The surprise of Baby Grace
Commentary
Object:
And so it comes to this: After days of cooking and baking, planning and preparing, buying and wrapping and decorating, the goal of our efforts is at hand. The presents are under the tree, the stockings are hung, the Christmas dinner is on the table, the family is all together, perhaps trying to avoid the standard family arguments that always boil up and over when we're together at the holidays.
And so it comes to this: After the retail efforts nationwide, in which some businesses do 50% of their annual sales at Christmastime, after the shot in the arm that the Christmas shopping season gives to the national economy, the end of the shipping and advertising and stocking and restocking and ordering arrives.
And so it comes to this: Through Advent we have looked for and prepared for the coming of ... what? Well, if we hadn't experienced Christmas before, what would we have prepared for? We have spoken of the waiting and the hoping of Israel, the longing and yearning of people. We have felt the need for redemption and reconciliation for those who are exiled, in whatever form the exile may be, an ancient one in Babylon, or a modern one, perhaps the exile within one's own soul. But what are we looking for? You know you need, but you don't know what you need. In the times of exile, who can know what salvation means? In the midst of darkness who could ever know what the light will look like?
Imagine someone looking at the planet from far away with a powerful telescope and seeing how much effort we put into the celebration. Imagine a telescope so powerful that it could see how much emotional investment we make in the season. What would this extraterrestrial watcher say about what was going on? And then imagine that the telescope was so powerful it could look into the past. What would this watcher say to discover the real event behind all of the fuss we make?
Oh sure, we could offer all kinds of psychological reasons why people have a deep need for a celebration at this time of year, perhaps look at the anthropological reasons that a winter solstice festival meets certain needs of a culture and a people, maybe trace the pagan roots of the Christmas tree in the religion of the Druids. We could do all of that. But none of it would ever really answer the questions of the watcher or of us.
Because what it all comes down to is, of all things, a child being born, in an insignificant Middle Eastern country, an occupied corner of the Roman Empire, in the middle Iron Age, in a small town, under terrible circumstances. The last thing in the world that any of us would expect. God always surprises; who could possibly guess?
In the images of the story are some very surprising things: the strange juxtaposition of angels and a barn, of a savior in a feeding trough, of kings kneeling before a baby born in poverty. But the most surprising thing of all is that the Grace of God turns out to be a baby.
Isaiah 9:2-7
A hymn, a poem, a glorious aria sung in exultation, a chorus of angelic voices praising God. Is it possible to read these words without hearing Handel's Messiah in your mind? How many sermons could be written from these six verses? In a few words, it spans the full range of the gospel: It begins in darkness and it ends with the zeal of the Lord of hosts. And at the center of it is a child.
Historically, this passage almost certainly has roots in an actual event, although what that event was is open to debate. Elizabeth Achtemeier holds, along with many others, that it was to celebrate the coronation of the Judean king Hezekiah. Others suggest Jehoash or Ahaz. Still others believe that it was composed to celebrate the birth of a crown prince. In any case, given its historical setting, what right have we to recite it in connection with the birth of Jesus? This is a central question about prophetic literature and writing: Can it be both a description of, and a hymn about, an actual, historical event, and at the same time be "about" Jesus Christ? The answer is yes, but there is a difference: To assert the former is to make a statement of history; to assert the latter is to make a statement of faith. They are two different realms. God's promises are always open-ended, never completed finally in one fell swoop, always open to further fulfillment in future generations. The promise, though, is steadfast and enduring.
The passage opens with a brief introduction about bringing light into the darkness of people's lives, and their joyous celebration, for among other things, God has "multiplied the nation." It is like the joy of the harvest, and the joy, oddly, of people dividing the plunder.
And why the joy? The passage embarks on a series of three statements, verses 4-6, each beginning with "for." In other words, here are the reasons for the joy:
1. God has broken the oppression that the people have suffered, which the poet compares to Gideon's defeat of the Midianites (Judges 7).
2. God has destroyed the soldiers and their gear, even burning their clothes so there is no remnant.
3. Most important, a child is born.
So let's talk about the child, because he, of course, is how this relates to Christmas and the birth of Jesus. The child is born specifically "for" others. He is one who has authority, whose titles reflect what he will bring to the people. He will have the wisdom of a counselor, the might of God, the eternal care of a father, and he will bring peace. What more could you possibly ask for in a king, or a Messiah? His authority will grow, and peace will reign forever. And then we learn that it will be the throne of David from which this child will rule. And the marks of his kingdom will be justice and righteousness. It would be, if the prophet were to have his way, a complete restoration of David's kingdom.
