Quiet Time

Because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur. (Luke 1.20)

The Silent One

So much conversation happens in the Christmas narrative! Angels talk Mary and Joseph through the monumental task that befalls them. Mary makes a special trip to discuss the situation with her cousin, Elizabeth. The aged Elizabeth is also pregnant with a son who will grow up to be John the Baptist—a first-rate talker in his own right and the last in a long line of prophets who talk at length of a coming Savior. The Magi deliberate the meaning of the Star and stop by Herod’s palace on their way to Bethlehem for a quick chat with him. After they leave, the king calls a meeting with his top advisors to tell them what he’s heard. In the countryside, a celestial concert ends with an angel informing a few shepherds of Jesus’s birth, which sparks a conversation about leaving the sheep and going into town to check things out. Everybody in this story talks a lot, except for one man—Zechariah, John the Baptist’s father. He’s the silent one.

It’s not that Zechariah has nothing to talk about—or he’s unsure what to say. Strangely, he’s the first to hear that Israel’s long-awaited Redeemer is soon to come when an angel reveals that he, his wife, Elizabeth, and their late-in-life son will play essential roles in this divinely ordained drama. Zechariah’s problem is that he can’t believe what he hears. He and Elizabeth have tried to get pregnant for years and they’ve pretty much accepted theirs will be a childless marriage. In many ways, their resignation reflects how the Jews feel. They’ve done everything in their power to bring forth a Messiah. Yet their union with God has remained barren for centuries. For many, the love between Israel and God is its own reward, just as it is between Zechariah and Elizabeth. The idea that God might bend time and revive their moribund dreams—enabling their participation in God’s redemptive plan—is beyond belief for them. Zechariah responds to the angel’s declaration much like the vast majority of his neighbors do when Jesus declares the Good News of God’s kingdom. “How will I know that this is so?” he asks. (Luke 1.18) Before Zechariah can talk himself out of the amazing task God has given him, the angel shuts his mouth. “Because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur.” (v20)

The irony here is rich and rather cruel. Zechariah probably has the best handle on what’s taking place in his extended family; he alone knows how Elizabeth and Mary’s stories are intertwined and the import of the babes growing in their wombs. He can explain everything in detail. But God fixes it so that he can’t breathe a word until his son is born because Zechariah’s faith hasn’t reached a level that will allow him to express it. And his frustration teaches us a powerful lesson: when we sense God at work in our lives, it’s best to keep silent. There will be plenty to say when the work is done. Meanwhile, we should regard seasons of change and growth as quiet times.

No Talking Please

Time and again in Scripture God reveals divine knowledge to individuals and immediately demands their silence until the thing God is doing comes about. Such behavior is completely contrary to human impulse. At the earliest sign our prayers will be answered—at our faintest sense that God is intervening on our behalf—our first inclination is to tell people all about it. Some of us, ascribing to a “name it and claim it” theology, even believe that if we talk about what we want God to do, God will do it (as if God were a super-genie compelled to grant our every wish). Yet, as we see in Zechariah, times when God’s presence is manifested in our lives are when we should remain still. Transformation is taking place. The full extent of what God is saying and doing is far from clear. What’s required is total trust. And trusting time is quiet time.

As the Christmas story so brilliantly proves, never in a million years can we predict or understand God’s ways. Once we start talking, we start wrestling with impossibilities and mysteries we’re not equipped to explain. We start to sound foolish; that makes us afraid and, without realizing it, fear overtakes our faith. We’re no longer fit vessels for God’s purpose. When God’s presence and movement is made known in our lives, we are wise to heed the prophet’s call for quiet: “The LORD is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him!” (Habakkuk 2.20) In Psalm 46, we’re invited to “behold the works of the LORD” (v8) and then told in verse 10: “Be still and know that I am God!” No talking please—God is at work!

Plenty of Time

It takes tremendous faith and self-control to wait on God in silence. We forget that God always finishes what God starts, provided we remain attentive to God’s purpose and calling. Once God’s work is complete, there will be plenty of time to talk. In fact, when God’s will is fully revealed, we won’t stop talking. This is how it goes for Zechariah. The birth of his son frees his tongue. Praise and prophecy flow out of him with ravishing conviction. What he’s experienced in silence has thoroughly transformed him. Not only is he able to witness God’s goodness in his life. What he’s learned opens his eyes to God’s vision for humanity. His soliloquy, recorded in Luke 1.68-79 ends with a promise we all must claim: “By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” (v78-79)

If we can only learn to be still, to wait on God in silence, the dawn will break. Light will overpower our darkness. Fear and death will be overcome. We will walk in peace. That’s the story we’ll be able to tell.

Transformation requires trust, and trusting times are by necessity quiet times.

God Uses Women

Musings Occasioned by the Feast of the Annunciation

God sent the angel Gabriel to the Galilean village of Nazareth to a virgin engaged to be married to a man descended from David. His name was Joseph, and the virgin’s name, Mary. Upon entering, Gabriel greeted her: “Good morning! You’re beautiful with God’s beauty, beautiful inside and out! God be with you.” (Luke 1.26-28; The Message)

I would be dishonest to pretend I have any idea where what follows is going. Usually the posts begin with a destination in mind and get built in reverse. But this one starts with a calendar entry and a question, “What can we say about this?”

Today is the Feast of the Annunciation, when the Roman Church and many mainstream Protestant denominations observe Gabriel’s announcement to Mary that she will bring the Living God into the world. And, for reasons I trust will become clearer as we go, that sets my mind spinning.

So, as I said, I have no idea where this is headed, how long it will go, and what will surface along the way. For all of these reasons, it feels best to ditch the usual format and proceed in free form. I beg your indulgence for what may turn out to be stream-of-consciousness ramblings that may, but just as well may not, hang together as all of a piece.

