Joy to the World

Luke 2:8-20; Psalm 98:4-9

December 23/24, 2013 (Candlelight) • Portage First UMC

Christmas Eve is always a challenge for the pastor of any local church. We tell the same story every year, and we have extra services crammed in with all the normal stuff. It’s a busy time of year! One pastor was feeling the pressure one year, but he managed to rise to the occasion and put together what he thought was a brilliant Christmas Eve sermon. It was all about the mystery of the incarnation and how God became flesh in Jesus to live among us. He had crafted the words just right, and it was powerful, even if he did have to say so himself. As he and his family got in the car to drive to the church, he began rehearsing the sermon in his head, and as he mentally patted himself on the back for putting together such a great sermon, he heard his son pipe up from the back seat: “Dad, are you going to let us enjoy Christmas this year or are you going to try to explain it?” (Harnish, All I Want for Christmas, pg. 40). There is nothing like a child for going right to the heart of the matter!

Well, my goal tonight is not to just explain Christmas, as if we could. Tonight, we come to celebrate, to experience the baby of Bethlehem, to remember why he came and to sing of his birth. We come to find joy—joy that is available to all the world. If you’ve been journeying with us through Advent, you know that we have been using a few well-known Christmas carols as “jumping off” points for our reflections this year, and tonight we come to what is the most popular Christmas carol of all time, one that we sing every year in this service. Yet, oddly enough, “Joy to the World” was not written for Christmas, nor was it intended as a celebration of Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem. Read the words carefully and you’ll find no mention of shepherds, angels or mangers. Rather, Isaac Watts wrote this song as a paraphrase of Psalm 98, and meant it as a celebration and an anticipation of Jesus’ second coming—when Jesus returns to reign over the world forever. The church, however, had other ideas, and over time lopped off the first half of the hymn (the verses of which seem to have been lost to history) and continued to sing the second half—the verses we sing still today—to celebrate Jesus’ birth. And while that may not be what Watts intended, those words certainly are in the spirit of the first Christmas night, when an outdoor field was witness to the very first Christmas concert. An angel choir came to sing to shepherds outside the town of Bethlehem, and the world caught its first glimpse of joy that is offered to everyone on earth.

Can you picture those men—and, likely, they were all men—sitting on the ground, outside the sheepfold, perhaps in a circle, maybe even around a small fire that would push away some of the chill in the air? These are hard workers, “salt of the earth” sorts of people. Yet, they weren’t liked by too many folks, partly because they had a tendency to let their sheep graze on other people’s property. You know how you feel when the neighbor’s dog comes over and does his business in your yard? Yeah, that’s how people felt toward the shepherds. They were poor, unclean and no one really wanted them around. There are five lists of “forbidden” jobs for good, religious people that come down to us from the first century; “shepherds” appear on three out of the five lists (Bailey, Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes, pg. 35). They are outcasts, unwelcome in town, unwelcome in church, unwelcome as witnesses in court, unwelcome pretty much everywhere (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 48). They are perhaps the most unlikely people to receive first notice of the coming of the Savior of the world—mainly because no one would listen to them. No one would believe them! And yet they are the ones to whom the angel comes and says, “I bring YOU good news that will cause great joy for all the people” (2:10).

And that makes me wonder: who are the shepherds today, in our own time? Who are the people we’ve come to believe are the least likely to receive the good news? Who are the unloved, the disrespected, the outcasts? I remember having a conversation several years ago with a parent around Bible School time who said they had thought about asking a neighbor kid to come join us at VBS, but then they thought better of it. I asked why, and they said it was because the kid acted so badly he would probably just cause trouble here. And I didn’t say it at the time, I wish I had, but I thought that’s just the kind of kid who ought to be invited. That’s the kind of kid to whom the good news most needs to go. That’s who God sent the angel to. There were, I’m sure, plenty of respectable people in Bethlehem, and certainly there were in the nearby city of Sepphoris (where the “important” people lived), but God didn’t send the angel to any of them. Instead, the good news went to the shepherds, the outcasts, the unwelcome. Because if it’s good news for them, then it really is good news for everyone.

And it’s “good news that will cause great joy,” the angel tells these lonely workers. Good news that will cause great joy. Joy is different than happiness. Happiness depends on our circumstances, and we can be happy one minute and deeply distressed the next. But joy is deeper. Joy is that deep-down assurance that life is good, that God is good, but it’s not something we can create or manufacture on our own. Joy is something that comes from outside of ourselves, something that is brought to us, given to us. That’s what the word the angel uses indicates. Joy, while it’s not dependent on outward circumstances, comes from outside of us. From God. From the baby born in the manger. The angel announces great joy that night because a baby is being born, and that changes everything. Everything! That’s certainly what Isaac Watts was proclaiming in his carol: “Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Let earth receive her King!” Joy has come because of this baby born in a manger.

And then, right there in the field outside the sleepy town of Bethlehem, the sky exploded with the very best concert ever heard. Over the years, I’ve been to many concerts, many good concerts. These days, we’re most often at the high school for orchestra and choir concerts, and they do a wonderful job. This time of year, there are many places you can go to hear all sorts of Christmas and “holiday” music. Our own cantata a couple of weeks ago was a wonderful celebration of the season, of the reason for the season. But no matter how good the concerts we attend are, none of them can compare to the music and the celebration the shepherds witnessed that night. It was as if heaven had waited forever—which, in fact, it had—to announce the birth of the savior, and once the news was out, once he was here, they couldn’t wait any longer (Card 49). The sky erupts with so many angels no one could count them, and the angels sing: “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests” (2:14).

Most often, we get the song of the angels backwards, or at least out of order. We hear the part about “peace on earth,” and we set about trying to make that happen on our own. At least on our best days, we do. We work for peace, we try to live in peace, and we hear politicians promise that if we elect them, we’ll finally have peace. “Glory to God” seems somehow intangible, distant, something we only do on Sundays, or on special days like today. But, you see, I think the shepherds heard it right. They knew that the first calling of every human person is to give glory to God. That’s why, after they see the baby, their first response is to return to their fields, as Luke tells it, “glorifying and praising God” (2:20). If we want peace in our world, peace in our lives, peace in our hearts, we have to start with God. Like joy, peace cannot be manufactured or even really brought about through political means, but only by giving glory first to God. Without God’s presence, no true peace will ever happen. Or, as Ellsworth Kalas puts it, “The first substantial step toward peace might be a right and profound recognition of God” (The Scriptures Sing of Christmas, pgs. 23-24). When we abandon God, when we lose our sense of our need for his presence in our lives, we lose our regard for truth, justice, righteousness and respect for self and others. The angels calls us to sing “Glory to God” first. When we do, that’s when joy comes.

You see, this baby who is born in the manger is not just coming to make us “happy.” He is coming to bring us joy, but that joy is not just “happy feelings.” It also involves judgment. To have true joy will mean we have to remove from our hearts and lives those things that stand between us and God. The psalm that Isaac Watts used as the basis for his carol reminds us of that truth in verses 8-9: “Let the rivers clap their hands, let the mountains sing together for joy; let them sing before the Lord, for he comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness and the peoples with equity.” Now, when we hear the word “judgment,” we think of a court and perhaps a jury and people fighting it out and a process that’s generally not very pleasant. Maybe we think of words like “vengeance” or “payback.” And so, when we hear that God is going to judge us, that Jesus is returning one day to “judge the living and the dead” as the Apostle’s Creed says, it may cause us to have some fear. And yet, as Watts rightly paraphrases, “He rules the world with truth and grace!” Truth and grace. Judgment co-mingled with grace which will end in joy. This baby comes not to condemn us, but to save us (cf. John 3:17), to offer us a place in his kingdom forever. That’s what the angels were singing about. That’s why Jesus was born. He’s coming to make the world right. He’s coming to bring us joy.

