Isaiah 2:1-5; Luke 1:26-38
Presented December 21, 2008, by J.D. Kline
The Fourth Sunday of Advent
Each spring, when our Jewish sisters and brothers sit down at the Passover table, they begin their worship by asking, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” And then the story is retold—the story of God delivering the ancient Hebrew people from Egyptian slavery. In the Advent and Christmas seasons we who seek to follow in the footsteps of Jesus may well take a cue from the Passover question and ask ourselves, as we consider Christ’s birth, “Why is this birth—the birth of the infant Jesus—different from all other births?”
The playwright Christopher Fry once said of his writing, ” In my plays, I want to look at life as if we had just turned a corner and run into it for the first time.” Perhaps we need to ponder the narrative of Christ’s birth in just such a way, as if we had just turned a corner and encountered this remarkable saga for the first time. Could it be that we have become so familiar with the account—sung in carols, portrayed in drama and nativity scenes, read in scripture, depicted in art—that we little ponder just how astonishing is its proclamation? Do we consider that this birth above all births represents, in the words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, “no idyllic family affair, but the beginning of a complete turnaround, a reordering of everything on this earth”?
Will you join me this morning in imagining that we are turning a corner and running into this astounding message for the first time—this story that, when embraced through the eyes of faith, points us to the beginning of a complete turnaround in life, to a reshaping, a reordering of everything on earth?
New Testament scholar J.B. Phillips once wrote of the Christmas narrative,
What we are in fact celebrating is the awe-inspiring humility of God, and no amount of familiarity with the trappings of Christmas should ever blind us to its quiet but explosive significance. . . . Amid the sparkle and color and music of the [season's] celebration we do well to remember that God’s insertion into human history was achieved with an almost frightening quietness and humility. There was no advertisement, no publicity, no special privilege; in fact, the entry of God into his own world was almost heartbreakingly humble. In sober fact there is little romance or beauty in the thought of a young woman looking desperately for a place where she could give birth to her first baby.
So what are we to say of this birth that differs from all other births? We take it seriously, we hold the story with honor, not by wrangling over details, but by pondering its quiet yet explosive significance, considering what it means that “the Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood,” as Eugene Peterson paraphrases in The Message a familiar verse from the prologue of John’s Gospel. Or, as Clarence Jordan rendered it in his Cotton Patch Version, “The Idea became human and moved in with us” (John 1:14).
Some would reduce the story to little more than a matter of doctrinal purity, insisting that belief in the virgin birth become a litmus test for faithfulness. But that kind of rigidity places focus purely on the mechanics of the event, while losing sight of the far more fundamental assertion of the story—this affirmation that ours is a God who chooses to act in unexpected and even disruptive ways. And if we are to embrace the story, we find ourselves coming face to face with this God of holy disruption. Ours, then, is to grapple with what it means to live in the light of this startling story, to question deep in our souls how we live in relationship with a God whose passionate love for all creation leads God to choose a path of humility and vulnerability. What does it mean that the Creator of the universe has chosen to come among humanity in the form of a vulnerable infant—exposed, defenseless, at risk, utterly dependent upon others? And when that baby grows up, when Jesus embarks upon paths of ministry and service, does he not similarly prod those of us who would be his followers, unless you do the same, “unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of God” (Matthew 18:4)?
Seminary professor Renita Weems in her book Listening for God asserts that entering into God’s sacred story “is an act that involves both the heart and the mind, an opening up of ourselves to new experiences so that we might be enlarged and might be able to transcend the narrowness of our present life.” There is a critical element of trust called for, as we enter the story. Surely that was true for Mary who, according to the Gospel writer Luke, recognizes in her encounter with the angel Gabriel that she is being called upon to allow the horizons of her life to be blown wide open, leading her—and her soon-to-be-born son—along pathways she could not at that moment foresee. “Do not be afraid,” counsels the angel when appearing to Mary, “for you have found favor with God” (Luke 1:30). But what kind of favor is this, a favor anticipating that Mary shall embrace a position of intense vulnerability as a young, unwed and poor mother in a heavily patriarchal culture? Is it not primarily a call to trust God, to believe that this disrupting God will stand with her, come what may as she embraces an uncertain future?
Renita Weems writes of her own struggle with the call of God upon her life. In a prayer marked by personal integrity and honest struggle, Weems prays:
Lord, I don’t want to be a minister. I’m not cut out to be warm, open, pious, and humble. Doesn’t suit me. Besides, it sounds like a pretty boring life to me…. Find someone else. Just because I’m a praying woman doesn’t make me a devout believer. What’s wrong with following you from afar? I like the view from back here.