*****

Opening observation: the Feast’s date on the liturgical calendar slights the Annunciation’s magnitude. For obvious reasons, it’s set nine months to the day ahead of Christmas. This year we mark it on March 26, as the 25^th fell on a Sunday, which puts it at cross-purposes with Lent’s progress to Calvary and the empty tomb. And that’s my point. At this stage in our Lenten pilgrimage, our heads are so tightly wrapped around Jesus’s last days on earth that it jars us to reflect on the mystery surrounding His entrance into our story. Just when we’re primed for next Sunday’s palms, and Holy Week’s dirges, and Easter’s anthems, the calendar grabs us by the collar and says, “Look!” We’re bolted out of Jerusalem’s aborning madness to land in Nazareth’s uneventful calm—which is about to be shattered in the wee hours of a non-descript morning, when an angel will surprise a teenaged maiden with the best news ever to fall on human ears.

And yet… Yes, the Annunciation’s intrusion on Lent’s sacrificial season—its dogged determination to dig hope out of the desert’s fallow ground—seems ineffably right. It rounds out the circle of God’s redemptive narrative: life-death-life; faith-despair-faith; miracle-mourning-miracle. With the Annunciation, the whole story falls into place. God’s promise of a Savior comes to fruition and Christ’s promise of resurrection meld into one sweeping movement of divine grace that changes the course of history and opens the door for every human to access the transformative power of true life. And whom does God choose to usher in both of these staggering realizations? God uses women.

*****

God uses women. All of these centuries later, despite the progress we’ve made to rectify gender inequality, many of us are still taken aback that God ordains two women—two Marys—one a country girl of no notable means or education, the other a city woman whose battle with unholy spirits brought her to Jesus—to witness the greatest moments in human history. Where are the men—the prophets and priests, politicians and militarists, teachers and historians, power brokers and intellectuals, the fathers and sons, brothers and uncles—at the Annunciation and Resurrection? They’re nowhere to be found. Gabriel visits Mary of Nazareth in her solitude. When Mary Magdalene learns that Jesus is alive, depending on which Gospel we read, she’s either alone or in the company of other women. When we account for the lowly estate of women in first-century Palestine, that God entrusts God’s plan to two women should shake us to the core. It is a revolutionary decision of unparalleled proportions—a revelation we can’t possibly ignore—a proclamation about gender that cannot go unheeded.

*****

There’s no disputing that Mary of Nazareth is Christianity’s first believer. When Gabriel tells her that God has chosen her to bear the Christ Child, she first confesses her doubts: “How can this be?” (Luke 1.34) Once the angel explains God’s plan—a design that contravenes every law of nature—Mary, blessed with childlike faith and humility, believes. “Here am I,” she says, “the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” (v38) In that moment, she epitomizes the believer’s experience. First she doubts. Then she believes. And finally, she agrees to fulfill God’s purpose for her life.

There’s no disputing that Mary Magdalene is Christianity’s first messenger. It is she who delivers the promise of the Risen Christ to the disciples. And her experience in many ways replicates Mary of Nazareth’s. She comes to the tomb, discovers Jesus isn’t there, and immediately questions how this can be. “They have taken away my Lord,” she weeps, “and I do not know where they have laid Him.” (John 20.14) Unaware that she’s speaking to Jesus at first, she believes, despite its utter impossibility, when He tells her He’s alive. Then she agrees to do as Jesus asks. She declares His Resurrection to the others.

*****

So we must ask ourselves, what does this mean? Does God’s decision to favor two women with carrying out the most significant events in our faith indicate God prefers women to men? Can it be that God places greater trust in one sex over another? And if this is so, does that get us any closer to eradicating gender inequality and the harms it precipitates? How does reversing the scheme—assigning women the dominant role—change anything?

It doesn’t. But I don’t think God’s decision to use women was ever meant as a statement about the superiority of either gender. Instead, I believe it was the exact opposite. God’s insistence that women undertake key roles in the redemption narrative underscores God’s belief that gender is irrelevant. One’s ability to question, believe in, and agree to honor God’s purpose is the deciding factor. God uses women. God uses men. But the incontrovertible proof that God uses women at the Annunciation and Resurrection opens our understanding that God uses all of us, as God wills, according to our willingness to say yes to God.

*****

And so we ask ourselves again, what does this mean? What does this say to us today?

Of late, I’ve grown increasingly troubled about recent turns our culture has taken regarding women. In the US, political and religious discourse has become perilously misogynistic—and we’ll get to that momentarily. Of equal alarm to me, however, are the not-so-subtle demeaning images and messaging that are starting to resurface in advertising and entertainment. Take a look at these two commercials currently in heavy rotation:

Both show no shame in depicting women as “the other”—in one case, explicitly touting Dr. Pepper Ten as “not for women” and the other confining bikini-clad women to the sidelines, while the “hero” drives the car. The Kia ad positions itself as a “dream”—a coy defense against charges of chauvinism—but both are crafted to feed the fantasy of male superiority. Without turning this into a Master’s thesis on sexism in advertising, I’d encourage us to watch carefully for how many TV commercials give little thought to reassigning women to “little lady” status. With increasing regularity, we see women sitting by while their husbands do all the talking. And when women do speak up, they’re often abrasive and mistrusting—shrews, basically, who belittle their men.

While The Hunger Games recently opened to much praise for “empowering” its teenaged heroine, it isn’t fully absolved of sexist leanings, as Katniss triumphs in a masculine-skewed arena. The whole point is that she’s tougher, and tougher minded, than her male adversaries, as well as her male ally. She doesn’t find a better way that defeats a hateful system; she’s just better at beating the system. Inasmuch as we can find her reflection in Scripture, she’s not modeled on the two Marys; she’s closer to the David who defeats Goliath and the Samson who summons his last ounce of strength to destroy the Philistine temple. Katniss is the exception that proves the rule: men are stronger, more resourceful, and entitled to dominate. The sad truth beneath her story is she’s a fluke—a mystical figure on par with Joan of Arc, a young woman inexplicably endowed with the courage and ingenuity to beat men at their own game.

And not for a minute do I believe that that’s God’s intention in using Mary of Nazareth or Mary Magdalene. The point in casting them in lead roles isn’t to prove they’re better than men. It’s to teach us God sees them no differently than men. They’re availability to God is what vaults them to—for lack of a better word—stardom. They rise to prominence on the same faith that raises their male counterparts in Scripture.