Some of you know that this has been a difficult year around our house and around this congregation. Even in the last few weeks, we've said goodbye to a number of people. We’ve had a number of funerals. And it's hard. It can weigh you down. And yet, even in spite of that, even in the midst of that, Christmas still comes. Joy still comes. I think of when we went to Bethlehem in the summer of 2012. I’ve been privileged to go there a number of times, but this last time I got to take Rachel with me. The day we visited Bethlehem, the Church of the Nativity was hot, and it was crowded, and people were pushing and trying to get into the grotto, the cave where it is traditionally said Jesus was born. And there were people along the side who wanted to sell us candles. And Rachel started to get a little queasy, a little nauseous because of the heat. But she still wanted to see the place where Jesus was born. Eventually, after a couple of times where the line had stopped, we got down into the cave, and if you've been there or if you’ve seen pictures, you know there are a lot of candles and incense pots and things covering it. It doesn’t look much like a cave anymore. It doesn't look like a birth place anymore. And yet, if you can get past all the trappings, if you can put aside all the religious stuff, there’s still something holy about that place. It's not the silver star, although it’s very cool to touch the star where tradition says Jesus was born. It’s not the manger off to the side, although it’s very cool to see the feeding trough that Jesus may have been laid in. There’s something holy about that place, because this is where joy came. This is where Christmas began. In spite of the troubles in the Middle East, in spite of the wall that surrounds the city of Bethlehem and hampers their economic development, in spite of all of the issues that we bring in our own lives to this time and place, Christmas still comes. Joy still comes.

You see, joy is not something you will find wrapped under the tree tonight or tomorrow. Joy can’t be bought at Wal-Mart or Meijer or even on Amazon (and they sell everything!). Joy is something only the Christ child can bring. So is there, as Isaac Watts’ carol asks, room in your heart for him this Christmas? Do you know the wonders of his love? Does your life, this Christmas, repeat the sounding joy?

Near the end of this passage, Luke includes a marvelous detail that, I think, could only have come from Mary herself. Luke writes it this way: “Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (2:19). Can you see Mary there, some time after everyone has left, over in the corner of the stable? There is joy on her face. I believe she could hear echoes of the angels’ song in her soul, and that somehow, even though the difficulty in her life was not yet over, she knew it would be all right. Joy had been born, Jesus was here, and nothing would ever be the same again. You see, Christmas is not something we can ever explain. It’s something we must experience. Let every heart prepare him room, indeed!

Away in a Manger

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Luke 2:1-7

December 22, 2013 • Portage First UMC

VIDEO INTRO

Imagine a world where politicians seem to think last about the people they are supposed to serve. Taxes are put on the people for the sake of the government’s building projects and not necessarily for the good of the population. Religion is frowned upon, and even persecuted. Those who believe anything strongly will find themselves often on the wrong side of the leader’s favor. Outwardly, all seems to be going well. Things seem prosperous, but there is a dark side, a cancer growing within the culture that can’t be easily dealt with. Now, what time period are you imagining? Some of us may be thinking, “That sounds a lot like the world we live in today!” But I’m actually describing the world Jesus was born into over two thousand years ago. The world and the people in it really haven’t changed all that much, have they?

Luke tells us it was “in those days” when Jesus was born (2:1). What sort of days is he talking about? Well, he tells us it was during the days when Caesar Augustus was ruling the Roman Empire. Augustus was the one who turned the great Roman Republic into an empire. Among other things, he declared his dead adoptive father to be divine, which made him, consequently, the son of a god, the one who was, people said, the savior of the world. They called him “Lord.” He was powerful in a way leaders in Rome had not been up to that time (Wright, Luke for Everyone, pg. 23). In Matthew’s Gospel, we're told that the local ruler in Israel, the appointee of Augustus, was Herod. In this time, Israel was only one small part of the larger Roman Empire and Herod was, for most of his life, one of Caesar Augustus’ favorite puppet kings (Barnett, Behind the Scenes of the New Testament, pg. 20). Herod was an impressive man, we’re told. He had great physical strength and a sharp military mind. He came to be known as Herod the Great, not because he was a nice guy but because he was a great builder. If you go to the Holy Land today, you can still see some of what Herod built. Impressive, long-lasting monuments and buildings. And what he didn’t dedicate to himself, he named after the Emperor. He had a lot going for him, but what he didn’t have was good relations with the people. He repeatedly made the Jews mad, largely because he was so in love with Roman culture and tried to replace Jewish culture with Roman symbols. One time, he tried to put a giant golden eagle on the gate of the Temple, which was terribly offensive to the people. It didn’t go well. He also offended them when, in the year 7 BC, he issued an order requiring all the people to make an oath of loyalty to both him and to Augustus. This came close to worship, and the Jews wouldn’t hear of that; their loyalty and their worship was given to God alone, so that did not go well either. Herod would routinely arrest people, take them off to his fortress, and they would never be seen again. He killed anyone he thought might be a rival, including his favorite wife and her two sons. And to support his building projects, he levied huge taxes. When Herod died a painful death, no one mourned him (Barnett 21-27). Taxes, religious oppression, political disputes—this was the world into which a baby was born in Bethlehem. In many ways, it doesn’t sound much different from our own world, does it?

We often don’t think of the first-century world as being much like ours, especially at Christmas, and in large measure, that’s because we tend to have that “Christmas card” image of what the birth of Jesus looked like. Many of our images come not from the Bible, not from Matthew or Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth, but from a carol that was originally written as a children’s song. “Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head.” Now, there’s much in this carol that matches the Biblical account, but there’s also some images here that, in many ways, distance us from the actual manger. So, as we continue our reflections on popular Christmas carols, we’re going to take a look at this song this morning and match it up against what Luke actually tells us about the birth of Jesus. What was that holy night like, anyway?

The carol we now know as “Away in a Manger” first appeared in a magazine printed by the Universalist Church in 1884, and it claimed that the song had been written some four hundred years earlier by Martin Luther, the great German church reformer, as a cradle song for his children. However, no one’s ever been able to prove that; the song simply doesn’t exist in Luther’s writings. So we have no idea who wrote the first two verses; the third was added later in 1892. But the song does have a “lullaby” feel to it, and it certainly has the sense that it was written to tell the story of Jesus’ birth to children. Maybe the biggest problem with the carol is the claim that Jesus, as a baby, was absolutely silent. You know the second verse: “The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes, but little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.” Really? If we believe, as we do, that Jesus was fully God and fully human from the moment of his conception, then that means Jesus as a baby looked, behaved and cried just like any other baby. He would have been hungry. He would have soiled his diaper. He would have spit up. And he would have most likely let out loud cries when he was unhappy. Everything you can remember about what it was or is like to have a baby, that’s what it would have been like when Jesus was born. And Mary and Joseph were just as unprepared for it as any of us were; they didn’t have access to “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” This is no picture-postcard scene. This is an ordinary birth in the midst of a dark and difficult world. A baby born into a world that was dark and seemed to be falling apart—that’s the real first Christmas.

We know, from Luke, that Mary and Joseph are in Bethlehem not because they want to be but because they have to be. They go in response to the Roman government’s call for a census. While we have grown used to responding to a census every ten years, Rome would call for a census on a much more irregular basis, and always for one of two reasons. Either they needed more taxes, or they needed to find out if there were people who were eligible for mandatory military service. Since the Jews were exempt from military service, this particular census was only about one thing: taxing the people more to be able to pay for whatever Rome had in mind to do next (Kalas, Christmas from the Backside, pgs. 46-47). Joseph was from Bethlehem, though he appears to have been staying in Nazareth, Mary’s hometown, preparing for a wedding, when the call comes out. Everyone had to return to the place where they owned property in order to register, and for Joseph, that was Bethlehem (Hamilton, The Journey, pg. 87). Now, there was no law specifically requiring Mary to go with him, though if she did own any property, she could be taxed also in this time and in their province. But more likely, Joseph took her with him because she was so close to giving birth and he didn’t want her to be alone (cf. Keener, Bible Background Commentary, pg. 193).

So off they go to Bethlehem, and when they arrive, it’s crowded. It’s packed. Everyone is in town because everyone has to register and pay their taxes. And we know the story: they found no room in the inn, so the baby was born in a manger, and wrapped in swaddling clothes. But it wasn’t like Mary and Joseph went door-to-door from the Super 8 to the Holiday Inn Express to the Hampton Inn. Luke isn’t describing what we usually picture: the couple anxiously searching for a commercial hotel. When he describes the place that was full, he uses the word that describes a guest room in a private home (Wright 21). Joseph took Mary to a place he knew he would be welcomed, to his family’s home, but because of the census, by the time they get there, there are already other relatives settled into the guest room. So the family does the best they can: they offer Mary and Joseph some semi-private space in the barn, the attached room that housed the family’s animals (Bailey, Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes, pg. 29, 32). It would have been close enough that family members could help with the birth when the baby came, and yet distant enough to allow some privacy for the young couple. And when the time comes, Luke, who is most likely a doctor (cf. Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pgs. 16-17), tells it rather matter-of-factly: “The time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son” (2:6-7). Then, Mary wrapped the baby Jesus in cloths and placed him in a manger.

