No More Senseless Journeys
Sermon
Love's Pure Light
Christmas Candlelight Sermons and Service
Because Jesus was Mary's firstborn, there were four words that she and Joseph did not have to hear as they made the arduous trek from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Four words that make long journeys longer. Four words that strike terror in the hearts of parents of every time and every place. Four words from which even the youngest child seems to be able to craft a sentence: Are we there yet?
I am struck this year by the number of journeys the narratives of Jesus' birth and infancy entail:
* Mary and Joseph's journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem;
* the journey of the magi, (liturgical purists in the congregation will no doubt remind me that the magi belong to the season of Epiphany, not Christmas, to which I say, "Gimme a break"): a round-trip from an undisclosed location in the east, possibly Persia or Babylon (modern-day Iran and Iraq) to Jerusalem and thence to Bethlehem, proving once and for all that the magi were women because they stopped to ask for directions;
* the holy family's flight to Egypt, and their subsequent return to Nazareth;
* the shepherds' hasty race from the sheep-field to the stable;
* add to these terrestrial journeys the celestial journey of the angels from God's heavenly court to shepherds' humble pastures; and
* the one journey that set the others in motion: God's descent from a throne of unutterable majesty to Mary's humble womb.
Students of literature know that journey, voyage, and quest are fertile and frequent themes in poetry and prose. From the odyssey of the Greek bard, Homer, to the legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table to JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, journey narratives abound. In all these epics, there is a goal, a telos, an end: to destroy the ring, to find the Holy Grail, to return Odysseus to his beloved Penelope. But it is not merely the goal that is important. The journeys themselves abound with meaning. They are adventures, replete with dangers, toils, and snares. As ends in themselves and not merely a means to an end, the journeys have meaning and purpose and worth.
Sadly, it is not so with all journeys. How often do our journeys through the day, the week, this life seem largely senseless -- devoid of any transcendent purpose or worth? Full of ho-hum and humdrum. More to be endured than enjoyed.
* Just get that paper done and hand it in; who cares if it's a "unidraft"?
* Puttin' in my time: thirty years and out.
* Life will be better when ...
I get my driver's license;
I have a six-figure income that doesn't include the two zeroes after the decimal point;
I get outta this place;
the kids are grown; or
(fill in the blank).
Variations, all, on that four-word theme: Are we there yet? The presumption being that "there" is better than "here," or if not better, at least different.
My friends, I am not about to tell you that every moment of every life has the potential to be a scintillating adventure. I am not sure that one can conjugate irregular verbs to the glory of God, or that pumping gas in sub-freezing weather is a seedbed for dazzling new epiphanies. Of this I am certain, and this I will tell you: God's journey from heaven to earth rescues our journeys from senselessness. All end-of-semester indications to the contrary, life is not just one damned thing after another. Life is a blessed thing. God's birth as Mary's babe means that God has joined us as one of us, a companion on our journey. As God does not engage in senseless journeys, our journeys must then also make sense. Christmas tells us that heaven is not merely a mythical goal at the end of our earthy journey; in Bethlehem's babe, heaven has joined that journey.
Of course, there is the ho-hum and the humdrum. A life of incessant pleasurable stimulation is a fantasy of Madison Avenue and would be a source of physical, emotional, financial, and spiritual exhaustion. But ho-hum and humdrum are no excuse for humbug. I have never been eager to pledge to that fraternity of clerical colleagues who feel that ordination obligates one to denounce the excesses of the season. Personally, I rather enjoy them. More than that, I believe they are appropriate responses to the gospel of God's extravagant grace.
The joy that is the hallmark of this holy season has its source in nothing less than the incarnation of the sovereign of the universe, who came among us not to condemn but to love. This sovereign came among us as one of us, that we might behold God's glory wrapped in a fragile garb of human flesh and blood.
My wife, Tami, and I have five children and three grandchildren. We know a little bit about babies. One thing I know is that they are excruciatingly fleshly, carnal creatures. Babies have diapers that need changing. They emit foul odors. They demand to be held and fed and burped and sung to in the middle of the night, at hours with which even undergrads are unfamiliar. Everything they can reach goes in the mouth or up the nose, and they cry. God gave them five senses, and they are keen to use them all: sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. How odd that God should come among us as one of those.1
It has become fashionable in these early years of the twenty-first century for people to describe themselves as being "spiritual." If by that self-description one means that one attends to one's interior life, I am all for it. Socrates' dictum that "The unexamined life is not worth living" is true, though I believe it needs a postscript: "There's not a lot to be said for the over-examined life, either." The incarnation, God's birth as a baby, bars the way to any spirituality that would divorce itself from the particularities of life in the flesh. A spirituality that takes Christmas seriously must therefore "take the human body seriously, as the vehicle, not the enemy, of spiritual life. Such spirituality is bound to take on social and political dimensions."2
* The hunger of a child in Nicaragua is of concern to those who worship the Bread of Life who nurses at his mother's breast.