*****

In this, the two Marys are not alone. The Bible places them in a long line of women whom God uses to stunning effect. And in every case, the woman is empowered to act through her own agency. The “Marion model” applies across the board: she questions, believes, and agrees to be used by God. Sarah laughs, trusts, and honors God’s plan to birth a people through her. Moses’s mother fears, releases her anxieties, and humbles herself to serve as her son’s nursemaid. Hannah does something very similar with Samuel. Rahab, Naomi, Ruth, Esther, Deborah, Elizabeth—the pantheon of great women who overcome profound questions, believe in God’s purpose for them, and act in agreement to God’s plan is a testament to the courage of their faith in a God Who uses all of us as God wills. They don’t view themselves as second best—as Plan B’s that God resorts to when suitable men can’t be found. They trust God’s judgment in choosing them and, in turn, choose to do what God asks of them. Only inasmuch as human nature and society place them in “female” roles do they fulfill God’s will as mothers and queens, wives and lovers. Their calling itself isn’t gender specific.

*****

This truth—that God uses women to demonstrate inclusion, not distinction—causes much grief when we hear and see politicians and prelates abuse the Christian faith as a means of oppressing women. To deny women equal rights in society and the Church is nothing short of blatantly defying God’s expressed will for humanity. When we hear Rick Santorum denigrate birth control (and, with it, the health benefits it offers) as a license to engage in a sexual lifestyle that is not “how things are supposed to be,” we hear a man stripping women of their God-given agency. Mary of Nazareth’s role in bearing the Christ Child is sealed by her agreement. “Let it be,” she says. What if fear or pragmatism, both of which she had good reason to exhibit, had resulted in her demurral? What if she’d told the angel, “Find someone else”? Would God have forced her to conceive and give birth to Jesus? One shudders to consider that possibility. Yet today, many Christians and denominations crush a woman’s right to say “yes” to God’s will by denying her right to say “no.” And they do this in the most nefarious way imaginable. They demonize anyone who supports a woman’s right to choose as sexually irresponsible—defying “how things are supposed to be”—never once considering that the mother of God, the first person to believe in Jesus and hence of the mother of all believers, answered God’s calling by choice.

Then there's the brazen contradiction that the issue prompting Mr. Santorum’s comment—borne on the uproar of conservative Christians opposed to women’s agency in childbearing—came after years of ignoring how the provision of health coverage for men provided them free access to sexual enhancement products. To put it bluntly, enabling male sexual performance past its prime appears to pose no threat to “how things are supposed to be,” even though many partners to men who take sexual enhancements would furiously argue otherwise.

In the gay community alone, studies and anecdotal evidence demonstrate that ready access to male sex hormones and erectile dysfunction treatments has taken its toll in heightened spread of STD’s, infidelity, and no end of secondary harms. So, on one hand, one supposes this validates religious concerns about access to sex-related medication and treatments. But it also proves the misogyny seething beneath conservative Christianity’s surface, in that it would connect inappropriate sexual behavior to women’s access to birth control, while ignoring the male side of the equation. Furthermore, this gives slip to the lie that bypassing religious organizations’ obligation to provide free birth control to women by making it a matter of choice settled with insurers is a violation of religious freedom. Based solely on the Annunciation’s example, denying women the agency of choice constitutes religious bondage.

*****

So we must ask again, what does this mean? What do we see at the Annunciation and empty tomb—and how should what we see in them open our eyes to see the world as God would have us see it?

God uses women. God chooses women. God uses men. God chooses men. But there’s a second part to the story that can’t go unnoticed. In return, women choose to be used by God. Men choose to be used by God. And therein lies the beauty of God’s will, as well as the miracles that God begets in us when we agree to participate in God’s plan. We confront our doubts and choose to believe. We believe and choose to act. And everything comes full circle: life-death-life; faith-despair-faith; miracle-mourning-miracle.

I so love that Gabriel greets Mary by saying, “You’re beautiful with God’s beauty, beautiful inside and out! God be with you.” (Luke 1.28; The Message) With that, the angel confirms that we all are blessed with God’s beauty—that God’s beauty can be found in each of us, inside and out! Though we may doubt it, we must believe it. And with our belief, we must be willing to act upon our faith, to enwomb the Christ Child like Mary of Nazareth and to declare the power of the Risen Christ like Mary Magdalene.

Choose to be used.

The Annunciation, as well as the empty tomb, is where God demonstrates gender is irrelevant.

One Long Teachable Moment

Make me to know your ways, O LORD; teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth and teach me, for You are the God of my salvation; for You I wait all day long. (Psalm 25.4-5)

The Best Way

People look at me like I’m crazy when I say I can’t remember the last time Walt or I drove. We own a car on the off chance we’ll want to drive it somewhere. Living in Chicago makes driving an unattractive option, however, since it’s quicker, easier, and cheaper to get around on foot or via cab and mass transit. Consequently, I know next to nothing about GPS devices. But I like idea of them. It amazes me that we’re able to consult a satellite to tell us how to go. Perhaps more amazing, it helps us when we’ve gone wrong. When we've missed a turn or misunderstood its direction, it remaps our course. It even gives us choices. Do we want the quickest or shortest route? Would we rather take surface streets than highways? Are we more comfortable dealing with traffic on main thoroughfares, or do we prefer less-traveled roads? I like that.

Since I don’t regularly use a GPS, I’m always amused when riding with friends who do. They seem to have a relationship with their devices and talk back to the voice as it tells them what to do. When it advises them they’ve gone too far, they’ll say, “I know! I know!” When it steers them down an unfamiliar path, they’ll ask, “Are you sure?” When its directions aren’t clear—when what it says and what’s on the map don't appear to match what they’re looking at—they’ll moan, “I don’t know what you mean.” Sometimes, when they let the gizmo lead them despite their consternation, they’ll exclaim, “Oh, now I see what you’re doing!” Much of the time, however, they seem to express more frustration with the system than appreciation for its guidance. I asked one my friends about this once. Why even bother with the thing, if it gets you worked up? “The GPS isn’t the problem,” he told me. “It knows the best way. The problem is me. I’m the one who doesn’t do what it says.”