Now, lest we harbor any notions of baby Jesus having a comfortable place to sleep, a manger was a feeding trough. It wasn’t made for comfort; it was made just big enough that whatever animals the family had could get their head into it and eat. In fact, though most of our manger scenes depict Jesus sleeping in a wooden bed, it probably wasn’t made out of wood. Wood is in short supply in Israel, but stone is not. When we were at Megiddo, in the middle of the country, we got to see some stone mangers that were uncovered there, feeding troughs that were used for the king’s horses. Placing some hay or other grass-like material in the manger would help a bit, but it still isn’t something I’d want to sleep in. Once again, this was not a picture-perfect birth.

Before Mary placed him the feeding trough, though, Luke says she wrapped him in cloths. Older translations say “swaddling cloths,” but what Dr. Luke refers to is wrapping a baby with strips of cloth, a practice that, in the first century, was often done to help a baby’s limbs grow straight, (Culpepper, “The Gospel of Luke,” New Interpreter’s Bible, Vol. IX, pg. 63). But we also know that these cloths were a sign the angels gave to the shepherds later in the story (2:12). This was one way they were to know they had found the right baby. Perhaps the cloths were a sign beyond just mere medical necessity. The strips of cloth Dr. Luke describes very well might have been the only thing they had to dress the baby Jesus in. In some ways, these “swaddling clothes” (which sound nicer than they would have been) were a “token of his poverty” (Card 49). Several years ago, I knew a woman who found out that there were mothers who checked into the local hospital, had their babies and they had no clothes to take their babies home in. For whatever reason, they had not prepared or, in most cases, they simply didn’t have the money to provide adequate clothing for the baby. So she became passionate about that, and talked to her church’s mission committee, and pretty soon one of the missions of that church became a ministry aimed at new mothers. They didn’t just provide a onesie or clothes to take home. They put together new mom’s kits, with clothes, blankets, food and so on, to bless the mothers who struggled with the basics, mothers like Mary. Mary and Joseph welcomed a baby in poverty, a baby who in reality owned the whole world and yet, to identify with us, he came and was wrapped in rags. It was not a picture-perfect birth, though for reasons we may never fully understand, it was the way God chose to come to earth.

You see, Christmas didn’t come in the quiet of a silent night. Christmas didn’t come in a neat, orderly way. Christmas didn’t come with all the trappings and all the extravagance we’ve come to expect. Joseph’s family may have even been wondering where they were going to be able to get the resources to feed everyone the next day! No one had planned on this census, and yet Christmas came in the middle of the mess caused by the government, the middle of the mess of a young couple’s lives, the middle of the mess of poverty. It wasn’t a picture-perfect birth, and yet Christmas still came.

A couple of weeks ago, a soccer tournament was held in the city of Ypres, France, called the “Christmas Truce Tournament.” It has been held there since 2011 and will be held again at least through next year, because 2014 is the 100th anniversary of the World War I Christmas Truce that the event is named after. It’s one of the most famous stories out of that horrible war, when in the midst of a battle that was often brutal, British, German and French forces stopped fighting in the days leading up to Christmas. No one told them to. There was no official truce. And yet, the guns quit altogether on Christmas Day, and an informal truce was called as men began to come up out of the trenches, claim their dead, and help their wounded. Soon, a soccer game began out in No Man’s Land, and they found that even though they could not speak each other’s language, they could sing together. All of them knew the song, “Silent Night,” and there on the battlefield, three languages joined together to sing about the birth of the savior. Even in the midst of a dark, brutal, horrible time in history, Christmas still came. Peace was possible. Christmas often comes when we least expect it, into mangers that look like battlefields, or hospital rooms, or nursing homes. Christmas comes when we’re fighting cancer, when we’ve lost our jobs, when there’s too much month at the end of our money, and even when we’re battling loneliness.

Christmas 1989: Cathy and I had gotten married that previous May, and then in August, we had packed up everything we owned and moved to Wilmore, Kentucky to begin attending Asbury Seminary. When Christmas rolled around, Cathy had been in her job just about four months, and didn’t have enough vacation time built up for us to be able to travel back to Indiana to spend it with family. So we stayed in Wilmore, even as everyone else in the seminary community seemed to vanish. Pretty quickly, everyone we knew was gone, so we decided we’d go into Lexington for Christmas dinner. Do you know there was not one single restaurant open (at least that we could find) on Christmas Day in Lexington, Kentucky? So we came back to our tiny two-room apartment and managed to fix up something to eat. I don’t even remember what we had, but I do remember how lonely we felt. Far from home, just the two of us, and nothing much to our names. But Christmas still came. That evening, our neighbors from about three doors down came back into town, and when they found out we were there by ourselves, they suggested we go out for dinner. I tried to protest, because nothing was open, but Terry assured me he knew a place. And so we had Christmas evening dinner at the Chinese restaurant with two people are still wonderful friends. In fact, we spent several dinners together at that Chinese restaurant in the years to come. Christmas still comes, even in the midst of our loneliness and especially in the midst of our mess.

One of the most famous and favorite stories of Christmas coming in the midst of a mess is Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Pastor Deb did “A Charlie Brown Christmas” a few weeks ago, so I have to keep up! The Grinch, as you may remember, is a mean old creature who lives above a town called Who-ville, and the Whos living in Who-ville love Christmas. So the Grinch, because his heart is two sizes too small, decides to steal Christmas from the Whos. And he does that, dressed as Santa Claus, in the middle of the night. He takes everything: decorations, presents, even the roast beast and their last can of Who-hash. Then he waits, high above the town, to hear the disappointment from the Whos. But what he hears instead is shocking. The Whos still come together to sing their songs, even without presents and decorations! Dr. Seuss tells it this way: “Every Who down in Who-ville, the tall and the small, was singing! Without any presents at all! He hadn’t stopped Christmas from coming! It came! Somehow or other, it came just the same!” Then, we’re told the Grinch has a thought he never thought before: “Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more!”

You see, Christmas still comes. Into the midst of a dark and difficult world, into the middle of a mess, Christmas still comes because the baby who was born on that day came to bring peace on earth, good will toward all people. Christmas comes to make sense out of and to bring peace to our mess and our muddle. Ultimately, if the “little Lord Jesus” really didn’t cry, then he really couldn’t relate to us, could he? He wouldn’t be “like us,” but the book of Hebrews assures us that Jesus was like us in every aspect, tempted like us, and yet without sin (cf. Hebrews 4:15). He went though his life bringing hope into the mess of people’s lives. When a woman ran into him at a well in Samaria, a woman who wasn’t loved and who was an outcast, a woman who had five husbands and was living with another man, Jesus brought hope to her mess (John 4). When some dear friends lost their brother, Jesus brought life out of death and hope to their mess (John 11). To a man who was possessed by a legion of demons, Jesus brought peace to a shattered mind and hope to his mess (Mark 5). To ten men who had leprosy, a disease which kept them at a distance from everyone else, Jesus brought healing and hope to their mess (Luke 17:11-19). And when a disciple named Peter, a man who had denied even knowing Jesus, jumped into the water after he saw the resurrected Jesus on the shore making breakfast, Jesus took him on a walk and brought hope to Peter’s mess (John 21). And because Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever (cf. Hebrews 13:8), what he did then, he can still do today. He can bring hope to our mess, because no matter where you find yourself today, Christmas still comes.