* The military occupation of a Middle Eastern country is bound to matter to those who worship the Prince of Peace who was born in a Middle Eastern country under military occupation.
* The defiling of the earth and the plundering of its resources for selfish gain is a matter of grave spiritual consequence for those who worship the Creator of all that is, seen and unseen, who was born in a barn amid sheep and cattle and donkeys.
At Christmas, our sense of this connection between the life of the spirit and life in this body is heightened. It is instinctual and intuitive, which is probably the most powerful testimony to its truth. Just as Saint Matthew tells of the magi worshiping with gold and frankincense and myrrh, we do not hesitate to employ all the senses in our worship of the babe:
* the sight of a room aglow with candlelight;
* the sound of carols and choirs and instruments;
* the fragrance of flowers;
* the taste of bread and wine, the sacramental body and blood of the Lord; and
* the embrace of loved ones, partners, friends, and family -- even estranged members, and maybe even enemies.
Our worship is sensate, even sensual, not senseless. It is corporate, not a lonely, solitary affair. That is as it should be, for we worship a God who became flesh to dwell among us, to share our journey.
This worshipful sensuality spills over into daily life when we
* share food with the hungry;
* welcome the stranger;
* insist that those at the margins of society be granted access to affordable health care; and
* have conversations, however difficult and awkward, about issues of human sexuality.
We long for, pray for, ache for, work for the day
When peace shall rule over all the earth
its ancient splendors fling,
and all the world gives back the song
which now the angels sing.3
Are we there yet? Not by a long shot. But God is with us, walking beside us in our journey toward justice, guiding our feet in the paths of peace. As God does not engage in senseless journeys, our journeys must then also make sense.
____________
1. I acknowledge my debt to William Willimon (Pulpit Resource, Vol. 26, No. 4) for portions of this paragraph.
2. Brian Hebblethwaite, "Incarnation" in A New Handbook of Christian Theology (Nashville: Abingdon, 1992).
3. "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear," words by Edmund H. Sears.
I am struck this year by the number of journeys the narratives of Jesus' birth and infancy entail:
* Mary and Joseph's journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem;
* the journey of the magi, (liturgical purists in the congregation will no doubt remind me that the magi belong to the season of Epiphany, not Christmas, to which I say, "Gimme a break"): a round-trip from an undisclosed location in the east, possibly Persia or Babylon (modern-day Iran and Iraq) to Jerusalem and thence to Bethlehem, proving once and for all that the magi were women because they stopped to ask for directions;
* the holy family's flight to Egypt, and their subsequent return to Nazareth;
* the shepherds' hasty race from the sheep-field to the stable;
* add to these terrestrial journeys the celestial journey of the angels from God's heavenly court to shepherds' humble pastures; and
* the one journey that set the others in motion: God's descent from a throne of unutterable majesty to Mary's humble womb.
Students of literature know that journey, voyage, and quest are fertile and frequent themes in poetry and prose. From the odyssey of the Greek bard, Homer, to the legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table to JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, journey narratives abound. In all these epics, there is a goal, a telos, an end: to destroy the ring, to find the Holy Grail, to return Odysseus to his beloved Penelope. But it is not merely the goal that is important. The journeys themselves abound with meaning. They are adventures, replete with dangers, toils, and snares. As ends in themselves and not merely a means to an end, the journeys have meaning and purpose and worth.
Sadly, it is not so with all journeys. How often do our journeys through the day, the week, this life seem largely senseless -- devoid of any transcendent purpose or worth? Full of ho-hum and humdrum. More to be endured than enjoyed.
* Just get that paper done and hand it in; who cares if it's a "unidraft"?
* Puttin' in my time: thirty years and out.
* Life will be better when ...
I get my driver's license;
I have a six-figure income that doesn't include the two zeroes after the decimal point;
I get outta this place;
the kids are grown; or
(fill in the blank).
Variations, all, on that four-word theme: Are we there yet? The presumption being that "there" is better than "here," or if not better, at least different.
