Behold: God

Isaiah 9:2-7

Titus 2:11-14

Luke 2:1-20

Christmas Eve Year C

24 December, 2012

First Presbyterian Church, Clarksville

and Harmony Presbyterian Church

Dr. Robert Wm. Lowry

            For many in my generation, the poet laureate of childhood was Shel Silverstein.  His collection of poems and illustrations, “Where the Sidwalk Ends,” still has a place in my home.  He wrote such lyrical masterpieces as “Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout, would not take the garbage out.”  And “Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too, went for a ride in a flying shoe.”  He is even the songwriter behind the Johnny Cash classic, “A Boy Named Sue.”

            One of my favorite Silverstein poems is from his book “A Light in the Attic.”  The poem is titled Whatifs.*

Last night while I lay thinking here,

Some whatifs crawled inside my ear

And pranced and partied all night long

And sang their same old whatif song.

Whaif I’m dumb in school?

Whatif they close the swimming pool?

Whatif I get beat up?

What if there’s poison in my cup?

Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?

Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow taller?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?

Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?

Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?

Everything seems swell, and then
The nighttime Whatifs strike again!

            I am going to go out on a limb and say that I am not the only person in this room who knows what it is like to have the Whatifs crawl in your ear and keep you company at night.

            Whatif I had gone to law school rather than seminary?

            Whatif I had taken this job or that job?

            Whatif…

            Whatif…

If we are not careful, we can whatif ourselves nearly to death because our whatifs are so often tinged with anxiety and fear.  Anxiety about an opportunity lost- fear about a chance squandered.

            Our lives are not the only places vulnerable to what-if-ing.  Think of all the whatifs in the bible.       

            Whatif, when God called, Samuel had replied, “nah, too busy” rather than “speak, for your servant hears.”

            Whatif, when God called, Noah had replied, “no time to build an ark, we have a farm to tend.”

            Whatif, when the angels appeared and spoke to them, the shepherds had been just too busy to care; too busy to go to Bethlehem and see.

            If things were just a little different, how many of the dominos would fall?  How much of this house of faith would come tumbling down like a pile of blocks?

            Whatif is a dangerous game when we let the perfect, the absolute become the enemy of the possible. 

The story of this child is so implausible, so susceptible to whatifing it to death with our doubts and hesitations, we run the risk of missing what is right in front of us.

            Whatif this baby we are going to see is just another baby?

            Whatif the world is just too far gone for him to save?

            Our doubts and anxieties can put blinders on us if we are not careful.

            Yet, inside every anxious whatif is a whatif of possibility waiting to get out.

            Whatif this child really is God?

            Whatif this is the way God, implausibly and even impractically, chose to greet the world that morning in Bethlehem so long ago?

            I think it is no mistake that when God determined to send God’s son into the world, that child came first as a newborn baby.  Yes, I realize that if Jesus was to be fully human it had to happen this way.  But I tend to think that there was something else at work in the mind of God when the Messiah came to the world as a kicking, gurgling, drooling and, despite what the old hymn may say, crying vulnerable little baby.

            There is something about babies that sparks a hopeful whatif in all of us.

            Try holding a newborn without smiling.

            Try watching fat little legs kick in the air without some sense that, despite it all, there is still good yet to come in the world.

            It is no mistake that when God came into the world to save the world, when that great whatif actually came to pass, it all started with a little child; a newborn bringing and bearing witness to the hope of God in and for the world.

            Tonight, this night of all nights, we celebrate the promise and possibility of that child.  We break through all the clutter and anxiety of our daily lives and we celebrate that in the midst of it all, the most vulnerable form of human life can still come in, stare down the fear and cynicism that surrounds and remind us that goodness and mercy are yet alive and well in the world.

            In my life there were two occasions when it became abundantly clear to me that whatever gifts and skills God had given me to share in the world, being a doctor was not one of them.  The first reminder came in college during a semester of organic chemistry.  The second came on January 15, 2004.  In my life that is a day that will live in infamy and wonder.

            Most of the members of this particular medical mission group were veterans of prior Haiti trips.  When veteran visitors came we would usually leave the hospital and do a few rural clinics for people who could not easily travel to town. 

            It was not unusual for there to be some excitement at these clinics.  Usually it would center on a child or adult who had suffered some kind of accident.  Broken bones, some deep cuts that required a few stitches and such were the most common.  Occasionally, though, there would be a woman who was in labor.

            This was one of those trips.  A young woman who could not have been much more than 20 came into the clinic and based on the decibel level, was well into labor.

            The doctors talked and decided that the rough trip into the hospital would be too much for her and decided to deliver the babies right there.  She was in surprisingly good health and there were no indications that it was going to be a difficult or complicated delivery.  Plus, this was not the first time this had happened so they were prepared. 