That’s why, even though it’s not part of the original song, I’m so glad that third verse is part of our tradition. It takes the song and turns it into a prayer: “Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask thee to stay close by me forever, and love me, I pray; bless all the dear children in thy tender care and fit us for heaven to live with thee there” (UMH 217). It’s obviously written as a children’s prayer, and yet Jesus said we should become like children in order to come near to him (cf. Matthew 18:3). So it’s a good prayer for us, as well. Be near me, Lord Jesus—that’s what allows Christmas to come in each of our lives, in the midst of our messes. But “the little Lord Jesus” will not force his way in, even in the Christmas season. So how do we prepare the way? How do we make room for him to come, for Christmas to come, into our hearts and lives this holy season, this busy week? There are many things we could do, but I want to quickly just suggest four simple things, all of which can be done this week, that will open our hearts for the arrival of the Christ child.

The first thing that’s so important this time of year is to read the story. Read the story yourself, share it with your kids and grandkids. There are so many stories being told this time of year—stories of elves and Santa and reindeer and snowmen and angels named Clarence. Lots of stories, lots of fun stories, but too often we let those stories take the place of the story. So take some time in these next few days and read Luke 1 and 2. Read Matthew 1 and 2. Let the story, as familiar as it is, soak into your soul once again, especially if you have young children and grandchildren. Our kids are older now, but I know when they were little, it was a constant challenge to make sure this story trumped everything else they heard and saw during this season. I wanted to make sure that, as they grew up, they knew this story was the most important one for mom and dad—and not just because telling it is my job. It’s the most important story because it is the only story that can change my life. Santa is great, but he can’t change my life. All he can do is give me things, and I don’t need more things. So tell the story, read the story, use a nativity scene to act out the story. Allow the birth of Jesus to be the defining narrative of your family time.

And then allow that story to lead you to worship. We have three opportunities this week for Christmas Candlelight worship, each of them different, but each of them celebrating the same story. Days and times are listed in your bulletin, but let me tell you why I believe worship is important during this week—and it’s not just because it’s my job! Worship is the constant and repeated response to the baby of Bethlehem. The shepherds, Luke says, glorified and praised God when they had seen the child (2:20). The magi, or wise men, bowed down and worshipped this child (Matthew 2:11). In fact, Matthew says they worshipped before they gave gifts. Think about that in terms of our own Christmas celebrations and preparations. Mary, we’re told, ponders everything that has happened in her heart (2:19). Can you imagine the conversation she has with God about all of this? So worship is absolutely integral to Christmas. I’ve heard people say that they have out of town company and don’t want to leave them. That’s fine—bring them along. We’ll make room for them, and we’ll welcome them warmly. I promise you that. How else will others know how important Jesus is to you if you don’t make worship a priority, just as those at the first Christmas did? So come and worship together. I promise you good music, great communion and candlelight, and a hearing of the old, old story. And if you come with an open heart, you will be drawn closer to Jesus by the praises of his people.

Another idea for preparing the way for Jesus to draw near: how about inviting someone you know who will otherwise be alone to be part of your Christmas? The shepherds, as we’ll talk about at Candlelight this week, were outcasts. They were people who were unwanted. No one had them on their gift-giving or card-sending list. They were not only outside the town because that’s where the sheep were, but because that’s where the community believed they belonged. Who are the people you know who are outsiders, who could very well be alone for Christmas? Folks whose family lives far away. People who have lost loved ones this past year, and for whom Christmas will be very different this year. Could you invite them to come and join around your table? I know when we’ve been privileged to do this, it always blesses us at least as much and maybe more than the people we’ve invited. Or here’s another twist: there are people in the hospitals and nursing homes who feel like outsiders this time of year. There are people who have to work on Christmas Day. How can you extend the love and the worship of Jesus to those folks? Our youth and adults began that process last Sunday, sharing music and smiles with those who are often alone this season. But a plate of cookies on Christmas, a warm smile, a card with a kind note can go a long way to pointing them toward the baby of Bethlehem. Who will help them know him? And, the amazing this is, as you’re pointing others toward him, you’ll find yourself being drawn nearer as well.

Then, one more idea. I shared this last week, but as has been our tradition for several years now, during our Christmas Candlelight services, we’ll be taking everything given in the plates and dividing it between Feed My Lambs and Africa University. Feed My Lambs, of course, feeds kids right here in Portage Township Schools, kids who might otherwise go without on the weekends. And Africa University is a United Methodist University in Zimbabwe that is setting out to transform a continent with the love and light of Jesus Christ. One thing I didn’t mention last week is that, for the last couple of years, I’ve challenged you to give to this offering an amount equal to what you spend on yourself and your family. In other words, bless someone else to the level that you’ve blessed yourself and your family this year—or even beyond that level if you want! Christmas isn’t what’s under the tree. Christmas isn’t what’s on the shopping list, for those of you who have yet to go shopping. Christmas isn’t what’s on the table or purchased online. Christmas is a baby, a gift of love from God to us, given right in the midst of our mess. Christmas is a call for us, in the middle our own mess, to bless others with the same hope, joy, peace and love Jesus brought.

There may not have been a messier time to live than the days in which Jesus was born, at least for those in Judea. It was a messy time, economically, politically and spiritually. And yet into that world, into that mess, came the little Lord Jesus, daring to draw near to men and women at the time when they were most desperate, at the time when the world seemed so dark. He still comes in that way today. He’s not lying in a stable somewhere in the Middle East today. He comes to our hearts and our lives when we make room for him. In those days—and in these days—Jesus still comes. Christmas comes to be born again in each and every one of us, right in the midst of our mess. Can you give your mess to the baby of Bethlehem and trust him to make something beautiful out of it? How will you prepare him room during this season? Let’s pray.

In the Bleak Midwinter

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Luke 1:46-55; Isaiah 40:1-11

December 15, 2013 • Portage First UMC

VIDEO INTRO

By now, I would imagine, most if not all of us have our Christmas decorations up. Long gone are the days when decorating takes place on Christmas Eve. The stores start right after Halloween these days! So we’ve decorated, and many of our decorations, for those of us in the northern hemisphere, contain not only depictions of Jesus and Mary and Joseph, but winter scenes, snow villages, and snowmen named Frosty. We have this picture of Christmas being a winter wonderland, and many of us think it’s not really Christmas if we don’t have at least a little snow on Christmas Eve (as long as it goes away December 26 in time to do our after-Christmas shopping, right?). One of the strangest Christmases we had as a family was several years ago when we boarded a plane on Christmas Day and flew to Florida to spend a couple of days at Disney World, and then we went on south to visit my parents. Being at Disney World in December is not only really busy, it’s also strange. Everything is decorated for Christmas: red and green everywhere and piles of fake snow all around. Picture swimming in a pool surrounded by decorations making it look like a northern winter. Even in sunny Florida, people want to see a winter snow for Christmas!

And yet, we know with as much certainty as we can that Jesus was not born in the winter. He wasn’t born December 25, and even if he had been, winter in Bethlehem is much warmer than here, usually in the high 50’s. It might get cold enough to snow one day out of the month, if that, meteorologists say. No, Jesus was probably born in the spring, as that’s the only time of year when shepherds would naturally be out in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks. That’s when the lambs were born, and the shepherds needed to be nearby to make sure none of the mother lambs got into distress while giving birth (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 48). Now, there are a lot of theories as to how Christmas—the feast of Christ—ended up on December 25, at the beginning of winter, but it appears to have happened early on, sometime before the year 312, maybe as early as 200, and it was based on the curious idea that Jesus was crucified on the same day as he was conceived. There’s no proof for that belief, and it may sound crazy to us, but the early church calculated his conception as March 25, and nine months after that is December 25 (http://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/daily/biblical-topics/new-testament/how-december-25-became-christmas/). So, early on, that become the celebration of his birthday. Later on, it was noted that this time of year is rather dark, and how appropriate it is—even if it’s not historically accurate—to celebrate the light of the world shining in the darkness in the depths of the bleak midwinter. Light in the darkness, hope in the bleak midwinter—it was that imagery which captured the attention of a nineteenth century poet named Christina Rossetti.