Availing Ourselves to God’s Direction

By now you probably know where I’m headed with this, because the parallels between how we use GPS technology and engage our living God explain themselves. Aside from the metaphor, however, the relationship similarities interest me. Even when we rely on God’s guidance, we’re not fond of being told we’ve missed a turn, turned wrong, or gone too far. There are many times—often long expanses of time—when we hear what God is saying and we see it in God’s Word, but what we’re told doesn’t seem to resemble what we’re actually looking at. Sometimes we move ahead without a clue where God is taking us and it takes a while to understand what God is doing. And I think we need patience with ourselves if we’re going to let God work in our lives, as our problems with God’s guidance rest with us—our distrust, inattention, and resistance to do what God says.

In Sunday’s readings, geared to reflect Lenten themes, we hear Psalmist David pray, “Make me to know your ways, O LORD; teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth and teach me, for You are the God of my salvation; for You I wait all day long.” (v4-5) Teach me Your ways. Tell me how to go. I trust You to save me. I wait for You to show me what You’re doing. All of that sounds terrific on paper. We ask the same of GPS devices; it’s why we buy them. Yet availing ourselves to God’s direction can quickly fall to the wayside when what God says and where God leads doesn’t jibe with our ideas and desires. We’re sure we’ve found a better way—a shortcut, maybe, or a scenic route, or a less problematic path. We’d rather steer clear of heavy traffic and construction. We like to believe we’re too smart and experienced to get lost. We prefer to travel what we’re told is an easier road, one with lots of rest stops and restaurants and pleasurable distractions. Teach me. Tell me. Save me. Show me. We’re good with all of it, as long as God teaches us what we want to know, tells us what we want to hear, saves us when we want to be saved, and shows us what we want to see. The moment God’s guidance detours from the map we’ve drawn for our lives, it’s not as simple or easy as it sounds.

Lives of Non-Stop Learning

In Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 1.9-15), we read that after God declares Jesus to be God’s Son, “the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness.” (v12) Surely this is not the route we’d want to take if we were in Jesus’s shoes. After all, none less than God has just confirmed that we are divine—“the Beloved,” God calls us—which makes us really, really special. A parade to City Hall, invitation to the White House, if nothing else, a trip to Disneyland would seem more appropriate. But to be driven into the wilderness, dropped off in the middle of nowhere, with no entourage or provisions to survive until we’re picked up 40 days later? That’s just nuts! And get this. The Spirit doesn’t even show Jesus the common decency to drop Him in a safe neighborhood. Verse 13 says He’s “tempted by Satan; and He was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on Him.” Having angels on stand-by isn’t much consolation when you’re staring evil in the face and sleeping with wolves and scorpions. We'd pass on the whole “Beloved” thing and find a decent hotel. But Jesus goes because Jesus knows. He knows that what’s on the other side of this wilderness ordeal will require more strength and wisdom than He presently possesses. This is God’s teachable moment with Jesus—and what Jesus learns from it will prove invaluable from Day One of His ministry until the day He dies.

Our faith ancestors, in a flash of holy inspiration, instituted Lent as our annual opportunity to rekindle the desire to be taught, told, saved, and shown. It’s a back-to-school exercise that strives to fix our problem with following God’s guidance. That is, it strives to fix us by reminding us God sees each of our lives as one long teachable moment. In the wilderness we learn ours can be lives of non-stop learning. We can allow God to lead—to teach us God’s ways, tell us God’s truth, save us from our losing ways, and show us what God needs us to see. When God guides us, it doesn’t matter where we are. We can stare evil in the face without submitting to its temptations and lop-sided logic. We can outlast beastly predators and danger. We can wait to see what God is doing in us, because in the wait God’s angels wait on us, providing us the grace and stamina to get through our wildernesses. Teach me. Tell me. Save me. Show me. We may not always like where that takes us. But if we’re open to God’s guidance, we’ll learn there’s no better way to go.

Lent’s wilderness lesson teaches us that when we trust God’s direction our lives become one long teachable moment.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/26/one-long-teachable-moment/.

Postscript: Teach Me, Oh Lord

We take a Sunday departure from our “40 Questions” to channel our weekday pondering into prayer. While working on the post, this recording rang in my ears. With apologizes for not having better video, I invite you to pray along with Vanessa Bell Armstrong as she sings, “Teach Me, Oh Lord”.

Swaddling

This will be a sign for you: you will find a Child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger. (Luke 2.12)

Poetry

Advent’s journey of long, still, and sober nights is winding down. Three days from now, Earth will tilt on its axis—a prized event for those who’ve endured six months of waning daylight. North, south, east, and west, Advent pilgrims have Bethlehem in full view. We who are given to flights of imagination envision millions of faithful believers converging on a country road that snakes across broad meadowlands outlying the hilltop village known as “the City of David.” And right about here is when I (and I suspect many like me) really start to miss the King James Version’s Nativity accounts. Up to this point, newer, more accurate translations of the Advent texts are a godsend. Once we get to the birth, however, modern versions can’t compete with the KJV’s poetry.

Compare the New Revised Standard Version’s translation of the angel’s instruction to the shepherds: “This will be a sign for you: you will find a Child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2.12) Now listen to the KJV: “And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” I would guess the KJV’s use of “swaddling” is the first time most of us encounter the term. Since it sounds comfy, we assume “swaddling clothes” are akin to a receiving blanket—a downy wrap for a newborn. And we may be shocked to learn they're not. The NSRV’s tone-deaf “bands of cloth” is spot-on. Swaddling clothes are fabric strips that bind ancient newborns’ movement. After birth, they’re bathed and salted (to preserve their soft skin), and tightly wrapped below the neck to protect them from insect bites and straighten their limbs. Swaddling is anything but comfy. It’s hot, confining, and makes for very unhappy babies. The Baby Jesus we imagine nestled in a warm blanket is not Whom the shepherds find. They see a cranky, immobilized Infant Who looks more like a mummy than a Holy Child. So much for poetry.