It is a remarkable vision of how things are to be. But having already picked it apart and looked inside, we must now set that aside and put it back together. More important than its setting and the simple meaning of its words and verses, are the feelings, the mood, the tone behind this piece of poetry. This is a poem, an image, a song. We shouldn't read it; we should sing it, and we should feel it. Feel the joy. Feel the exultation and the triumph. Feel the fulfillment of the promise.
This is prophecy, but it is also joy, Christmas joy. Wrapped up in swaddling cloths.
Titus 2:11-14
Paul's letter to Titus is the third of three so-called Pastoral Epistles, pastoral because they deal with basic matters of the pastoral ministry in a church. The teaching of the letter to Titus is largely advisory and practical. It has to do with administration in the church and how to deal, as a church leader, with various groups of the church.
Pauline authorship is generally in doubt about all three of the pastorals. The letters lack much of what is distinctive in Pauline language and theology. What we see here is the common practice of pseudonymous authorship, using the name of a respected figure to lend authority to another's writing. Strange in our day, it was an accepted convention in the past, as an effort in the young church to interpret the thought of the respected figure.
Verse 11 begins with "for" so we know that what follows will be the explanation for something Paul had said previously. In this case Paul has been giving advice about various groups in the church, advice which, to our modern ears, sounds very offensive, urging wives to be submissive to their husbands and slaves to be submissive to their masters. In general, the advice could be summed up as an injunction not to make waves.
And the reason for that is the salvation in Jesus Christ. The grace of God appeared bringing salvation to all. That grace of God is efficacious, it does something, it produces something in us. It has the effect of changing our behavior, training us in a new way of living. "Training" is a strange usage, but if there is any truth at all to the notion that we are transformed by the grace of God, changed to our core, then training is a part of it.
Even as the author speaks of the grace of God that has already appeared in the world, he jumps ahead in verse 13 to God's further manifestation in Jesus Christ. And the passage ends with a statement of what Jesus Christ has done -- he gave himself to humanity.
This is an overview of Jesus Christ and why he came, a traditional theological statement of Christology. Yet at Christmas, such a grand concept as the grace of God coming down from on high and appearing in the world becomes more common and everyday, more mundane, and still more joyous, in the birth of a child.
Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)
How often have we heard these lines! They come to us every year in Christmas worship, but they also are to be heard in Christmas pageants and Christmas cards. They have even been taken up by the secular society, as we see mangers and stables and stars, shepherds and angels in every magazine, on television, even outside city hall.
Is it that the holiday has lent a sort of retroactive significance to these words, or is it something about these words in themselves that so grabs us and so grabs the world? It's hard to say. But when you read it carefully, again, the story is always surprising, always a shock to the system, always a dramatic reversal on how things ought to be.
There is a clear division in the text. Verses 1-7 are set forth as a straight history, a very particular history. It was during the reign of Caesar Augustus, but also during one particular segment of the reign when Quirinius was governor of Syria. Immediately we run into historical problems. In Luke this is taking place while Herod the Great was king of Judea, but Quirinius was never the governor of Syria during Herod's reign. Further, historians can find no evidence of a census during the reign of Augustus. Luke did his research, however, even if there were a few flaws. In it he maintains his point, which is to establish the birth in a specific historical setting. His concern is also, in verse 4, to make it clear from the beginning that there is a connection between Jesus and David. But otherwise, the first division of our passage is simple and factual. A child is born to poor travelers, who couldn't find a room. Perhaps because we know what's coming, there is a subtle excitement right beneath the surface of the plain narrative. This is something big, but what?
We learn the answer not in the stable but in the field. Verse 8 is still very much about the ordinary things of life -- the shepherds working with the flocks. And into the pastoral night setting, into their simple lives, come a vision and a light and a song. No wonder they were terrified! It is a powerful message that the first ones to hear the news are not the rich and mighty, not the television stations and reporters, not the middle class. No, it's the working people, maybe even the low people on the totem pole. Ordinary people, in ordinary times.