This Advent, we are exploring several Christmas carols—some of them you may know and others, like this one, you may not know as well. “In the Bleak Midwinter” doesn’t often end up on Christmas records, and it’s usually not at the top of carol requests. I didn’t grow up singing it, and really only discovered it a few years ago, but when I first heard it, I realized the power of this song. In a culture that often overlooks or downplays those who struggle in this season, Christina Rossetti has much to say to us about the way Christmas should impact our lives. To understand her poetry, however, it will help to know a but about her and her life in England. Christina Rossetti’s father was a poet, and she seemed to naturally have an artistic bent. She dictated her first story to her mother before she learned to write. Educated at home, she was exposed to a wide variety of fairy tales, novels, classical works and religious literature. Early on, she had a deep faith, rooted in the Anglican-Catholic tradition. But Rossetti’s life was not easy. Fairly early in her life, her father’s physical and mental health deteriorated to the point where he was unable to teach and faced the possibility of also losing his sight. Rossetti herself had a nervous breakdown at the age of 14, and she continued into her adult years facing bouts of depression and other illnesses. She found love an impossible goal; three men proposed to her and she turned them all down, mostly because they were spiritually incompatible. Her depression came and went, and later in life, Rossetti was diagnosed with Graves Disease, a thyroid condition that left her permanently weakened, and then came breast cancer. Though the tumor was removed, it came back and she died from cancer at the age of 64.

Christina Rossetti had a difficult life, even with her faith. In 1857, she had a “major religious crisis,” though there don’t seem to be a lot of details as to exactly what it was about. And yet, she clung to her faith to get her through the most difficult parts of life. It shines through in her poetry; two of her songs are in our hymnal. One of them reminds us that “love came down at Christmas” (UMH 242), and the other one is this one, “In the Bleak Midwinter.” As we sang it earlier this morning, I’m reminded that Rossetti is speaking much about her own life and the presence of the Christ child in her life. Her life was not perfect. Many times her life seemed quite winter-like. And yet, into that imperfect, sometimes confusing life, came the presence of God in the form of baby Jesus: “In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed—the Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ” (UMH 221).

Certainly, this time of year is one of joy and celebration, happiness and wonder, and Rossetti’s words sometimes seem out of place alongside other carols like “Joy to the World” and “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” But I love that Rossetti’s carol is in our hymnal and part of our tradition, because we need to hear her voice, reminding us that life is not always joyful and merry. There are difficult pieces and sharp edges to life that don’t just go away on December 25. In fact, in some ways, the coming of Jesus and his presence in our lives only complicates things. Certainly Mary, in our Gospel lesson today, found that to be true.

Mary, you may remember, was quite young—most scholars estimate she was probably between 12 and 14 when the angel Gabriel announced to her that she was going to be the mother of the Messiah. Out of all the women in all of Israel, she was chosen. She was probably largely uneducated, and we know, since she was from Nazareth, she came from a poor family. Nazareth was the “low-rent district” for people who worked in the nearby city of Sepphoris. If you were someone, you lived in Sepphoris. Archaeology has uncovered lavish villas in that city. If you were nobody, you lived in Nazareth. We also know Mary was betrothed to Joseph (cf. Hamilton, The Journey, pgs. 21-22). This was probably an arranged marriage. Joseph had a career, and was probably a few years older than Mary, but this arrangement would have allowed her to climb at least a bit out of poverty. And in the midst of all of that, before she and Joseph are married, before they have slept together, Mary becomes pregnant. Very few, if anyone, would believe her story that the baby was the work of the Holy Spirit. Even people of faith, as Mary’s family and neighbors would have been, struggle to really, truly believe in the supernatural. They and we struggle to believe God can really do all those things. And so, for perhaps a variety of reasons, Mary leaves Nazareth and makes the eighty mile trip journey (probably nine days on foot) to see her older relative, Elizabeth, a woman who was miraculously pregnant in her old age (cf. Hamilton 63). This was a natural conception, but no less miraculous. And so, Mary wanted to be with Elizabeth. She needed her wisdom, she needed her understanding, and she needed her presence. Mary has entered a difficult part of her life, a time when depression or discouragement could have surrounded her. She’s in a metaphorical midwinter. The joy of a new baby coming is mixed with the reality that she isn’t believed, that she could be killed for what is happening in and to her, and that even Joseph is threatening or planning to divorce her (cf. Matthew 1:19). She needs someone to come alongside and help her through this time, so she goes away, to visit Elizabeth.

Luke tells us the story. There’s no e-mail, Facebook or Twitter for Mary to let Elizabeth know she’s coming. She doesn’t even have a cell phone to call ahead and say when she might arrive. Mary just shows up on Elizabeth’s doorstep, and when she does, the baby inside Elizabeth’s womb (who is John the Baptist) leaps at the sound of Mary’s voice. Now, obviously, I’ve never experienced that, but mothers say it’s the most amazing feeling in the world when the baby begins to move. This, however, is more than random movement. John is responding to Mary’s voice even while he’s in the womb. Elizabeth, with her motherly intuition, knows it’s not just random movement. It’s a leap of joy, because Mary is carrying the savior of the world, the one who will turn everything upside down when he comes, the one who can turn the bleak midwinters of our lives into spring. Mary knows this, too, which is what she sings about after Elizabeth blesses her.

Mary’s song is often called the “Magnificat,” which is the first word in the song in Latin, but it’s really a borrowed song. Pieces of this song come from all over the Hebrew Scriptures (Wright, Luke for Everyone, pg. 15); these words and phrases just flow out of Mary because she knows her Bible so well. Did I say she was uneducated? Well, maybe, as the world considers education, but Mary knows her Scriptures and the promises of God so very well and holds them close to her heart. And so she sings—and she sings more than she knows (Card 41). She is singing of revolution, a radical reversal in the way things are. She sings of God’s mercy, of God’s mighty deeds, but if you’re on the upper side of life, you may not think of Mary’s song as good news. She says the proud will be scattered (1:51). The rulers will be brought down from their thrones (1:52). The rich, she sings, will be sent away empty (1:53), while the hungry will be filled with good things (1:53) and the humble will be lifted up (1:52). In other words, when the Savior comes, those who are powerful will find themselves without power, and those who are without the things they need now will find themselves provided for, just as God had promised the people long ago. Mary’s song finds the Savior turning the world upside down. And he will do that by coming in the weakness of a child (cf. Culpepper, “The Gospel of Luke,” New Interpreter’s Bible, Vol. 9, pg. 55).

Do you suppose Mary sang this song to Jesus when he was a baby, or as he grew? Because there are certainly echoes of what she sings about when Jesus begins preaching. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled…Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” (Matthew 5:5-6, 9). Jesus comes and upsets the status quo. The baby of Bethlehem is not interested in your achievements and your popularity. He wants to know what you’ve done for the least of these (cf. Matthew 25:45), for those who are walking through a bleak midwinter. That’s what Mary’s song is about. Even before Jesus is born, Mary knows that her son is coming for the Christina Rossettis and all those who struggle. He is their—and our—and her hope.

That song sung at Elizabeth’s doorstep would not be the end of Mary’s “bleak midwinter.” When she said “yes” to God, to being the mother of the Messiah, she said “yes” to many moments, many years of struggle, difficulty and hardship. Think about what Mary will face in the coming years. When Jesus is eight days old, she will be told by an old man in the temple that a sword will pierce her soul (Luke 2:35). When Jesus is somewhere around the age of two, she will find herself fleeing in the middle of the night because Joseph had a dream that King Herod was trying to kill their child. So they run to Egypt—not an easy journey from Bethlehem even today—and there they live as refugees for a number of years. No home, no family, nothing to depend on (Matthew 2:13-15). When Jesus is twelve, she loses him for three days in Jerusalem (Luke 2:41-50). Can you imagine how that felt? God gave me his son and I lost him! At some point after that, her husband dies and she’s left to raise Jesus and their other children all by herself in a culture that didn’t always look fondly on women. When Jesus is thirty, and he’s gone out preaching, she thinks he’s gone crazy because he’s been so busy working that he hasn’t eaten (Mark 3:21). (Mary would think a lot of people are crazy today!) And then, just a short time after that, she despairs completely as she stands at the foot of a Roman cross, a cross where they have nailed her firstborn son. She watches as he dies a painful and agonizing death. For three days, Mary is heartbroken, until she sees him raised from the dead (John 19:25-27). But she doesn’t know all that as she stands in Elizabeth’s house. All she knows is that, no matter what happens to her from this day on, there is always hope. In the midst of her “bleak midwinter,” Mary finds tremendous hope in the coming of the Messiah. Centuries later, so did Christina Rossetti.