A World That Restrains Him

Swaddling continued into the 1600s, well after artists began depicting the Nativity in paint and stone. Even among works dated before it went out of vogue, however, very few portray a tightly wrapped Child. (Those that do present Jesus as blissfully content to be bound neck-to-foot.) Personally, I can’t recall swaddling in any Sunday school and storybook illustrations from my childhood. Nor do I remember a Bible teacher or minister explaining it—ever. Without asking, the reason seems apparent. A corseted, bawling, miserable Baby Jesus is counterintuitive to all He represents. This is the Child Who brings freedom, peace, and joy to the world. Why would an artist, teacher, or minister present Him any other way but free, peaceful, and happy?

Yet peeking into a flea-infested manger to spy a trussed-up, squirmy, fretful Christ Child somehow appeals to me. I’m strangely moved by thought of Jesus coming into a world that instantly restrains Him and causes His parents great anguish. What frustration Mary must feel, as she fights every urge to loose Him and hold the flesh of her flesh to her bosom. How Joseph must ache to take Jesus’s tiny hand in his calloused palm and feel the touch of God. The agony they must experience, as the Baby wails to break free. And in that moment, they epitomize a profound conflict that burdens all of us who carve a birthplace for Christ in our hearts.

Born to Be Free

Conventional wisdom says restricting Jesus’s movement in our lives is best for Him. If we truly love Him, we won’t expose Him to our diseases. His reach must be severely limited and His touch denied. For His health and safety, His cries to be loosed must be ignored. A freely moving Christ is an irresponsibly handled One, we’re told. This Sacred Child’s misfortune is being born into a world of clear and present dangers none so pure as He could possibly withstand. Sharp bites of infectious hatred and violence that barely faze us will destroy Him. Pressures that tie us in knots will bend and break His tender limbs. Swaddle Jesus, we’re told. Wrap Him up tightly to shield Him from evils and ugliness that plague our world. Be afraid for Him—and fear what people will think if you give Him free access in your life. Imagine their discomfort when they see the Christ born inside you held close to your bosom. Think of their alarm when touching the hand of God matters more to you than bowing to custom. Worry more about what will be said of you behind your back than the Christ Child’s cries to be loosed in your heart.

Perhaps painters and sculptors, teachers and ministers don’t present a swaddled Jesus because they’ve freed the Christ born in them. Perhaps they’ve come to grips with a truth that conventional wisdom doesn’t account for: the tiny Babe is indestructible. He’s the Eternal Word made flesh, God Incarnate, the Creator disguised as creation. We need neither be afraid for Him nor fear what people will think and say. The Baby born to free us is born to be free in us. Come to the stable. Look in the manger. But don’t stop there. Lift the Child from the hay. Unravel His restraints and let them fall away. Permit Him to move as He pleases. Permit yourself to hold Him close. Feel God’s touch. Discover the freedom from fear, peace of mind, and joy of living that Christ brings. Set Jesus free.

Most Holy and Indestructible Child, we confess bowing to conventional wisdom that urges us to restrict Your movement. We repent of our foolish fears and conformity. Be free in us. Move as You will. And free us to let You remain free, to hold You close and feel Your touch always. Amen.

See the Newborn trussed in swaddling and set Him free. (Georges de la Tour: Adoration of the Shepherds; c. 1644)

Postscript: “Move in Me”

Take this little song with you to the manger. Sing it quietly, as a prayer to the Infant. Set Him free, and find the freedom, peace, and joy He brings.

All We Ask of Christmas

One thing I asked of the LORD, that will I seek after: to live in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the LORD. (Psalm 27.4)

The Search

If we deconstruct The Nativity into two categories, one “Divine” and the other “Human,” dominant themes for each become apparent. The divine side is preoccupied with manifestation. God’s exquisite design is manifestly transmitted through supernatural media: angels everywhere, an astral phenomenon in the easterly sky, the unborn infant leaping in Elizabeth’s womb, and her impromptu prophecy to Mary. There’s no mistaking that Something Big is underway—the Biggest Something there ever was or ever will be, the Big Something everyone’s waiting for. So God removes any possibility for doubt. It’s manifestly obvious to all who receive the good news: This Is It.

The manifestations are writ large in headlines, with quick summaries attached. Mary’s told how she’ll conceive God’s Son, and that’s pretty much it. The rest is hers to figure out. The same goes for Joseph. His angelic dream instructs him to stand by Mary, yet offers no tactics to deal with the situation’s many intricacies. The Magi see the Eastern Star and realize what it signifies. But it’s not much more than a road sign hung in the sky; there’s no address attached. Angels declare Christ’s birth to shepherds, hasten them to Bethlehem, and inform them what to look for. Yet they don’t provide precise directions to the stable. So virtually every human in the Christmas story responds to these manifestations by looking for answers and guidance. Their column header is “The Search.” And for those who undertake it, the months, weeks, and hours leading up to the final manifestation are full of “I don’t know” and “I’m not sure.”

It’s tempting to question why God chooses to make good on the promise of a Savior in ancient times. Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait until we get the whole mass communication thing down, so this good news can spread virally? I think God’s got more than breaking news in mind. The ancients’ limitations immunize them from a curse we can’t seem shake. They’re not nearly as flippant about things that can’t be naturally or logically explained. Narrow understanding broadens their vision. Thin facts amplify their aptitude for thin places, where reason’s failure makes blind trust the only option. For them, “I don’t know” and “I’m not sure” are unabashed confessions. Not knowing and feeling unsure don’t threaten them. Do they wish they’d been given more thorough directions? Probably. But since so much of their lives proceeds without explanation, they avoid the modern pitfall of procrastinating until every detail is explicitly defined and every possibility considered. (We theorize. They theologize.)

Seeing Christ

To illustrate the magnitude of differences between their era and ours, let’s run a few likely scenarios if God delayed Christ’s birth for our time. If we were Mary’s parents and knew her to be a truthful child, we’d still question why the angel told her to name the Child “Jesus,” but left no further instructions. If we were Joseph’s friends, we’d urge him to hold out for more information before moving too hastily. If we were the Magi’s colleagues, we’d laugh at the idea of trusting a star’s trajectory to guide them to Christ’s birthplace. If we were shepherds who missed the angelic concert, we’d tell the others they were crazy to go on a wild chase and risk getting fired. Those would be our gut reactions.