But that's where the ordinary ends. With the angels and the heavenly host we understand that there is nothing ordinary about this birth or about this child. And the message of the angel? The one who was born was not called a king, but a savior, the Lord, the Messiah, the anointed. And through it all we understand in this, the very beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, that this Messiah will be vastly different from what people expected a Messiah to be. The sign that the angel mentions is a very strange sign of a Messiah: a child, wrapped in simple pieces of cloth, in a manger. The song of the angels says even more: that this birth is distinctly an act of God, and it is about, among other things, peace for God's people.
And so it is left to the shepherds to tell of the miraculous vision even to the child's parents. And Mary, the Galilean teenager? She held it all very close, pondering, wondering, while the shepherds went away, praising God. And those two things are just about all you can do on such a day as this, with such news as this, and with such meaning as this: You can ponder and wonder, and you can praise God.
Application
We have such strong expectations about how things are going to happen or how they should happen -- our past experience forms and shapes and molds those expectations. And we are usually pretty accurate in them. Much of the time, our experience is a reliable indicator of what's coming next. And so it is that we expect someone who is a savior to be grand and noble, to be high and exalted, to be powerful, impressive, formidable. How much more do we expect such things of the one we call God. The expectations that the Judeans had of a Messiah are not substantially different from our own expectations of people and authorities. We know the place that people should have.
But then comes Christmas, and everything is turned on its ear. Because the one that we understand, with the understanding of faith, to be the Messiah doesn't fit those expectations. Neither high nor powerful, neither noble or grand. Quite the contrary, it is a baby. And that catches us off guard. And not just any baby, but a baby born in poverty, like countless babies born today -- crack babies, babies born with fetal alcohol syndrome, babies whose parents aren't married, babies who face a future of hardship and deprivation. That's the company that our savior enters.
Rejoicing at the birth of a baby is not the surprising part. Parents usually rejoice when new life is born to them. And traditionally royal families and nations always celebrate the birth of the crown prince. The prophet Isaiah speaks of a child born to Israel, a son given for the people and the nation. Isaiah's song was for a child born to royalty, a child of the ruling class. And he would be a good king, wise and caring; he would be the king who brings peace to Israel. Such hopes and dreams wrapped up in a small child. But it wasn't to come to pass, at least not in the way the people of Isaiah's time hoped.
No, the surprising thing is the contrast, between the lowliness of babies in general and this one in particular, on the one side, and the God of all creation who sent him, on the other side. Between the smallness of the baby and the purpose for which God sent this baby. Between the roughness of the barn and the songs of glory and praise that would be sung by multitudes for 2,000 years after this baby was born.
Of course, this whole thing of the Creator God coming into the world and coming into human history is pretty strange anyway. There is something known as the "scandal of particularity." Here's what the author Annie Dillard has to say about it in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek: "That Christ's incarnation occurred improbably, ridiculously, at such-and-such a time, into such-and-such a place is referred to -- with great sincerity even among believers -- as 'the scandal of particularity.' Well, the 'scandal of particularity' is the only world that I, in particular, know. What use has eternity for light? We're all up to our necks in this particular scandal."
So God became a human being at a certain time and in a certain place in the person of a newborn male Jew born to working-class parents. It is very particular indeed, which is why Luke takes such pains to specify precisely when the thing happened. And yes, in its particularity it is scandalous, it is shocking, it is a surprise. It is also utterly grace filled. Paul tells Titus: "For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all." In a baby.
The thing about a baby is that he is uniquely accessible. He is utterly non-threatening. He is approachable. Which is precisely what God wants to be to us, approachable and non-threatening. We are drawn to a baby, to the innocence and the need and the acceptance. Besides which, a baby is how we all began.
So this is a baby whose name is Jesus, and this is a baby whose purpose is Grace, and that is very, very surprising. And nothing will ever be the same again. Ever.
And thanks be to God.
Alternative Applications
Isaiah 9:2-7. "The Child that Broke the Yoke." Isaiah writes of the Messianic King to come, and what the names of the king would be: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. And the child would lift the bar from people's shoulders, break the yoke of oppression, and bring light to the darkness of people's lives. We believe that has fulfillment in Jesus Christ. What is the oppression that Christ breaks? What is the darkness of life that he brings light to?