“Our God,” Rossetti wrote, “heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain; heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign.” Jesus is coming, Rossetti writes, and even this darkness, this bleak midwinter, will be done away with in favor of something better, something perfect, something where pain, death, mourning, sorrowing and sighing will be made obsolete (cf. Revelation 21:4). And then, in the final verse, Rossetti reflects Mary’s heart, wondering what would be an appropriate gift for someone who is coming to turn things upside down, for someone who is coming to make all things new and right (cf. Revelation 21:5). “What can I give him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; if I were a Wise Man, I would do my part; yet what I can I give him: give my heart.” Give my heart—when we hear that in modern American Christianity, we think of the word “salvation,” giving my heart to Jesus. And that’s certainly a gift we need to give. Trusting Jesus for salvation from our sin, trusting him to save us from an eternity away from God, trusting that he will walk with us and make us holy—that’s absolutely where we need to start in our Christmas gift-giving to Christ. If you haven’t accepted the baby of Bethlehem into your heart and life, why not? And why not now? It’s the best Christmas gift you can ever give to yourself, to those around you, and to Jesus himself. He longs for you to come to know him. He wants you to accept his gift of love. What can I give him? I can give him my heart by receiving his love.

But giving our hearts doesn’t stop when we accept Jesus into our lives, when we are saved. In fact, I would go so far as to say it only starts there, because giving our hearts is really a much larger and much more inclusive task than just saying “yes” to Jesus once. Mary learned that. Saying “yes” for Mary was about giving her whole self—soul, mind, and body. Do you remember how she responded to the angel’s invitation? It wasn’t, “Well, yes, you can use my womb for nine months.” No, Mary said this: “I am the Lord’s servant. May your word to me be fulfilled” (Luke 1:38). In other words, use me however you want to. I am your servant, Lord, do with me as you will. That’s the response of a believer giving their whole heart, and that’s the Christmas gift Jesus would most like to receive. Yet it’s the Christmas gift we most often hold back. So what are some ways we can give our hearts this Christmas and push back the “bleak midwinters” of our lives?

Counselors often tell folks who struggle this time of year that one of the best ways to combat the winter blues is to serve others, to get out beyond ourselves and care for someone else. This coming week, of course, there are a couple of opportunities to serve others, starting today when our youth and adults go out Christmas Caroling to the nursing homes and shut-ins. Now, what’s amazing about that time this afternoon is that you will go out to bless others, to share the Christmas spirit and joy with those who can't get to church, and yet you will find yourself blessed. The smiles and those who can sing along will bless you, will lift your spirits. That’s the way it is with service beyond ourselves. It happens every year when our team goes to Red Bird Mission. We go to fix doors or windows—sometimes we break them, not saying who, just that it might have happened—we go to take school supplies and items for the thrift store, and yet as we serve, as we get to see how God uses our small efforts to enrich lives, to touch hearts, we find ourselves blessed as well. We come home with our bodies tired and our hearts full. The same thing can happen in a simple afternoon of Christmas caroling, or giving an hour of your time for bell ringing. You can sing, dance, spread Christmas cheer. I like to watch faces as I’m ringing bells, and I always realize how unhappy so many people are this time of year. Do you notice that? The stress and the frantic activity really takes its toll and puts many people into what looks like a permanent bleak midwinter. But for an hour, we get a chance to shine the light, to spread the joy, and to help others in need at the same time. It’s not about collecting money in the kettle, although we want to do that. But more than that, it’s about reminding people that there is joy, there is gladness in this season. And when we take an hour to remind others of that, we might just find the winter in our own hearts melting. It’s similar to what John Wesley was told when he was struggling with his faith early in his life. He was told to preach faith until he had it, then preach faith. Or, as Pastor Mike Slaughter (cf. Dare to Dream) and others have put it: it’s easier to act our way into a new belief than to believe our way into a new way of acting. Serve others, and see what that does to the midwinter that threatens to settle in.

Just ten days ago, the world mourned the loss of a man who made a choice that changed the world. Nelson Mandela fought against the government of South Africa and its policy of apartheid, and ended up serving 27 years in prison because of it. For many people, that would be a time when bitterness would set it, but Mandela instead made it a time of growth and even found a measure of healing. When he was released after an international campaign of support, he joined with the then-white government to abolish apartheid and help establish the first multiracial elections in the country. Out of that election, Mandela was elected president and rather than striking back at those he might have considered enemies, he chose to work with them. He established the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which investigated human rights abuses in the country. If those who committed such abuses would admit to them, be a witness, confess their participation, they could be forgiven. Mandela believed that striking back with violence in response to previous violence was not the answer. He chose, instead, to serve, and even after his term was over, when he declined to run again, he continued to serve others, to bring people together. What could have been a bleak midwinter in the country of South Africa instead turned into a season of hope. We can make a similar choice to serve others.

Sometimes we also need a place to find healing and hope for the scars that we hide within. For the last several years, we have offered a Longest Night Service as a place of healing for those who struggle during this season. The longest night of the year is December 21, and this Saturday at 7:00 p.m. several pastors will gather together to offer this time of quiet prayers and hope to our community. If your season is a place of struggle, I can’t encourage you enough to join us. Invite someone you know who is struggling and offer to come with them.

And then one final way you can serve other this season—actually, beyond this season. For the last several years, many of you know, we have done a crazy thing. We’ve been giving our entire Christmas Candlelight offering away. That’s nuts, you might say, because some people only come that night! And you’re right, but we were challenged several years ago to begin thinking about what we could do on that night as a gift to Jesus. What if Christmas was more about giving than getting? So, if you’re going to catch up on your pledge or tithe for the year, you’ll need to do that on a Sunday morning because everything that goes into the plate on the 23rd and the 24th for our Candlelight services will go to serve others in need. Half of it will go to the Feed My Lambs ministry, which serves hungry children right here in our own community, providing food for the weekends for kids who might not otherwise have anything. And we’ve heard from teachers and administrators in our own congregation what a difference that ministry is making. The other half of the offering this year will go toward the Africa University Campaign that our Annual Conference is running right now. Africa University was founded in 1992 in Zimbabwe as a Christian university designed to make a difference both spiritually and economically on that continent. It has grown tremendously and graduates are shining the light all over Africa. Currently, the student body is made up of folks from twenty-five nations. Think what a difference they can make as these students learn about serving as ambassadors of Christ—whether that’s in the church, in agriculture, in business, in politics. What if the next Nelson Mandela is sitting in those classrooms right now? The money we give will fund scholarships and academic opportunities, and goal of the Annual Conference is to raise $1.6 million over the next three years. So we can be a part, through our Candlelight offering, of making a difference in the future of Africa.

So, those are a few ways to serve, to push back the bleak midwinter. Trust me when I say that I know we can’t push it back or fully erase the darkness that surrounds us, the depression we might face, with just an hour at the kettle or sitting in a single worship service. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not proposing some quick fix or that we just ignore the struggle. Christina Rossetti, as we’ve said, fought the bleak midwinter all of her life, and yet she stubbornly clung to the hope found in that Bethlehem manger. Mary could have given into fear when facing that first Christmas. She could have allowed herself to imagine the worst when Joseph said he didn’t believe her, or later when he told her they had to make the long journey to Bethlehem. But she didn’t. She grabbed onto the hope offered by God through the prophets, and she also had help in Elizabeth. Sometimes we might need someone to walk with us, in part so that we don’t have to suffer alone, and also so that on those days when the midwinter seems so dark, there is someone to turn on the lights for us. That’s why we launched our Congregational Care ministry this fall. We’re up and running, but you might not hear a lot about it. On its best days, Congregational Care will operate in the background, so to speak. But we currently have deployed nineteen Care Ministers in four different areas of ministry, and if you find yourself facing a bleak midwinter like Christina Rossetti described, don’t walk through it alone. There are people here who want to care for you. We may not know your need, so help us help you. And together, we’ll all journey joyfully to the manger.