            I was not.  I missed the day in seminary when they taught maternity ward assisting skills.  Usually when a child was born during a clinic day, I was on crowd control and helped the others keep the noise down.  This time, however, one of the doctors waved me over as if he had something else in mind for me.

            Thankfully my job in this whole production was to hold the scared young mother’s hand and try to keep her calm.  Thankfully that was the full extent of my job because it was the full extent of my skills!

            After less than 30 minutes, she gave birth to beautiful twins, a girl she named Simone and a boy she named Etienne.  As one of the doctors took care of her the other went back to running the clinic with the nurses and it was left to me and a translator to hold the babies until more family arrived to accompany mother and babies to the hospital a few hours away.

            It was a God thing that we were there that day not only because the mother’s and the babies’ chances were greatly increased because the doctors and nurses were there to care for them; it was a God thing because we got a little glimpse of something holy that day; hope.

            Haiti, even before the devastating earthquake in 2010, is a place where hope is in short supply.  It is a place where the most crushing poverty known to humankind is readily visible all around.  It is a place where hope, while not absent, is frequently hidden from view.

            I had not thought about that day in light of the Christmas story until I was writing this sermon.  I went to Haiti expecting to find nothing but desperation and despair and, that day at least, I found a baby.  Two babies in fact. Two little rays of light shining in a dark place, those new lives shined a little hope in our midst.

            On Christmas morning was born a child, yes, and that child was truly and fully God, but also that day was born hope.

            Time and again, I have said from this and other pulpits that I believe the greatest thing we as the church have to offer the world is a word of hope; a word of promise in the face of the world’s struggles and troubles.

            The song the angels sang so long ago, is our song now.  We as the body of Christ in the world are called to be the messengers of God, not because we are better or deserving or somehow possess secret knowledge, but because we have seen the baby.  We have heard the story of the birth of hope. 

            So we sing.  We sing the angel’s song.  And when we do share the angels’ song with the world and we are greeted by the skepticism of our age; when we invite the world to come to Bethlehem and see but the world replies,

            “whatif this is just any other baby?”

                        “whatif the world is beyond saving?”

                                    “whatif the promise of God is a dead letter?”

            We need only respond saying, “there is no whatif about it.”  In this child all our whatifs are answered by God’s “behold!”

                        “in this child hope is truly born;”

                                    “this child is a promise fulfilled;”

                                                “this is in fact God with us.”

            Brothers and sisters, God has invited us and we are called in the Spirit to invite all whom we meet, to come to Bethlehem and see the child of promise, the child of hope, the child who is God with us now and forever more.

            May the child of possibility and promise that is Jesus Christ dwell and grow and shine in our hearts and minds this Christmas and every day from now to the end of time.  

            Behold; God is with us.

            Come Lord Jesus.  Amen.

* I have searched my memory trying to recall where I read or heard this wonderful use of Silverstein's "Whatifs" poem with this text.  Despite my best efforts I cannot recall.  I will gladly give credit where it is certainly due if I ever remember or am reminded of the creative soul who pointed me in this direction.

How Shall We Live?

Luke 16:19-31

There are a lot of directions you can go with this text.

There is the one that leads to a critique of the rich man and the one that leads to sympathy for Lazarus.  There is the one that shows rewards in heaven and the one that shows torment in hell.  There is the one that shows the meek inheriting the earth and the one showing the powerful made low. There are many diverging roads available to us in this text. 

In my experience most preachers take the first one; critique of the rich man.  After all, there is little that is easier to do in the gospels than stand in the pulpit and beat the hell out of the rich.  In this story the rich man is a ready and easy straw man and a shallow and surface reading of this text can make it appear that “wealth is bad” is the central theme.

I am not so sure.  I think there may be something more happening in this text than just a critique of an unsympathetic rich guy.

Lurking beneath that surface this familiar text draws us to another perspective.  It is not a particularly easy one because unlike the rest it does not pit one against another.  No rich vs. poor or saved vs. damned.  It is a perspective that does not take sides and, as such, one from which none of us, not even the preacher, can hide.

If we press down on the edges of this text, a subtle yet essential question is posed; how shall we live this life? 

Setting aside the prejudice against or in favor of wealth, setting aside the political and social dynamics between the rich man and the poor man, setting aside questions about the life that comes after this one, and setting aside the question of who goes to heaven and who goes to hell, we are left with that one subtle question; how shall we live this life?

One answer to that question comes from a little man in a long green coat, his hat cocked to one side, standing with one foot on a steep roof, playing the fiddle.  “We are all fiddlers on the roof,” he says, “trying to scratch out a pleasant little tune without falling down and breaking our necks.”  And how do we keep our balance?  “I’ll tell you, “ sings Tevye in the opening song of the musical inspired by Chagall’s painting, “in one word, I’ll tell you.  Tradition!”

In some measure we are a church full of Tevyes, struggling to make meaningful music out of our lives but lacking a level place to stand.  We seek to know what God calls us to do and to be, before a new wind threatens to blow us off the roof.