My friends, I am not about to tell you that every moment of every life has the potential to be a scintillating adventure. I am not sure that one can conjugate irregular verbs to the glory of God, or that pumping gas in sub-freezing weather is a seedbed for dazzling new epiphanies. Of this I am certain, and this I will tell you: God's journey from heaven to earth rescues our journeys from senselessness. All end-of-semester indications to the contrary, life is not just one damned thing after another. Life is a blessed thing. God's birth as Mary's babe means that God has joined us as one of us, a companion on our journey. As God does not engage in senseless journeys, our journeys must then also make sense. Christmas tells us that heaven is not merely a mythical goal at the end of our earthy journey; in Bethlehem's babe, heaven has joined that journey.
Of course, there is the ho-hum and the humdrum. A life of incessant pleasurable stimulation is a fantasy of Madison Avenue and would be a source of physical, emotional, financial, and spiritual exhaustion. But ho-hum and humdrum are no excuse for humbug. I have never been eager to pledge to that fraternity of clerical colleagues who feel that ordination obligates one to denounce the excesses of the season. Personally, I rather enjoy them. More than that, I believe they are appropriate responses to the gospel of God's extravagant grace.
The joy that is the hallmark of this holy season has its source in nothing less than the incarnation of the sovereign of the universe, who came among us not to condemn but to love. This sovereign came among us as one of us, that we might behold God's glory wrapped in a fragile garb of human flesh and blood.
My wife, Tami, and I have five children and three grandchildren. We know a little bit about babies. One thing I know is that they are excruciatingly fleshly, carnal creatures. Babies have diapers that need changing. They emit foul odors. They demand to be held and fed and burped and sung to in the middle of the night, at hours with which even undergrads are unfamiliar. Everything they can reach goes in the mouth or up the nose, and they cry. God gave them five senses, and they are keen to use them all: sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. How odd that God should come among us as one of those.1
It has become fashionable in these early years of the twenty-first century for people to describe themselves as being "spiritual." If by that self-description one means that one attends to one's interior life, I am all for it. Socrates' dictum that "The unexamined life is not worth living" is true, though I believe it needs a postscript: "There's not a lot to be said for the over-examined life, either." The incarnation, God's birth as a baby, bars the way to any spirituality that would divorce itself from the particularities of life in the flesh. A spirituality that takes Christmas seriously must therefore "take the human body seriously, as the vehicle, not the enemy, of spiritual life. Such spirituality is bound to take on social and political dimensions."2
* The hunger of a child in Nicaragua is of concern to those who worship the Bread of Life who nurses at his mother's breast.
* The military occupation of a Middle Eastern country is bound to matter to those who worship the Prince of Peace who was born in a Middle Eastern country under military occupation.
* The defiling of the earth and the plundering of its resources for selfish gain is a matter of grave spiritual consequence for those who worship the Creator of all that is, seen and unseen, who was born in a barn amid sheep and cattle and donkeys.
At Christmas, our sense of this connection between the life of the spirit and life in this body is heightened. It is instinctual and intuitive, which is probably the most powerful testimony to its truth. Just as Saint Matthew tells of the magi worshiping with gold and frankincense and myrrh, we do not hesitate to employ all the senses in our worship of the babe:
* the sight of a room aglow with candlelight;
* the sound of carols and choirs and instruments;
* the fragrance of flowers;
* the taste of bread and wine, the sacramental body and blood of the Lord; and
* the embrace of loved ones, partners, friends, and family -- even estranged members, and maybe even enemies.
Our worship is sensate, even sensual, not senseless. It is corporate, not a lonely, solitary affair. That is as it should be, for we worship a God who became flesh to dwell among us, to share our journey.
This worshipful sensuality spills over into daily life when we
* share food with the hungry;
* welcome the stranger;
* insist that those at the margins of society be granted access to affordable health care; and
* have conversations, however difficult and awkward, about issues of human sexuality.
We long for, pray for, ache for, work for the day
When peace shall rule over all the earth
its ancient splendors fling,
and all the world gives back the song
which now the angels sing.3
Are we there yet? Not by a long shot. But God is with us, walking beside us in our journey toward justice, guiding our feet in the paths of peace. As God does not engage in senseless journeys, our journeys must then also make sense.
____________
1. I acknowledge my debt to William Willimon (Pulpit Resource, Vol. 26, No. 4) for portions of this paragraph.
2. Brian Hebblethwaite, "Incarnation" in A New Handbook of Christian Theology (Nashville: Abingdon, 1992).
3. "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear," words by Edmund H. Sears.