With more thought, we’d blow their stories to pieces. Hang on, Mary: Isaiah says the Messiah will be called “Emmanuel,” not “Jesus.” Hang on, Joseph: The Law says a man whose fiancée gets pregnant should put her to death. Hang on, Magi: The star rises in the East; Palestine is west. Hang on, shepherds: Israel’s Savior will come as a King, not a poor Infant in a manger. Maybe some register these objections. Yet with so few facts littering the searchers’ lives, these arguments carry less weight for them than they would for us.

Strange and inexplicable events inspire ancient minds to suspect divine activity. While their manifestations offer no advice, the searchers are all given the Child’s true identity. Mary’s told He’s God’s Son. Joseph learns He’ll be the Savior. The Magi’s star signifies He’s Israel’s King. The shepherds hear He’s Christ the Lord. That’s all they need to set off on their search, because all they want is to look on the Redeemer’s face. Just knowing Who He is drives their belief they will see Him. And they believe seeing Him will enable them to see everything differently.

Asking to See

Sight causes modern minds to believe. Ancient thought insists belief leads to sight. Psalm 27 begins with David declaring belief: “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid… Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though wars rise up against me, yet I will be confident.” (v1,3) Then, in verse 4, we find him asking to see: “One thing I asked of the LORD, that will I seek after: to live in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the LORD.” Since David knows Whom he’s looking for, he knows exactly what he longs to see—the beauty of the LORD.

Surely by this stage in our Advent pilgrimage we have no doubt Whom we’re seeking—God’s Son, our Savior, Israel’s King, Christ the Lord, our Light and our Salvation. We’re long past fearing “I don’t know” and feeling threatened by “I’m not sure.” Argument’s armies and warring opinions can’t shake our belief we’ll arrive at the manger. Since that’s all we need to know, all we ask of Christmas is one thing: to behold the beauty of the Lord. Let those who assert that the Nativity is a myth live with their doubts. We’re not seeking literalism; we’re searching for Light. Let those who quibble with implausibility feed their addiction; we crave impossibility. We believe we will see Christ’s beauty, and that will forever change how we see. Isaiah 40.5 promises, “The glory of the LORD will be revealed.” We hazard our way to Bethlehem, driven by certainty we’ll find the impossible beauty awaiting us there. To behold it—that’s all we ask.

Impossibly Beautiful Child, conceive anew in us profound belief that leads us to sight. May these final days of Advent be fueled with determination to behold You. Draw all of us to the manger, eager to be astonished and changed. Amen.

One thought drives us to Bethlehem: to behold the beauty of the Lord.

Postscript: “Come Darkness, Come Light”

This reprises a video I made for an Advent post last year. Yet I think it speaks to the desire to see that drives our journey. I trust you’ll enjoy it.

Magnificent Things

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for God has looked with favor on the lowliness of God’s servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me. (Luke 1.46-49)

The Talk of the Town

Let’s pretend we’re young women of 16 or so coming into our own in ancient Palestine. Our parents have brokered a splendid marriage contract with a good family, whose son, our husband-to-be, is well established in his faith and trade. With betrothal—a public rite confirming community consent to the union—behind us, our wedding is the talk of the town. For the moment, we’re our tiny hamlet’s closest thing to celebrity. Smiles and kind wishes greet us wherever we go. Our sense that the future couldn’t be finer deepens by the day, as does our gratitude when we think of brides whose families saddle them with uncaring, faithless men. We rarely get to ponder these joys, however. With so much to do before the wedding, fatigue is a constant companion and nightfall an unlikely friend. Its stillness gives us time to reflect before sleep bears us away on its soothing tide. Then, all too soon, daybreak rudely returns us to another task-ridden day.

Can it really be morning? It seems we hardly slept. Before opening our eyes, the room’s brightness and warmth raise the possibility we’ve been asleep for hours and hours, late into the day. How can that be? (We’ll ask this again and again.) We shield our eyes to glance around. The rest of the family hasn’t stirred. We peer into the light and gasp. It radiates from a being unlike any on Earth. We know it’s an angel sent by God. And we suspect we’re unprepared for whatever it harbingers, as we also know angels always bring life-altering news.

The angel greets us, saying we’re highly favored and God is with us. Its voice thunders with majesty that curiously flows over us like gentle water music. While we’re gripped by fear and wonder, the rest of the house sleeps on. How can that be? The angel tells us not to be afraid, and then relays news so terrifying it defies comprehension. “How can that be?” we ask, assuming virginity disqualifies us to bear God’s Son. The angel says we’ll conceive the Child after the Holy Spirit descends on us. First, what’s a “holy spirit?” We’ve never heard of such a thing. Second, it’s humanly inconceivable. Third, what the angel calls a great blessing sounds like a curse. We catch ourselves from asking how can that be and think this through. This is an angel. It speaks God’s will. What else can we do but submit humbly in service to God? The angel leaves us in chilly darkness. Hushed breath of parents and siblings nearby is deafening; they'll never believe they weren't awakened by what just happened. Nobody will believe this—not Joseph, his parents, no one in the synagogue, nobody. And it’s not a secret we can hide. In time, everyone will see. Being the talk of the town won’t feel so wonderful then.

A Huge Song

Mary’s first move is a smart one. She gets out of town. According to the angel, her cousin, Elizabeth, is beginning the third term of a miraculous pregnancy. Mary decides—correctly—that Elizabeth and her husband will be receptive to her news. As soon as she crosses their threshold, Elizabeth’s baby leaps for joy in her womb and she prophesies, echoing the angel’s declaration almost word for word. A song wells up in Mary, an impromptu hymn of praise that also expresses profound assurance. “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,” Mary sings. “For God has looked with favor on the lowliness of God’s servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me.” (Luke 1.46-49) Because we relate to Mary’s tangled emotions and unanswered questions, we hear her sing in a muted, melodious soprano. And we hear a simple, subtle tune—something closer to an Act Two reprise than a showstopper that rings down the Act One curtain. Yet the song’s lyrics and placement as the narrative’s first act closes suggest otherwise.