Luke 2:1-14 (15-20). "Told about the Gospel." The shepherds heard the Good News, of great joy, from the angels. They then went and told Mary about the vision in the field. They then left praising and glorifying God out loud. In some ways they were the first evangelists, those shepherds, because they spread the news. We all are in the position of being told about the gospel, of hearing the Good News from somebody else. It is not transmitted whole into our consciousness by some strange telepathy. We have to hear it, and that also means that we need to continue the noise of the shepherds, praising God and telling the world about the birth and about the child.
Preaching the Psalm
Schuyler Rhodes
Psalm 96
No one really takes idolatry very seriously these days. Just take a seat in a local coffee shop and listen to the kids. "Dude, you are a GOD!" Or take a look at the things people truly worship. The God of Israel and the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ are not at the top of the list. Wealth, nationalism and narcissism come well before love and devotion to God. Indeed, anyone who flies their national flag inside a Christian sanctuary is guilty of, you guessed it, idolatry. If we ask the question about whom it is we believe saves us, most of us think about job or nation-state. Seldom would the first response be to point to God, in whose hands our salvation truly lives.
Our idolatry, though, moves beyond the commonplace things like money and power and moves even into the realm of religion. Some people, caught up in notions that every word of the Bible is literally true, make an idol out of scripture! Think of it. The Bible is the inspired Word of God. But we are clear, friends, that the Bible is NOT actually God. The words in our Sacred Text, like any experience of the Holy, needs to be processed through the hearts and lives of community members who claim this Word as their own.
What are the idols in our lives? What are the things that we lift up over God? Could family be an idol? Could our careers become idols? Certainly church can become an idol. Just try moving a pew or rearranging the furniture in the Memorial Lounge. Indeed, our memorializing of people and things can also become an idol. In one church, youth groups from past years were allowed to paint murals throughout the interior walls of the church. The pictures were nice and meaningful to those who painted them. But with those kids gone twenty years or more, and the pictures relegated to the status of museum art in the congregation, what purpose do they serve? With the walls filled with sacrosanct paintings, where does the current youth group leave their mark? Is this idolatry?
The call comes to the Christian community to come to grips with the truth of its idolatry. From nationalism to narcissism; from church structure to church tradition, the time has come for confession and repentance. Let the church identify its idols and to lay them down. And let the church be reborn in the glory and wonder of God's love.
And so it comes to this: After the retail efforts nationwide, in which some businesses do 50% of their annual sales at Christmastime, after the shot in the arm that the Christmas shopping season gives to the national economy, the end of the shipping and advertising and stocking and restocking and ordering arrives.
And so it comes to this: Through Advent we have looked for and prepared for the coming of ... what? Well, if we hadn't experienced Christmas before, what would we have prepared for? We have spoken of the waiting and the hoping of Israel, the longing and yearning of people. We have felt the need for redemption and reconciliation for those who are exiled, in whatever form the exile may be, an ancient one in Babylon, or a modern one, perhaps the exile within one's own soul. But what are we looking for? You know you need, but you don't know what you need. In the times of exile, who can know what salvation means? In the midst of darkness who could ever know what the light will look like?
Imagine someone looking at the planet from far away with a powerful telescope and seeing how much effort we put into the celebration. Imagine a telescope so powerful that it could see how much emotional investment we make in the season. What would this extraterrestrial watcher say about what was going on? And then imagine that the telescope was so powerful it could look into the past. What would this watcher say to discover the real event behind all of the fuss we make?
Oh sure, we could offer all kinds of psychological reasons why people have a deep need for a celebration at this time of year, perhaps look at the anthropological reasons that a winter solstice festival meets certain needs of a culture and a people, maybe trace the pagan roots of the Christmas tree in the religion of the Druids. We could do all of that. But none of it would ever really answer the questions of the watcher or of us.
Because what it all comes down to is, of all things, a child being born, in an insignificant Middle Eastern country, an occupied corner of the Roman Empire, in the middle Iron Age, in a small town, under terrible circumstances. The last thing in the world that any of us would expect. God always surprises; who could possibly guess?
In the images of the story are some very surprising things: the strange juxtaposition of angels and a barn, of a savior in a feeding trough, of kings kneeling before a baby born in poverty. But the most surprising thing of all is that the Grace of God turns out to be a baby.