Centuries before that night in Bethlehem, the prophet Isaiah, inspired by God, looked down the hallways of history and saw a day coming when the people of God would receive comfort. “Comfort, comfort my people, says your God” (40:1). When we hear the word, “comfort,” we might think of wrapping up in a warm blanket. We might think of comfort food, or of a soft mattress to sleep on. But Isaiah isn’t talking about that kind of comfort. He’s talking about doing what’s necessary to be restored to a full relationship with God.—that’s real comfort. Whatever it is that gets in your way, Isaiah says, it needs to be removed, but his promise is this: there is one coming who will be able to remove it. He is the good news (40:9), the one who will come as a shepherd carrying a lamb close to his heart (40:11). He is the one who is our God (40:9), and no matter what life throws at us, he offers us himself. He is our comfort, our hope, our savior. “In the bleak midwinter, a stable place sufficed—the Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.” Because of that gift, Mary could sing, and so can we.

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Matthew 1:18-25

December 1, 2013 • Portage First UMC

VIDEO INTRO

He sat there, in the ashes that had been his life. Everyone he knew was gone: either they had died or they had deserted him. He could still remember the day when his world had come to an end. His children had been killed in a horrific accident. His fortune, carefully tended over a long period of time, disappeared in an instant when the market crashed, and his property had caught fire and burned to the ground before the fire department could get there. He might have been tempted to wonder, “What’s next?” except that, aside from his own life, he had nothing left to lose. Even his wife had disowned him. She told him how stupid he was and walked away. So there he sat, and then came the mysterious illness. No one knew what it was, but even if they did, he had no money left to get treatment. The illness was painful, but that pain was dull in comparison to the ache in his soul. No money, no job, no family. If he had any strength, he might have ended it all. But he didn’t. He just sat there, staring into the distance.

He had no idea how long his three friends had been there before he noticed them. At some point, they had just come up to him, joined him and sat there silently. They brushed flies away, made sure he took a drink of water every once in a while, but otherwise, said nothing. They just came to be with him, because he was their friend. And they may have been his last three friends on earth. He was grateful for their presence. It meant the world that there were people who just wanted to be with him (cf. Job 2:11-13).

Now, if you’ve read much of the Bible, you might recognize that as the story of Job. The book of Job struggles with what it means to suffer, and while it doesn’t provide any answers, it does give us this image of the three friends who sit with him for a whole week in silence. They just come to be with him. I’ve said they did their best ministry in that week when they were with Job. After that, they open their mouths and it all goes downhill fast. But for a week, they just came to be with him. We all need friends like that, and maybe you’ve had friends like that. Every time we’re in a desperate situation, we need friends who come alongside and are just there. We know they have no answers. There usually aren’t any answers. But we just need someone to be with us.

When I was in the hospital nearly fifteen years ago with my heart surgery, I remember one day in particular when one of my closest friends made the drive down to Indianapolis just to be with me. Cathy was at the hospital much of the time, but she also had a four-year-old boy to take care of, so when my friend walked through the door, I was so grateful. If you’ve been in the hospital, you know how long those days can be. And we talked about various things, but mostly he just came to be there with me and didn’t even mind when I dozed off. The same sort of thing has happened when we’ve had deaths in our family. I can’t tell you how much it means when friends walk in the funeral home or church, and though they can’t fix it and may not even know what to say, they’re just there. They’ve come to be with us. That becomes so important in times of grief. And there are another times when I’m struggling, and a friend will say, “Hey, let’s go get some lunch.” Not to talk about what was troubling me, but just to be there. To be with us. Those times make all the difference in the world, and I’m betting right now you’re thinking of times in your own life when there have been people who came to be with you. Take a moment and just picture those folks in your mind. What did it mean that someone wanted to be with you?

Now, imagine that that “someone” is God. Imagine that God wants to be with you. Richard Foster once talked about his intense study of the whole Bible, and what he learned above all else. He put it this way: “Through Scripture we heard God whispering down through the centuries, ‘I am with you.’ ‘I am with you.’ ‘I am with you.’ Then, we heard God asking a question that searches the human person to the depths: ‘Are you willing to be with me?” (Life With God, pg. vii). Perhaps at no other time of the year do we hear that theme so clearly as we do during the Advent season, these four weeks in which we prepare for Christmas, the celebration of Jesus’ birth. But Advent is not just about shepherds and angels and a baby in a manger. It’s also about the promise Jesus made that he would come again, that as he came in humility the first time, he would come in victory and triumph the second time. Advent is meant to prepare us for both comings, to shape our hearts as people who are ready, willing and able to be with God as seen in Jesus Christ.

This Advent, we’ve chosen some of the carols of the season as a “starting point” for our preparations. The devotional we put together will cover many more carols than we can on Sunday mornings, but your daily readings will work together with Sunday worship to help us sing our way into this holy season. And to begin, we start with a hymn from the middle ages that echoes so well the cry of the Scriptures: “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” You’ve already heard its words: “O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel…” The song has seven verses, each of which celebrate Jesus by a different name: Wisdom From On High, Lord of Might, Root of Jesse, Key of David, Dayspring, Desire of Nations, Emmanuel (UMH 211). The words of the carol go back to ancient times, when monks would use them during the last week before Christmas to remember who Jesus is (in fact, Roman Catholic and Anglican churches still use this song that way), but actually the words are older than that. They’re all rooted in the Hebrew prophets, those preachers of old who saw the coming of Jesus centuries before he arrived. This is Biblical language, so if the words seem strange to us today, it’s most likely because we live in a world so unacquainted with those ancient seers, those prophets. The words of this carol were chanted in Latin in medieval monasteries until they were translated into English sometime in the 1800’s by a man who used his “spare time” to rescue ancient songs so that they wouldn’t be forgotten. When it was first published in a hymnal, the notes indicated that the tune came from “French sources,” although no one could trace down what French song it was based on. It wasn’t until much later when someone discovered that the translator had “borrowed” the tune from a 15th century French funeral hymn.

Now, that seems rather odd, doesn’t it? This song we sing to prepare ourselves for Christmas and to usher in Advent began as a funeral tune? But the more I thought about it, the more it seems appropriate. There is a certain amount of dying that has to take place if we’re really going to be able to welcome the baby of Bethlehem. Certainly Joseph got that, and it was a difficult decision for him. Matthew tells us the Christmas story from Joseph’s perspective. Though Joseph says very little, we learn a lot about him just in the way Matthew tells the story (cf. Augsburger, Communicator’s Commentary: Matthew, pg. 28). We know he is a righteous man; he was “faithful to the law” (1:19; Card, Matthew: The Gospel of Identity, pg. 28). But we also know he wasn’t all about law, or just following the rigid application of it. If he were, he would have demanded that Mary be stoned, killed. You see, that’s the penalty prescribed in the Old Testament for a woman who was found to be pregnant by another man. Even though Mary and Joseph weren’t yet fully and legally married, they were “betrothed” or “pledged to be married,” and though we think of that as an “engagement,” it was a lot stronger than our idea of engagement. To break off a betrothal required a divorce, and for Mary to (it seemed) have slept with someone during that time was considered adultery. Mary has been “found” to be pregnant, Matthew says, which probably means nothing more than her belly is starting to show. At some point, she has told Joseph her incredible story—that the baby within her is the result of the work of the Holy Spirit, that she hasn’t been unfaithful to him. But Joseph can’t believe her. He’s a builder, a very practical man. He needs to see the proof, the evidence, and the evidence is that Mary is pregnant and he knows he’s not the father. So, legally, he could call for her death and the death of her unborn child, and he would be justified in doing so. No one would condemn him. So why doesn’t he? If he’s “faithful to the law,” as Matthew says he is, why doesn’t he apply it rigidly now?

It’s because his passion for the law, for righteousness, is tempered or mixed with a love for Mary. He is a man in whom both truth and grace dwells, which is, of course, why he was the perfect foster father for the one who would be described by John as “full of grace and truth” (cf. John 1:14). Joseph was more concerned about what the loving thing to do was than the purely righteous thing. So because “he did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her” (1:19). A simple, quiet breaking of the bonds between them, and they could both get on about their lives. That was Joseph’s plan. It was righteous and loving and, in his mind, the best thing for both of them. He couldn’t raise a child that wasn’t his. But he couldn’t harm Mary, either. Truth…and grace. And with that in his mind, Joseph went to bed.

