the things that you have learned, the practice of thanksgiving, the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard our hearts and our minds.
Text for Reflection: from Psalm 109
God of my praise, do not be deaf!
For the mouth of the wicked
and the mouth of deceit have opened against me.
Words of hatred surround me.
They make war against me for no reason!
In exchange for my love, they oppose me—
Yet I am all prayer!
(*...)
Set over him a wicked man;
Let an opponent stand at his right hand.
When he is judged, let him come out guilty;
Let his prayer miss its target.
May his days be few;
Let another take his possessions.
May his children be orphans,
And his wife a widow.
May his children wander about and beg,
Going in search away from their hovels.
Translated by Ellen Davis, in Getting Involved with God
For the mouth of the wicked
and the mouth of deceit have opened against me.
Words of hatred surround me.
They make war against me for no reason!
In exchange for my love, they oppose me—
Yet I am all prayer!
(*...)
Set over him a wicked man;
Let an opponent stand at his right hand.
When he is judged, let him come out guilty;
Let his prayer miss its target.
May his days be few;
Let another take his possessions.
May his children be orphans,
And his wife a widow.
May his children wander about and beg,
Going in search away from their hovels.
Translated by Ellen Davis, in Getting Involved with God
Reflection on a Text of Terror
This Psalm is not often read, and it’s a good followup to the sermon this past Sunday on “Texts of Terror”: “Set over him a wicked man… may his children be orphans, wandering and begging.”
This anger is ugly, and even if the man were evil—wishing him death— but wishing suffering on his children? But it’s in there, in our Psalms.
It’s so offensive to find this, in fact, that NRSV thinks it is not even in there: it puts these words in the mouth of the bad guys, adding in, “they say” at the beginning on really limited textual evidence. It’s controversial.
I think it’s important that we remember that the ugliness is in there, not because it tells us something good and true about God, but because it tells us something about what the psalms are, what the bible is.
The Bible is rough—it doesn’t paint a picture of a lovely world, of perfect people, or even a perfect God. The Old Testament is full of people haggling with God—“God, what if I can find just one nice person, can you hold off your wrath?” Jesus gets snippy, and makes some ethnic comments about Gentiles (comparing them to dogs) that are probably not a good model for, say, the Mideast peace process.
The bible isn’t always an instruction manual for living, and perhaps the psalms aren’t always the best model for prayer.
The best way I have to think about the Bible is as an entryway to discover God, a testimony of many author’s perceived experience of God. Sometimes they think God does strange things, many time they think God does wonderful, beautiful things, and few describe a God doing evil things.
The Bible is an entryway because it invites me, or forces me, to think about God in a way that I hadn’t before. Sometimes I’m stumped or resistant—I’m still working on loving my enemies, and I’m somewhere more in the range of praying for them. But other times, the stories set my heart afire, the stories of Jesus’ promised commonwealth.
Each week we pray a psalm, learning and sharing in the prayers of our ancestor. They say things about God that are beautiful, that are longing—a few weeks ago we prayed:
These psalms give us language to speak to God: “My heart is pierced within me”.
And so here we have Psalm 109, a human psalm if ever there was one. These are feelings we probably know, feelings I know. The Psalm invites us to see those feelings in another, to reflect on those feelings theologically, to bring those feelings before God. Maybe we don’t want to end where the author of Psalm 109 ended. And that might be the value of this “dirty” psalm— we see this hate in another, and so we bring our hate before God, and say: here it is, help me, heal me, show me a way forward.
May God grant us wisdom and peace in our prayers. Amen.
This anger is ugly, and even if the man were evil—wishing him death— but wishing suffering on his children? But it’s in there, in our Psalms.
It’s so offensive to find this, in fact, that NRSV thinks it is not even in there: it puts these words in the mouth of the bad guys, adding in, “they say” at the beginning on really limited textual evidence. It’s controversial.
I think it’s important that we remember that the ugliness is in there, not because it tells us something good and true about God, but because it tells us something about what the psalms are, what the bible is.
The Bible is rough—it doesn’t paint a picture of a lovely world, of perfect people, or even a perfect God. The Old Testament is full of people haggling with God—“God, what if I can find just one nice person, can you hold off your wrath?” Jesus gets snippy, and makes some ethnic comments about Gentiles (comparing them to dogs) that are probably not a good model for, say, the Mideast peace process.
The bible isn’t always an instruction manual for living, and perhaps the psalms aren’t always the best model for prayer.
The best way I have to think about the Bible is as an entryway to discover God, a testimony of many author’s perceived experience of God. Sometimes they think God does strange things, many time they think God does wonderful, beautiful things, and few describe a God doing evil things.
The Bible is an entryway because it invites me, or forces me, to think about God in a way that I hadn’t before. Sometimes I’m stumped or resistant—I’m still working on loving my enemies, and I’m somewhere more in the range of praying for them. But other times, the stories set my heart afire, the stories of Jesus’ promised commonwealth.
Each week we pray a psalm, learning and sharing in the prayers of our ancestor. They say things about God that are beautiful, that are longing—a few weeks ago we prayed:
May there be no invasion, no exile, and no cry of distress in our streets
These psalms give us language to speak to God: “My heart is pierced within me”.
And so here we have Psalm 109, a human psalm if ever there was one. These are feelings we probably know, feelings I know. The Psalm invites us to see those feelings in another, to reflect on those feelings theologically, to bring those feelings before God. Maybe we don’t want to end where the author of Psalm 109 ended. And that might be the value of this “dirty” psalm— we see this hate in another, and so we bring our hate before God, and say: here it is, help me, heal me, show me a way forward.
May God grant us wisdom and peace in our prayers. Amen.
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