Isaiah 9:2-7
A hymn, a poem, a glorious aria sung in exultation, a chorus of angelic voices praising God. Is it possible to read these words without hearing Handel's Messiah in your mind? How many sermons could be written from these six verses? In a few words, it spans the full range of the gospel: It begins in darkness and it ends with the zeal of the Lord of hosts. And at the center of it is a child.
Historically, this passage almost certainly has roots in an actual event, although what that event was is open to debate. Elizabeth Achtemeier holds, along with many others, that it was to celebrate the coronation of the Judean king Hezekiah. Others suggest Jehoash or Ahaz. Still others believe that it was composed to celebrate the birth of a crown prince. In any case, given its historical setting, what right have we to recite it in connection with the birth of Jesus? This is a central question about prophetic literature and writing: Can it be both a description of, and a hymn about, an actual, historical event, and at the same time be "about" Jesus Christ? The answer is yes, but there is a difference: To assert the former is to make a statement of history; to assert the latter is to make a statement of faith. They are two different realms. God's promises are always open-ended, never completed finally in one fell swoop, always open to further fulfillment in future generations. The promise, though, is steadfast and enduring.
The passage opens with a brief introduction about bringing light into the darkness of people's lives, and their joyous celebration, for among other things, God has "multiplied the nation." It is like the joy of the harvest, and the joy, oddly, of people dividing the plunder.
And why the joy? The passage embarks on a series of three statements, verses 4-6, each beginning with "for." In other words, here are the reasons for the joy:
1. God has broken the oppression that the people have suffered, which the poet compares to Gideon's defeat of the Midianites (Judges 7).
2. God has destroyed the soldiers and their gear, even burning their clothes so there is no remnant.
3. Most important, a child is born.
So let's talk about the child, because he, of course, is how this relates to Christmas and the birth of Jesus. The child is born specifically "for" others. He is one who has authority, whose titles reflect what he will bring to the people. He will have the wisdom of a counselor, the might of God, the eternal care of a father, and he will bring peace. What more could you possibly ask for in a king, or a Messiah? His authority will grow, and peace will reign forever. And then we learn that it will be the throne of David from which this child will rule. And the marks of his kingdom will be justice and righteousness. It would be, if the prophet were to have his way, a complete restoration of David's kingdom.
It is a remarkable vision of how things are to be. But having already picked it apart and looked inside, we must now set that aside and put it back together. More important than its setting and the simple meaning of its words and verses, are the feelings, the mood, the tone behind this piece of poetry. This is a poem, an image, a song. We shouldn't read it; we should sing it, and we should feel it. Feel the joy. Feel the exultation and the triumph. Feel the fulfillment of the promise.
This is prophecy, but it is also joy, Christmas joy. Wrapped up in swaddling cloths.
Titus 2:11-14
Paul's letter to Titus is the third of three so-called Pastoral Epistles, pastoral because they deal with basic matters of the pastoral ministry in a church. The teaching of the letter to Titus is largely advisory and practical. It has to do with administration in the church and how to deal, as a church leader, with various groups of the church.
Pauline authorship is generally in doubt about all three of the pastorals. The letters lack much of what is distinctive in Pauline language and theology. What we see here is the common practice of pseudonymous authorship, using the name of a respected figure to lend authority to another's writing. Strange in our day, it was an accepted convention in the past, as an effort in the young church to interpret the thought of the respected figure.
Verse 11 begins with "for" so we know that what follows will be the explanation for something Paul had said previously. In this case Paul has been giving advice about various groups in the church, advice which, to our modern ears, sounds very offensive, urging wives to be submissive to their husbands and slaves to be submissive to their masters. In general, the advice could be summed up as an injunction not to make waves.
And the reason for that is the salvation in Jesus Christ. The grace of God appeared bringing salvation to all. That grace of God is efficacious, it does something, it produces something in us. It has the effect of changing our behavior, training us in a new way of living. "Training" is a strange usage, but if there is any truth at all to the notion that we are transformed by the grace of God, changed to our core, then training is a part of it.
Even as the author speaks of the grace of God that has already appeared in the world, he jumps ahead in verse 13 to God's further manifestation in Jesus Christ. And the passage ends with a statement of what Jesus Christ has done -- he gave himself to humanity.
