Reflections on the Christmas Stories

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.

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:

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.

Isaiah 40: Reading for "Advent: Peace"

Adapted from the NRSV and RSV versions of Isaiah 40:

Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry unto her that her warfare is over, that her iniquity is pardoned: For she has received of the Lord's hand double for all her sins.

A voice cries out: “prepare ye the way of the Lord in the wilderness, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: And the crooked shall be made straight. And the rough places plain: And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: For the mouth of the Lord has spoken it.

The voice said, “Cry”. And I said, “What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the godliness thereof is as the flower of the field: The grass withers, the flower fades: Because the spirit of the Lord blows upon it: Surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades: But the word of our God shall stand forever.

O Zion, herald of good tidings, Get up to a high mountain! O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings, Lift up your voice with strength; lift it up, be not afraid; say unto the cities of Judah, “Behold your God!” Behold, the Lord God will come with strong hand, and his arm shall rule for him: Behold, his reward is with him, and his work before him. He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: He shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead the mother sheep.

Advent Meditation: Peace. Isaiah 40

I love this passage from the prophet Isaiah—it appears in so many ways during advent. I picked an older translation just because there’s so much beauty in the poetry, so many other references to it. There’s the hymn “Comfort, comfort, o my people, speak of peace thus says our God.” And it’s scattered throughout Handel’s Messiah “….and all flesh shall see it together….”

It’s also theologically important- both as it was originally written, but also as a piece of text that the early church turned to to try to make sense of who Jesus was.

This passage was first written by someone in the school of Isaiah the prophet to speak Hope to the people of Israel who were in exile. Not quite in captivity, they were in “Babylon” not their homeland, living as somewhat subject people in a foreign land. And so, to these people, Isaiah is preaching Comfort: that the time of warfare, of exile is over.

Think back to the passage: The syntax is a little strange, but God is speaking here to what would be angels, heavenly beings, and commanding them to bring comfort to the people in captivity. And then the prophet hears this, hears a voice—“Prepare ye the way of the Lord—make a highway in the desert. We’re going to flatten the mountains, fill in the valleys” Why? So Israel can return home from exile--- this road is the road of return.

But all is not well; there is paradox: the prophet hears the voice, but asks “what should I cry?” All flesh is grass—we are transient, what hope is there? It’s a very existential question. The theologian Paul Tillich says that this passage is filled with rising and falling waves of darkness and light. Sure the Lord is great—but what does that mean, since we are so small? Against this transience, against humans withering like grass, stands God who is going to act in history and protect his people, like [in that ancient metaphor], a shepherd. The exile, the uprootedness, the separation from home,from God—this is ending.

But fast forward hundreds of years, and it doesn’t end. We have the book of Job—there’s suffering it says, and why doesn’t God act? Who knows… but we can’t count on God to bring us peace just because we’re good. There was the return from Babylon to Jerusalem, but the warfare is not over. A now, at the time of Jesus, Israel stands occupied, oppressed? by the Roman empire.

This section from Isaiah is kind of “ported over”, creatively re-interpreted to describe Jesus. The church sees John the Baptizer as saying “Prepare ye the way of the Lord”. And then in Jesus, the church sees that God has come; a kind of exile has ended. The end of this exile does not come in the form of a return to Jerusalem down a physical road, but in following “The Way”, as Christianity was originally called, The Way of Jesus. And so this reconciles how God can be good and strong and loving, and how yet the people of God could suffer so—the deliverance that God has promised comes in an entirely different form than expected.

What does that mean for us? We shouldn’t expect to find comfort and peace in this world—not peace “as the world gives”, not peace in the sense that there will be no warfare, no unemployment. (Though we shouldn’t for a moment give up working for that peace). Rather, the peace we can expect to find, the peace that God promises us—and it is a promise. It is a peace that comes from God amidst our suffering, available to all seekers, regardless of the chaos that still surrounds us.

Amen.