It’s a huge song full of huge feelings and ideas—an aria bursting with excitement and illumination, as Mary comprehends the scale of events thrust upon her. She bypasses her mind, where logic resides, and her heart, home of human intentions, to sing from her soul, where emotions live and flow freely. Her song is about releasing herself to God’s infinite wisdom and care. Her soul magnifies the Lord and her spirit—the God within her—rejoices. The sheer impossibility of what she must do convinces Mary it will be done. Why? Because God traffics in impossibilities. God brings down the mighty and exalts the lowly, Mary sings. God fills hungry hearts and sends those satisfied with riches away. God’s mercy endures the test of time, and God’s promises stand forever. Up to now, Mary’s only seen the enormity of her challenge and its enormous risks. All of that shatters, revealing a bigger, greater God behind the challenge, a God more than capable of managing risks. It’s a huge song full of huge feelings and ideas.

Magnificent Things

A thrilling realization turns up in Mary’s improvised verse. The Greek verb, “to magnify” (megalunó) derives from the word Mary uses to describe the “great” things God has done for her (megas). When we release ourselves to God’s infinite wisdom and care—bypassing human logic and intentions so our soul is free to magnify God and our spirits can breathe joyfully—magnificent things happen. We can’t help but sing. The angel’s final words to Mary become our life’s theme: “For nothing will be impossible with God.” (Luke 1.37) God purposefully designs insurmountable challenges and inevitable risks to be shattered, so that God’s supreme power can be revealed in and through us. Facing sheer impossibility is the most reliable indicator that God will do what can’t be done.

The only thing that hinders God’s ability to do magnificent things for us is our reluctance to magnify God. As long as we keep God in a box constructed of our reasoning and reasons, impossibilities box us in on all sides. We negotiate with ourselves, leveraging all sorts of excuses why God’s plan won’t work. We pull out sorry songs we should have thrown out ages ago. We disqualify ourselves before God finishes explaining how we’ll succeed. If it involves something we’ve not heard of or can’t possibly achieve without God, we mistake God’s blessing for a curse. We put more faith in our predictions than God’s promises. Mary’s aria is soul music. It’s bigger and greater than any song she’s ever sung, and she sings it in a big way. It closes Act One’s conflicts and rushes toward Act Two’s magnificence. Sing Mary’s song.

We magnify You from our souls, Most Magnificent God. Our spirits rejoice in You. Every impossibility You bring to us is another opportunity for You to reveal Your magnificence to us, in us, and through us. Teach us to sing like we’ve never sung before. Make Your infinite power our lives’ theme. Amen.

As long as we keep God in a box, our reasoning and reasons will keep us boxed in. But when our souls magnify the Lord, magnificent, completely out-of-the-box things happen.

Postscript: “Magnificat”

Bach’s unsurpassed rendering of Mary’s song needs no occasion. But seeing as we’re here…

Strange Flesh

And the angels who did not keep their positions of authority but abandoned their proper dwelling—these he has kept in darkness, bound with everlasting chains for judgment on the great Day. In a similar way, Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding towns gave themselves up to sexual immorality and perversion. (Jude 1.6-7)

Cameo Roles

My partner Walt was reared as a Jehovah’s Witness, which is sort of like being a Fundamentalist with a twist. Without exception every practicing Witness I’ve ever met is a model of devotion. Yet, after 20 years with Walt and many visits with his extended family, I’m still not sure what they believe. In the early days of our union, we compared a lot of faith notes and usually ended with one of us saying, “That’s weird, because we didn’t interpret it the same way,” or, “We never talked about that.” One evening, for no particular reason, Walt asked, “So what did they teach you about Nephilim?” I sighed, because Nephilim—who pop up in three verses of Scripture (Genesis 6.4, Numbers 13.33, Jude 1.6)—are one of those conundrums that just can’t be solved. Akin to fantastic creatures in Daniel’s prophecy and The Revelation (a Witness favorite), the Nephilim’s cameo roles in our saga signal apocalyptic wrath (Genesis) and epic confrontation with superhuman forces (Numbers). But their real story is anybody’s guess.

In Genesis 6.4, we learn Nephilim are the offspring of unholy unions, “when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans.” Judaic tradition equates “sons of God” with angels—in this case, fallen ones who take up residence on Earth after they’re ousted from Heaven. Although this inter-being congress infuriates God, Nephilim are spared the stigma of their shameful origins. “They were the heroes of old, men of renown,” Genesis tells us. Humanity catches the brunt of God’s anger. Seeing “how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth” (v5), God declares, “I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.” (v7) Enter Noah and the ark.

The Sin at Hand

Evidently the Nephilim manage to survive the Flood. Numbers 13 reports they’re alive and well and living in Canaan, the land God promises to Israel. Before taking possession of it, Moses dispatches 12 spies to gauge what they’re up against. They return with unhappy news: “The land we explored devours those living in it. All the people we saw there of great size. We saw the Nephilim there… We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them.” (v32-33) After parting the Jordan for Israel to cross over and destroying Jericho’s walls, routing the Nephilim is the cherry on the miraculous-seizure-of-Canaan sundae. It’s not every day a road-weary, untrained army defeats a nation of angelically spawned giants! Yet a quizzical side of the story gets glossed over. Canaan is a pagan stronghold given to gross perversions that don’t square with Genesis’s “heroes of old, men of renown,” indicating a big part of their story goes missing.

I don’t recall Walt’s explanation of how Nephilim figure into Jehovah Witnesses’ end-time theology. But I can safely say the only times our preachers mentioned them was when they dragged out Jude 1.7: “In a similar way, Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding towns gave themselves up to sexual immorality and perversion. They serve as an example of those who suffer the punishment of eternal fire.” The discussion brooked no curiosity in children of celestials gone wrong. The Nephilim got wrung into the rush to assert homosexuals will burn in Hell. And I know I sound like a broken record. But if we just read the text, intelligently hearing what Jude says, we can’t possibly miss his point. Like 1 Timothy, Jude warns readers not to be seduced by false doctrine. The sin at hand is unbelief. No more than surface knowledge of the Nephilim and Sodom is required to spot the connection. Jude defames heretics by talking about the trouble with angels, not same-sex orientation.