Have you ever had one of those nights where something was on your mind so heavily that you couldn’t get away from it, even in your dreams? I know I have, and I’m sure you have, too. Now, we know from Luke’s gospel that an angel appeared directly to Mary to tell her she was going to become pregnant (Luke 1:26-38). But for some reason, when the angel appears to Joseph, it’s in his dreams (1:20; cf. Card 28). Maybe it’s the name. Like his namesake in the Old Testament, Joseph is more likely to listen in his dreams. Maybe he’s like a lot of us. In the daytime we’re too busy and too occupied to be able to hear from God, and the only time we’re quiet enough to really listen is when we’re asleep, when our body has stopped. That’s when God is able to break through. So the angel comes to Joseph as he sleeps, and gives him what will turn out to be a life-changing message: “Do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins” (1:20-21). And then Matthew, the narrator, reminds us that this was to fulfill a promise made long ago by the prophet Isaiah: “The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel” (Isaiah 7:14; 1:23).

What’s in a name? For the Hebrews, names indicated something about the person, what you hoped they would become. And Jesus, in this passage, is given two names. The first name, “Jesus,” was a fairly common name in those days. It meant, “God saves,” and the Hebrew version of it is Joshua or Yeshua. So many boys in that time were named after the one who brought the Hebrews out of the desert and into the Promised Land, the great leader who followed Moses. And the name’s popularity spoke to the eager anticipation of the people at the time. They were looking for someone who would save them from the Romans, from the taxes and brutality of the government, someone who would come in and give them their freedom. They were looking for a military savior, a political messiah. So they named their boys “God Saves” and hoped that one of them would be the one. “Jesus” was a common name at the time, but “Emmanuel” was not. No one else was given the second name Matthew mentions (Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part One, pg.8).

Emmanuel is actually more than a name. It’s a promise. It’s a hope. It’s the fulfillment of all the hopes and dreams of the people of God because it means, as Matthew tells us, “God with us.” In Jesus, all the hopes, all the prophecies, all the aim of God’s working with we human beings comes together in one person. In Jesus, God comes to be with us. We don’t know if Joseph made that connection in his dream or not, but we do know that the next morning, Joseph had changed his plan. No longer was he going to divorce Mary. Instead, he takes her as his wife—which means he also has to bear the disgrace of taking her son, perceived as illegitimate, as his own—and he heads into an uncertain future. I’ve got to think he probably wondered if the dream was real or not, but if there was a chance that this baby in Mary’s womb was Emmanuel, was “God with us,” Joseph was willing to risk it all—his profession, his reputation, even his own life—to help it come to pass.

Remember I said how the tune for this carol was originally a funeral hymn, and that anticipating Emmanuel requires us to die? This is what I was talking about. Joseph had to die to all those expectations, all those hopes and dreams in order to provide the way for Emmanuel to come. Joseph had to give up his rigid dependence on the law and on what he thought was righteousness in order for Emmanuel to come, in order for God to be with us. He and so many others would have to die to their expectations of what the Messiah was supposed to be in order to receive what God really had in store for them. Joseph, after the angel spoke to him, was willing to die to all of that because he knew that the ancient promises were being fulfilled. His prayer that day was: “O come, O come, Emmanuel…whatever it takes, come and be with us.”

God longs to be with us. That’s why Jesus came. That’s why one of his names is Emmanuel—God with us. God wants to be with us—the question is will we be with him. Are we, like Joseph, willing to do whatever it takes this Advent season to be with him? And maybe, more to the point, is this: what do we have to die to in order to be with him? Advent comes every year, and every year it’s a struggle, isn’t it? We come to church and we say in our spirits we’re not going to let the reason for the season disappear, we’re not going to be overtaken by the commercialism of modern American Christmas—and then we go home, and live in exactly the opposite way. And when Christmas comes, we’re tired, worn out, and barely have enough energy to think let alone to worship. Perhaps, for some of us, what we have to die to are some of our traditions, some of those things that don’t bring life, even the ideal of a perfect holiday. Do we really need to buy all of those gifts? Does more stuff equal more love? We may need to die to our own expectations and some of our plans, just as Joseph and countless others had to do when the Messiah, the savior, finally came. Perhaps for God to be with us, we have to let some of those other things go.

We may also have some emotions or feelings that need to die or be let go of during this year. Perhaps we’ve been angry with a family member, or had a broken relationship that needs healing. The one who is being born in the manger, who is growing in Mary’s womb even as the angel speaks to Joseph, is the one who is the healer, who longs to bring shalom—wholeness—to each and every life. There are people who remain bitter through the holiday season—I know, because my wife is a counselor and sees her load increase this time of year. What if we let go of that bitterness, those hurts, the woundedness we carry around like a badge of honor, and allowed God to come near, allowed Emmanuel to bring his healing grace? For us to be able to approach the manger, to truly see the one who is Emmanuel, maybe we need to call that family member we haven’t talked to in two years. Maybe we need to seek reconciliation as Jesus calls us to. Whatever blocks the joy of the season—isn’t it worth letting that go to be with God?

Joseph also had to let his own preferences die. Things were not going to go the way he wanted, and Matthew lets us know that in a rather graphic way. He tells us that, even after they were married, Joseph and Mary did not consummate their marriage until after Jesus was born (1:25). Roman Catholic tradition takes that even further, stating that Joseph and Mary never consummated their marriage, thus making Mary a perpetual virgin, but there’s nothing in the Scriptures to necessitate such a belief. There’s nothing indicating that, after Jesus’ birth, Joseph and Mary had anything other than a normal marital relationship. In fact, there are historical indicators that they had children after Jesus. But be that as it may, Joseph had to, at least for a time, say “no” to his own desires, his own preferences, so that God’s work could be done, so that Emmanuel could be born, so that God could be with us. What are some of the preferences you have to say “no” to? Pastor Deb talked about some of the season-specific ones last week, but I’m thinking even beyond the season. For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been talking and talking a lot about what everyone wants in a new church building over at Crossroads, and I’ve not even heard all of it, but I know that to do everything that everyone wants will not only be cost-prohibitive, it’s simply impossible. People have different and conflicting preferences. I also know people feel strongly about their preferences when it comes to a building. But remember the reason we are moving ahead with this project: it’s to help others know that God is with them. It’s to allow those who are not yet here to encounter Jesus Christ, to come to know Emmanuel. Are we willing to let our preferences die for the sake of the greater good of the Kingdom of God? Because it’s not about us; it's about Emmanuel. It wasn’t about Joseph; it was and is about Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us. That’s what salvation is, after all—God being with us and us being with God, coming near to God, becoming more like him each day (cf. Augsburger 29). Emmanuel, Savior—God with us!

Giving up, dying to those things that stand in the way of us being with God—that’s scary stuff, which is, I think, at least part of the reason the angel begins with Joseph and with Mary, and eventually with the shepherds, by saying, “Don’t be afraid” (1:20). Literally, “Fear not!” It’s a command, not a request. Don’t be afraid, don’t fear, because what is coming is so much better than what you have now, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. So trust God, and don’t fear, because God is coming to be with you in every circumstance of life. He is Emmanuel, the one who is with you, in the highs and the lows, in good times and bad, in victories and defeats, in life and in death. God is with you, so there is no need to fear. There is nothing any circumstance or any person can do to you that God can’t overcome. Paul said the same thing in his letter to the Romans: “I am convinced,” he said, “that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38-39). So don’t be afraid. Whatever you have to die to in order to draw near to Emmanuel, it’s worth it. It’s worth every moment of it. “O come, O come, Emmanuel…disperse the gloomy clouds of night and death’s dark shadows put to flight.” He is Emmanuel, God with us, and he has come.

On the world’s darkest night, the one who is Emmanuel knew that the darkest day was yet ahead, and so he gathered his closest friends together and told them to not be afraid (cf. John 14:1). And he gave them a meal that would remind them and all those who would come after them, down the halls of more than two thousand years of history, that he is with them. The bread and the cup not only remind us of Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross. They remind us of his presence with us even today. The same one who came as Emmanuel would, before he returned to heaven, assure his followers that he would be with them always, even when they couldn’t see him (cf. Matthew 28:20). And so it is today. This bread and this cup remind us of his presence, remind us that he is Emmanuel, and call us to remove whatever we need to in order to experience God with us. He so longs to be with us, but he will not force his way in. What do you need to lay down at the altar this morning in order to truly sing, “O come, O come, Emmanuel…come and bring healing, hope, light and life this Advent season”? Come to the table, knowing he longs to be with you always.