This is an overview of Jesus Christ and why he came, a traditional theological statement of Christology. Yet at Christmas, such a grand concept as the grace of God coming down from on high and appearing in the world becomes more common and everyday, more mundane, and still more joyous, in the birth of a child.
Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)
How often have we heard these lines! They come to us every year in Christmas worship, but they also are to be heard in Christmas pageants and Christmas cards. They have even been taken up by the secular society, as we see mangers and stables and stars, shepherds and angels in every magazine, on television, even outside city hall.
Is it that the holiday has lent a sort of retroactive significance to these words, or is it something about these words in themselves that so grabs us and so grabs the world? It's hard to say. But when you read it carefully, again, the story is always surprising, always a shock to the system, always a dramatic reversal on how things ought to be.
There is a clear division in the text. Verses 1-7 are set forth as a straight history, a very particular history. It was during the reign of Caesar Augustus, but also during one particular segment of the reign when Quirinius was governor of Syria. Immediately we run into historical problems. In Luke this is taking place while Herod the Great was king of Judea, but Quirinius was never the governor of Syria during Herod's reign. Further, historians can find no evidence of a census during the reign of Augustus. Luke did his research, however, even if there were a few flaws. In it he maintains his point, which is to establish the birth in a specific historical setting. His concern is also, in verse 4, to make it clear from the beginning that there is a connection between Jesus and David. But otherwise, the first division of our passage is simple and factual. A child is born to poor travelers, who couldn't find a room. Perhaps because we know what's coming, there is a subtle excitement right beneath the surface of the plain narrative. This is something big, but what?
We learn the answer not in the stable but in the field. Verse 8 is still very much about the ordinary things of life -- the shepherds working with the flocks. And into the pastoral night setting, into their simple lives, come a vision and a light and a song. No wonder they were terrified! It is a powerful message that the first ones to hear the news are not the rich and mighty, not the television stations and reporters, not the middle class. No, it's the working people, maybe even the low people on the totem pole. Ordinary people, in ordinary times.
But that's where the ordinary ends. With the angels and the heavenly host we understand that there is nothing ordinary about this birth or about this child. And the message of the angel? The one who was born was not called a king, but a savior, the Lord, the Messiah, the anointed. And through it all we understand in this, the very beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, that this Messiah will be vastly different from what people expected a Messiah to be. The sign that the angel mentions is a very strange sign of a Messiah: a child, wrapped in simple pieces of cloth, in a manger. The song of the angels says even more: that this birth is distinctly an act of God, and it is about, among other things, peace for God's people.
And so it is left to the shepherds to tell of the miraculous vision even to the child's parents. And Mary, the Galilean teenager? She held it all very close, pondering, wondering, while the shepherds went away, praising God. And those two things are just about all you can do on such a day as this, with such news as this, and with such meaning as this: You can ponder and wonder, and you can praise God.
Application
We have such strong expectations about how things are going to happen or how they should happen -- our past experience forms and shapes and molds those expectations. And we are usually pretty accurate in them. Much of the time, our experience is a reliable indicator of what's coming next. And so it is that we expect someone who is a savior to be grand and noble, to be high and exalted, to be powerful, impressive, formidable. How much more do we expect such things of the one we call God. The expectations that the Judeans had of a Messiah are not substantially different from our own expectations of people and authorities. We know the place that people should have.
But then comes Christmas, and everything is turned on its ear. Because the one that we understand, with the understanding of faith, to be the Messiah doesn't fit those expectations. Neither high nor powerful, neither noble or grand. Quite the contrary, it is a baby. And that catches us off guard. And not just any baby, but a baby born in poverty, like countless babies born today -- crack babies, babies born with fetal alcohol syndrome, babies whose parents aren't married, babies who face a future of hardship and deprivation. That's the company that our savior enters.
Rejoicing at the birth of a baby is not the surprising part. Parents usually rejoice when new life is born to them. And traditionally royal families and nations always celebrate the birth of the crown prince. The prophet Isaiah speaks of a child born to Israel, a son given for the people and the nation. Isaiah's song was for a child born to royalty, a child of the ruling class. And he would be a good king, wise and caring; he would be the king who brings peace to Israel. Such hopes and dreams wrapped up in a small child. But it wasn't to come to pass, at least not in the way the people of Isaiah's time hoped.