Ignoring Instructions

Of all the mangled clobber texts, the alleged condemnation of LGBT people in Jude is by far the most absurd, because the writer tells us how to read the text. Prefacing the Sodom and Gomorrah example with “in a similar way,” Jude insists we link verses 7 and 6: “And the angels who did not keep their positions of authority but abandoned their proper dwelling—these he has kept in darkness, bound with everlasting chains for judgment on the Great Day.” What do the Nephilim’s angelic ancestors have in common with Sodom? Obviously, they all paid awful penalties for their perversion. Yet the exact nature of their sin doesn’t become clear until we note the “and” that starts verse 6, directing us to verse 5: “Though you already know all this, I want to remind you that the Lord at one time delivered his people out of Egypt, but later destroyed those who did not believe.” Those destroyed for unbelief are Egyptians who drown in the Red Sea. And why don’t they believe, despite God’s ferocious display of power in the ten plagues precipitating the Hebrews’ liberation? Egyptian fealty to Pharaoh springs from belief their monarch is the son of Ra (“pha-ra-oh”), i.e., another product of celestial and human intercourse.

When following Jude’s direction for reading the text—top to bottom or bottom to top—there’s no disputing how he defines “Sodom’s sin.” The men of Sodom invite God’s wrath by attempting to rape angels. Going light on the original text analysis (for which you’re no doubt grateful), the Greek translated as “sexual immorality” is “indulging in fornication,” in other words, “taking improper liberties.” Meanwhile, “perversion” condenses a phrase that means “going after strange flesh.” (I can’t pass the chance to point out Jude’s word for “strange” derives from the root heteros, “of a different kind,” or that the phrase infers Sodom’s compulsion is highly addictive.) Whether or not Sodom’s men knew their intended victims were angels is open to debate. The Genesis account suggests not. Jude seems convinced they did know and didn’t care, refusing to believe God’s fury at their perversion—going after strange flesh—would trigger a wrathful deluge like the Flood that destroyed mortals who slept with angels or the Red Sea that swept over Pharaoh and his men. But it did.

Only by ignoring instructions that Jude provides for reading his letter can anyone possibly misconstrue verse 7 to mean human sexuality of any kind. And, just in case the common thread eludes us, Jude comes right out and explains it in verse 8: “In the very same way”—one more connect-the-dots directive—“on the strength of their dreams these ungodly people pollute their own bodies, reject authority and heap abuse on celestial beings.” Beyond making it clear he cites Egypt, the fallen angels, and Sodom as instances of perverse celestial-mortal couplings, Jude also clarifies “these ungodly people” constitute his real focus. We discover who they are by returning to the top of the letter.

Going After Strangeness

Jude begins by saying he “felt compelled to write and urge you to contend for the faith that was once for all entrusted to God’s holy people. For certain individuals whose condemnation was written about long ago have secretly slipped in among you. They are ungodly people, who pervert the grace of our God into a license for immorality and deny Jesus Christ our only Sovereign and Lord.” (v3-4) Jude urges us to contend for the faith, to believe God’s Word and its promise of grace for all who believe through faith in Christ. Unbelief like that exhibited by the Egyptians, humans who consorted with fallen angels, and Sodom’s citizenry results in going after strangeness, i.e., overstepping mortal bounds to imagine ourselves on par with heavenly beings. The message is actually simple: stay with what you know and don’t meddle in God’s business.

The comparison of false teachers to Old Testament figures who couple with gods or angels sounds silly to modern ears. Yet legends of human-celestial intercourse were a dime-a-dozen in Jude’s day. What throws us off now was abundantly plain to his original readers. These examples drive home the grave error of those who contort the promise of redemption “once for all” into threats against anyone who doesn’t comply to their beliefs—which Jude says is really unbelief that brings wrath. People who corrupt the gospel of grace and deny Christ’s lordship presume to live above the realm of grace and Christ’s authority. It’s a dangerous place to pitch one’s tent.

Where Grace Abides

The trouble with angels is they’re not us and we’re not them. As humans, we’re totally dependent on God’s grace, which we receive by faith in Jesus’s surrogate sacrifice for all people for all time. Jude’s know-your-place-in-the-divine-scheme message is evident in the New Testament’s constant reminders Jesus took our place. Philippians 2.7-8 states Jesus “made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross!” Regarding angels, Hebrews 2.8-9 says, “God left nothing that is not subject to them. Yet at present we do not see everything subject to them. But we do see Jesus, who was made lower than the angels for a little while, now crowned with glory and honor because he suffered death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone.” (Emphasis added.) If Jesus found it necessary to become lower than the angels, so must we. And because He humbled Himself to our level, where we are is where grace abides—not with the angels, not in Heaven, but here with us.

“These people are grumblers and faultfinders; they follow their own evil desires; they boast about themselves and flatter others for their own advantage,” verse 16 says. Baseless condemnation and exclusion exalt those who practice them. It’s a twisted compulsion that no true believer should embrace or excuse. No wonder Jude compares false teachers to humans habitually “going after strange flesh”. Going after strangeness—placing oneself above grace by insisting others are beneath it—overreaches and falls short. It’s a self-defeating route people pursue “on the strength of their dreams,” never realizing they’re on the road to ruin. (In essence, they’re “chasing the high.”) That some dismember and abuse Scripture to deny God’s grace to all, especially a text warning them not do it, is so strange it defies reason. But reason’s absence is faith’s opening. So while they persist in their addictive ways, we follow Christ’s way, meeting their condemnation with compassion and prayers.

Jude’s letter targets those who pervert the gospel of grace for all as an immoral means to boast and condemn. He compares them to people who go after strange flesh—an addiction loaded with extremely dangerous repercussions.

Postscript: Jude’s Doxology

Undoubtedly, Jude is one of the New Testament’s more vitriolic epistles—as well as one of the more impenetrable ones, with no less than eight arcane Old Testament allusions tucked in its 25 verses. Yet few epistles equal the ravishing beauty of its closing doxology, which doubles a benediction and praise:

To him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy—to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen. (v24-25)

Amen.