Mary could have chosen to follow God from afar, but instead she utters words of trust. “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). As she gave voice to her commitment, no doubt she was only beginning to grasp how this act of openness to God’s spirit would transform—and disrupt—her living. Soon she would discover that this call from God represents a great deal more than simply a pleasant add-on to the rest of her life. Truth be told, Mary finds herself embracing a compelling new vision for all of life, a vision that will be both perplexing and engaging, both disturbing and inspiring, both disruptive and life-giving. Mary gives voice to this compelling and disturbing vision in a subsequent song of praise we call the Magnificat, a hymn E. Stanley Jones, long-time missionary in India, calls “the most revolutionary document in the world.” Revolutionary, because it affirms that ours is a God who is in the business of creating the great turnaround in life; God is in the business of reordering and reshaping all of life. The poor shall be lifted up, and the arrogant shall be brought low. The first shall be last. The hungry shall be fed. The faithful shall become as little children. The meek shall inherit the earth. The peacemakers shall be blessed, living as God’s sons and daughters. Swords shall be beaten into plowshares, and spears into pruning hooks. Nations shall not learn war any more; they shall no longer lift up weapons against one another.
In his final Christmas sermon, delivered on Christmas Eve, 1967, Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke of the dream that caused the horizons of his life to be blown wide open, the dream that took him well beyond the narrowness of the economic injustice, the racial segregation, and the rampant militarism of his day—issues that remain all too close to us today. Dr. King that Christmas Eve gave voice to his vision for a great reordering and reshaping of life, a vision that comes alive in our hearts and spirits as we encounter the God of holy disruption. Proclaimed Dr. King:
I have a dream that one day men [and women] will rise up and come to see that they are made to live together as brothers [and sisters]…. I still have a dream that one day the idle industries of Appalachia will be revitalized, and the empty stomachs of Mississippi will be filled, and brotherhood will be more than a few words at the end of a prayer, but rather the first order of business on every legislative agenda. I still have a dream today that one day justice will roll down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream…. I still have a dream today that one day war will come to an end, that men [and women] will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks, that nations will no longer rise up against nations, neither will they study war any more. I still have a dream today that one day the lamb and the lion will lie down together and every [one] will sit under his own vine and fig tree, and none shall be afraid. I still have a dream today that one day every valley shall be exalted and every mountain and hill will be made low, the rough places will be made smooth and the crooked places straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. I still have a dream that with this faith we will be able to adjourn the councils of despair and bring new light into the dark chambers of pessimism. With this faith we will be able to speed up the day when there will be peace on earth and good will toward [all]. It will be a glorious day, the morning stars will sing together, and the [children] of God will shout for joy.
Dr. King draws upon the disruptive dreams of the ancient prophets, and fills them with freshness for his own day, every bit as much as Mary envisioned something radically new and fresh unfolding through the quiet but explosive birth of Jesus, Immanuel, God-with-us. The prophetic anticipation of that day when humanity moves from narrow nationalism and selfish conflicts to a profound unity, compassion and peace—this vision comes from God, but it is our task to take it seriously and to begin living it out. Isaiah writes, “In days to come the mountains of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains” (Isaiah 2:1). An alternative translation puts it, “In the last days the mountain will be established . . .” (NIV). But the prophet is not simply giving voice to a vision for the end of time; the prophet is asserting that something markedly new is happening within time. This radical turnaround, this remarkable transformation when all creation comes to walk in the light of the Lord—this is something you and I are called to begin living here and now. It is a matter of turning a corner and embracing God’s holy disruption, trusting that the God who is in the business of making all things new will empower you and me to walk in the light.
The poet Mary Oliver includes in one of her poems a description of a man who embodies this new spirit. Writes Oliver,
I know a man of such
mildness and kindness it is trying to
change my life. He does not
preach, teach, but simply is. It is
astonishing, for he is Christ’s ambassador
truly, by rule and act. But more,
he is kind with the sort of kindness that shines
out, but is resolute, not fooled. He has
eaten the dark hours and could also, I think,
soldier for God, riding out
under the storm clouds, against the world’s pride and unkindness,
with both unassailable sweetness, and tempering word.
He has eaten the dark hours, and because Mary Oliver’s person of conviction knows what it is to walk with sorrow and grief, with struggle and darkness, he has, along the way, learned the alternative art of walking in the ways of kindness, compassion, integrity, and peace. So it was for Mary who, touched and empowered by the God of holy disruption, anticipated the great turnaround in life, the reordering and reshaping of all things. And so it was for Jesus, whose quiet yet explosive birth we celebrate as a birth different from all other births—a birth that reminds us of the God of holy disruption, the God who is in the business of making all things new, the God who invites us to respond with all our heart, soul, mind and strength. This is our calling. Amen.