Meditation for Advent 4: The Real Joy of Christmas

sermon by Torin Eikler
Matthew 1:18-25        Isaiah 7:10-16

I only became aware of Nelson Mandela when I was in High School.  It was the year he was released from prison, and it was the year that I went to a seminar in New York and Washington that focused on racism.  We learned about many different aspects of racism there, but what caught my attention most was the story of this man who had been locked up for more years than I had been alive because of his opposition to Aparthied (another new concept for me).

The more I learned the more unsettled and upset at the injustices I became.  In New York, I gladly joined in writing passionate letters to our government and the rulers of South Africa demanding that Aparthied be ended.  When we traveled to DC, I eagerly joined the other youth from Indiana as we visited our representatives and senators to urge them to join in the boycott of the unjust system that kept millions of people living so close to slavery.  It was the first time I felt anything like righteous anger. 

               
I cheered along with everyone else when Aparthied was finally overturned.  I followed the process of the reconciliation hearings, amazed at the strength of heart and the power of forgiveness they showed.  Over the years, I paid less and less attention, but Mandela remained one of my heroes.  He stood right up there with Martin Luther King, Jr. and Gandhi, proving the real possibility for changing the world without resorting to violence.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered two weeks ago that this special man had started out life as a freedom fighter.

It may seem shocking that I never knew that particular piece of the story, but it somehow never worked its way into my head.  Perhaps the leaders who first taught me about Mandela failed to mention it.  Perhaps they did, and I simply let it flow past in my youthful zeal.  I certainly never bothered to ask why Mandela was in prison in the first place.  And so the story that grew in my head over the years was more of a myth than a reality in some important ways.

 

The story of Christmas has suffered the same fate … at least it has seemed that way to me this year.  As we receive cards in the mail, sing the old familiar caroling hymns, and set up our nativity scenes complete with angels and wise men standing around the newborn’s resting place, I have been struck again and again at how … whitewashed it all is.

I’m not talking about the western coloring of the parents and the baby (though that is, literally, a whitewashing of the truth).  I’m thinking of the way we envision such an idyllic scene surrounding the birth of the Christ child.  We do still put the baby in a manger, but our pictures and statues show a serene and smiling mother and father standing or kneeling beside him.  Our hymns teach us that the baby silently endured the noises of the stable.  Somehow, the star is there and the wise men are gathered with their magnificent gifts, kneeling on a pristine floor, and we have the sense that everything was clean and bright and smelled of incense.

The reality, I’m sure, was quite different.  The animals were undoubtedly less well behaved.  The straw that was on the floor … even hay in the manger would have been scratchy and uncomfortable.  The wise men and the star wouldn’t have come for another two or three years – after the family had run to Egypt to escape Herod’s murderous rampage.

I imagine that the shepherd who came to witness the advent of the Messiah would have been smelly and dirty, and they would have right at home in the stable.  They would have found a messy place filled with chaos in the aftermath of an unexpected birth.  There would have been an exhausted mother, a tired and worried father, and perhaps a few other pilgrims who had found themselves without a place to stay in the mass migration for the census.  In the middle of all that, I can see … and hear … an unhappy baby crying in disorientation and discomfort instead of a quiet, beatific child with wise eyes looking out on the world he would save.

 
I could go on and talk about all the discrepancies in our story of Christmas.  I could explore any number of contradictions between prophesy and the gospels or between the gospels themselves or any number of other things … (which probably means that I have spent too much time thinking about this)….

I could go on, but I won’t … because I have also discovered, this year more than any other, is that dwelling on the realities of the Jesus’ birth – the actual, tangible experiences that must have been part of that night in the stable – pondering those truths has actually brought me closer to awe and joy.

 

As a young man, I don’t know if I would have been as taken with Mandela if I had known about his violent past.  In my naïve idealism, I probably wouldn’t have been so eager to join in the letter writing campaigns.  I might even have dismissed him as an imperfect leader who was only pretending to be high-minded.

As an older man, I find that myself encouraged by the knowledge.  Here was a man who believed so strongly in his hope of saving his country that he was willing to lay down his weapons in in order to fight division.  He was willing to risk his life for the possibility of reconciliation and the future joy of a people united by love and forgiveness.  Somehow, the full reality of his life makes his stand even more powerful … even more inspiring….  Maybe it’s because the reality brings Mandela closer to my level – makes him more “human,” and I can relate to who he became … who I might become.

I find that I feel the same way about that night in Bethlehem.  Somehow it helps me to know that despite all the noise and discomfort, despite the uncertainty and pain that comes with birth, despite the exhaustion and the looming threat of Herod; Jesus still came. It helps me feel closer to the Christ Child to know that he was a real baby who experienced all of the same things we have experienced, and not just a Christmas Card icon.  It invites me deeper into the mystery of God come to live among us – God come as a baby who would grow and love and suffer just as we do – God come to save us.

 

In just a couple of days, we will celebrate this marvelous birth, and I have no doubt that the shiny myths of Christmas will be alive and well in our homes and in our hearts.  For today … and for tomorrow … and maybe for the days to come, let us hold onto the rough and scratchy reality.  Let us hold onto the dirty, smelly, noisy truth of the God who, for the joy of living as one of us, was born into human flesh.  Let us embrace the joy of welcoming the Christ who, for the joy set before him, became our Messiah and the savior of all.