Thomas Kleinert
We have heard the story and told it, the story of God and the baby. We have sung the old carols and hummed along with the holiday playlists. We have lit the candles, lots of candles held high as a witness to the light that shines in the darkness, defiantly hopeful that the darkness will not overcome it.
We have celebrated the birth of Jesus, and in many homes the days revolved around a big dining table, surrounded by people of all ages, in a sea of torn wrapping paper — gifts, smiles, thank-yous, and an abundance of good food and holiday cheer. Some of us even missed the half-time show with Beyoncé. All because of the wondrous story of God and this baby. Now what?
“Well, so that is that,” says the narrator in W. H. Auden’s Christmas Oratorio,
Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes—
Some have got broken—and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school. There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week—
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted—quite unsuccessfully—
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers. Once again
As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.[1]
How very grown-up this voice sounds. How little room it leaves for wide-eyed wonder. “Once again,” the voice declares with a regretful tone, “once again, as in previous years, we have seen the actual Vision – and failed to do more than entertain it as an agreeable possibility; once again we have sent Him away.”
I think it’s a little early for Auden’s reflective earnestness, though, and you and I wouldn’t be here on the first Sunday after, if the light of that night had not started a little fire in our hearts. So here are, just for contrast, the words of Sharon, as told by John Shea:
She was five, sure of the facts, and recited them with slow solemnity, convinced every word was revelation. She said, “They were so poor they had only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to eat and they went a long way from home without getting lost. The lady rode a donkey, the man walked, and the baby was inside the lady. They had to stay in a stable with an ox and an ass … , but the Three Rich Men found them because a star lighted the roof. Shepherds came and you could pet the sheep but not feed them. Then the baby was borned. And do you know who he was?” Her quarter eyes inflated to silver dollars. “The baby was God.” And she jumped in the air, whirled around, dove into the sofa and buried her head under the cushion, which is the only proper response to the Good News of the Incarnation.[2]
The good news of the incarnation is a lot to take in. For five-year-old Sharon it takes careful retelling, and she can’t tell it without jumping and whirling around, and then some sofa-diving. She knows what an awesome thing it is to say, “The baby was God.” It changes profoundly how we think about God, heaven and earth, sun and moon and stars, and every baby born into this world where rich men rarely come bearing gifts without an agenda and wise men and women are worried. The Word became flesh and lived among us and we have seen his glory, and he has changed everything. The baby was God, and all the possibilities we see in the eyes of the infant unfolded into the particular life of Jesus.
Jesus is our childhood’s pattern,
Day by day like us he grew.
He was little, weak and helpless,
Tears and smiles like us he knew.
Thus he feels for all our sadness,
And he shares in all our gladness.[3]
Luke’s story of the 12-year-old Jesus in the temple is the only incident in the biblical gospels about the life of Jesus between infancy and the beginning of his ministry as an adult. “Jesus is twelve years old, a signal to the original audience,” writes Wesley Allen, “that he is on the cusp of adulthood as defined in the ancient world … His actions on this occasion, then, foreshadow his ministry and especially his relationship with God.”[4] Just as the adult Jesus will make one trip to Jerusalem on Passover, where he will encounter the teachers in the temple and finally give his life in obedience to God’s will, so the boy Jesus, near the end of his childhood, makes one trip to the temple, on Passover, where he encounters the teachers. To his family, he appears to be lost, but he knows he is exactly where he needs to be. It’s not hard to imagine him sounding just like any sassy pre-teen in this scene. "Why were you searching for me?” he says to his parents. “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?" Day by day like us he grew, and he grew into his own. But isn’t it a little early to think about 12-year old Jesus just four days after Christmas Day? Doesn’t it feel a little rushed?
I don’t own a Christmas sweater. Several years ago, though, I picked up a pair of Christmas socks at Target. Black, with little green Christmas trees and a fat, jolly Santa. Every year, I wear them once, maybe twice, and then they go in the laundry basket and eventually back in the far back of the sock drawer until next year.
Why am I talking about Christmas socks? Because they fit the category of seasonal accessory, and because the wonderful passage from Colossians talks about getting dressed. The baby was God. The Word became flesh. We have seen the glory of God in the face of Jesus. Now what?
As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.
The baby was God, and with the Magi from the East and Sharon’s Three Rich Men we come to adore him and to offer our gifts—only to discover that Christmas is a reverse baby shower: new threads for us.
Three-year-old Liam got Batman sheets for Christmas, and he may still wear his Spiderman pyjamas, but he’s outgrowing his Paw Patrol undies. He’s a big boy now.
We’re invited to let ourselves be clothed in layer upon layer of all that Jesus embodies—his compassion and kindness, his humility and patience, his forgiveness, his peace, and above all, the fullness of God’s love he enfleshed.
Your Christmas sweater may already be back in the closet until next year, together with the left-over wrapping paper and all the decorations in the attic. But the birth of Jesus isn’t just about decorations, it truly is about God’s incarnation: the complete enfleshment of God’s fullness in a human being. We know Jesus didn’t come so we could have a day or two or three of merriment and memories—beautiful and life-giving as such days are. He came to reclaim and fulfill all our days. He came to free us from sin, from our self-absorption and greed, and from the ugliness of thought and speech that holds us captive. He came to bind us together for good in the love of God. And you know how much this land and every land needs communities of compassion and people who seek to make room in their hearts and their neighborhoods for the peace of Christ to rule. It begins with you and me and our willingness to wear these new clothes year-round. It begins with our willingness to let the word of Christ not just come and visit, but dwell within and among us.
The baby was God, and I am thankful for Sharon who gives voice to an exuberance that can’t contain itself and calls on heaven and earth, sun and moon and all living things to praise the One who loves all things into being.
The baby was God, and I am thankful also for Auden whose narrator gives voice to the shadow experience of this exuberance:
Once again we have attempted—quite unsuccessfully—to love all of our relatives, and in general grossly overestimated our powers.
But even this very grown-up and somber voice of after-Christmas pensiveness points to our child-like dependence on the One who comes to us in the baby.
Once again, as in previous years, … we have sent Him away, begging though to remain His disobedient servant, the promising child who cannot keep His word for long.
We know Jesus came to reclaim and redeem our every day. We have sent him away, again and again, because the love that found us demands so much of us, and we are slow to change. But “begging … to remain His disobedient servant” we wrap ourselves in Christ’s compassion, kindness, and patience, and we get a little closer to wearing them year-round.
May the fire God has kindled in our hearts burn brightly, bright enough for us to trust that even though we “cannot keep His word for long,” the word enfleshed in Jesus keeps us for good.
[1] For the Time Being, in: W. H. Auden, Collected Poems, ed. Edward Mendelson (New York: Vintage International, 1991), 399.
[2] John Shea, The Hour of the Unexpected (Allan, TX: Argus Communications, 1977), 68.
[3] Cecil F. Alexander, “Once in David’s Royal City,” Chalice Hymnal No. 165.
[4] O. Wesley Allen Jr. https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/first-sunday-of-christmas-3/commentary-on-luke-241-52-5