No, the surprising thing is the contrast, between the lowliness of babies in general and this one in particular, on the one side, and the God of all creation who sent him, on the other side. Between the smallness of the baby and the purpose for which God sent this baby. Between the roughness of the barn and the songs of glory and praise that would be sung by multitudes for 2,000 years after this baby was born.
Of course, this whole thing of the Creator God coming into the world and coming into human history is pretty strange anyway. There is something known as the "scandal of particularity." Here's what the author Annie Dillard has to say about it in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek: "That Christ's incarnation occurred improbably, ridiculously, at such-and-such a time, into such-and-such a place is referred to -- with great sincerity even among believers -- as 'the scandal of particularity.' Well, the 'scandal of particularity' is the only world that I, in particular, know. What use has eternity for light? We're all up to our necks in this particular scandal."
So God became a human being at a certain time and in a certain place in the person of a newborn male Jew born to working-class parents. It is very particular indeed, which is why Luke takes such pains to specify precisely when the thing happened. And yes, in its particularity it is scandalous, it is shocking, it is a surprise. It is also utterly grace filled. Paul tells Titus: "For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all." In a baby.
The thing about a baby is that he is uniquely accessible. He is utterly non-threatening. He is approachable. Which is precisely what God wants to be to us, approachable and non-threatening. We are drawn to a baby, to the innocence and the need and the acceptance. Besides which, a baby is how we all began.
So this is a baby whose name is Jesus, and this is a baby whose purpose is Grace, and that is very, very surprising. And nothing will ever be the same again. Ever.
And thanks be to God.
Alternative Applications
Isaiah 9:2-7. "The Child that Broke the Yoke." Isaiah writes of the Messianic King to come, and what the names of the king would be: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. And the child would lift the bar from people's shoulders, break the yoke of oppression, and bring light to the darkness of people's lives. We believe that has fulfillment in Jesus Christ. What is the oppression that Christ breaks? What is the darkness of life that he brings light to?
Luke 2:1-14 (15-20). "Told about the Gospel." The shepherds heard the Good News, of great joy, from the angels. They then went and told Mary about the vision in the field. They then left praising and glorifying God out loud. In some ways they were the first evangelists, those shepherds, because they spread the news. We all are in the position of being told about the gospel, of hearing the Good News from somebody else. It is not transmitted whole into our consciousness by some strange telepathy. We have to hear it, and that also means that we need to continue the noise of the shepherds, praising God and telling the world about the birth and about the child.
Preaching the Psalm
Schuyler Rhodes
Psalm 96
No one really takes idolatry very seriously these days. Just take a seat in a local coffee shop and listen to the kids. "Dude, you are a GOD!" Or take a look at the things people truly worship. The God of Israel and the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ are not at the top of the list. Wealth, nationalism and narcissism come well before love and devotion to God. Indeed, anyone who flies their national flag inside a Christian sanctuary is guilty of, you guessed it, idolatry. If we ask the question about whom it is we believe saves us, most of us think about job or nation-state. Seldom would the first response be to point to God, in whose hands our salvation truly lives.
Our idolatry, though, moves beyond the commonplace things like money and power and moves even into the realm of religion. Some people, caught up in notions that every word of the Bible is literally true, make an idol out of scripture! Think of it. The Bible is the inspired Word of God. But we are clear, friends, that the Bible is NOT actually God. The words in our Sacred Text, like any experience of the Holy, needs to be processed through the hearts and lives of community members who claim this Word as their own.
What are the idols in our lives? What are the things that we lift up over God? Could family be an idol? Could our careers become idols? Certainly church can become an idol. Just try moving a pew or rearranging the furniture in the Memorial Lounge. Indeed, our memorializing of people and things can also become an idol. In one church, youth groups from past years were allowed to paint murals throughout the interior walls of the church. The pictures were nice and meaningful to those who painted them. But with those kids gone twenty years or more, and the pictures relegated to the status of museum art in the congregation, what purpose do they serve? With the walls filled with sacrosanct paintings, where does the current youth group leave their mark? Is this idolatry?
The call comes to the Christian community to come to grips with the truth of its idolatry. From nationalism to narcissism; from church structure to church tradition, the time has come for confession and repentance. Let the church identify its idols and to lay them down. And let the church be reborn in the glory and wonder of God's love.