 The people of Anatevka knew what God expected of them because they knew their traditions.  They were traditions formed by generations of observance and teaching. 

We, who live as followers of Jesus Christ, know how God expects us to live because we know the witness of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  It is in Christ Jesus that we find our tradition- our way of living.

When he is pressed on how we are to live, Jesus responds “you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your mind and all your soul and your neighbor as yourself.”

That, Jesus tells us, is the law summed up;  that is the life God calls us to live. 

And that is precisely what trips the rich man up in our text today.  Traditionally known as Dives, which is not a name but in Latin means wealthy, the rich man is punished not because he was rich but because his riches distracted him from living a life of love for God and neighbor.   

At the heart of this story is not condemnation of wealth but condemnation of failure to hear the Good News and act on it. 

According to the story, it is too late for Dives.  I’m not sure that it is, but that is what the story tells us. 

What is certain is that Dives finds himself in his present condition not because he dirtied his hands with money but because he could not be bothered to dirty them by lifting up poor Lazarus and embracing him as a brother in Christ.

Those of us who, like Dives, neglect our neighbors, who fail in acts of piety and charity, not only neglect our neighbors; we neglect and offend God.

Yes, when we fail to live faithful, charitable, loving lives we offend God and we do violence to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

If you are getting a little uncomfortable hearing that, I can assure you it is no more comfortable saying it.  That sort of admonition from the pulpit is dangerous stuff and in our culture it is not something we are used to hearing and certainly not something I am used to saying!

It is nonetheless true.  This is a cautionary tale about what we reap when we sow indifference to God’s command to love.

This story is indeed a cautionary tale about ignoring God’s commands.

But it is also as story about the fullness of God’s call and love for humanity.  From the well fed and well-bred to the beggar grasping for crumbs from the table, none of us is outside the embrace of God and none of us live beyond the horizon of God’s notice.

The mistake that Dives makes is thinking that his wealth is a sign of God’s pleasure and permission to ignore God’s command to love his neighbor- even the smelly one at the gates. 

The story reminds us that we who have been en-grafted into the Christian life, we who have heard the stories and sung the songs and said the prayers, have not been inoculated against sin but initiated into the work of God in Christ.  My worship professor in seminary said that when we baptize babies into the family of the church, rather than kissing and hugging them, we should look them in the eye and say, “now your troubles are just beginning.”

He was right!  Being a disciple of Jesus Christ is not a get out of hell free card.  Faith in Christ is not fire insurance!  It is an all-encompassing way of encountering and being encountered by the world.

Duke Divinity School professor Stanley Hauerwas begins one of his classes by reading a letter.  It is from a parent to a government official.    The parent complains that his once obedient son has become involved in some weird religious cult.  The group has completely taken over his life and forced him to forsake what he was taught to respect at home and adhere to a strange new code.  The parent pleads with the government official to intercede and take action against this group and help restore this family.   

Then Hauerwas asks the class, “What is this letter about?”  The responses varied from it must be the Mormons to a concern that the kid had fallen in with the Moonies or some other controversial sect.  After letting them get worked up into a good lather about how destructive this cult was to the stability of the family, he tells these pontificating pastors-to-be the origin of the letter.  It is from a concerned father to the local governor in the third century Roman empire.  The cult he is so concerned about is this new sect the Christians.

Being a disciple of Jesus Christ is not a part-time occupation; it is not an amusing diversion for an hour or two each Sunday.  It is something that can and must define every part of our lives.  Listen again to Jesus’ words, “you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your mind and all your soul and your neighbor as yourself.”  

The Christian life is defined by giving our all to God and neighbor.

For Dives, his wealth blinded him to the neighbor right at the gates to his own home.  His wealth rather than his devotion to God became his spiritual measuring stick and, in the fullness of time, he found that his life was wanting.

What, I wonder, blinds us in our lives?

It may be wealth.  It may be power.  It may be prestige. It may be admiration or adoration.  Whatever it is that serves as the metric of our lives, if it is not fulsome devotion to God and love for neighbor, it is a false measure. 

If there is a holy law- a theological litmus test by which we will measure our public and private selves let it be this; is mine a life that reflects love for God in heart, mind and soul?  Is mine a life that reflects the very love of God in heart, mind and soul? 

When Christ truly dwells in our hearts, minds and souls, there is not room for anything else.  The love, grace and mercy of Christ takes up every scrap of spiritual space we will give it. As the hymn says, “our hope is built on nothing less, than Jesus blood and righteousness.  I dare not trust the sweetest frame but wholly lean on Jesus name.” 

            And when Christ is our all, nothing else can be. 

            In good times and bad, Christ is our all.

In life and in death, Christ is our all.

In sickness and in health, Christ is our all.

In plenty and in want, Christ is our all.

Christ is the means and the measure of every life of faith.

            We are all fiddlers on the roof, struggling to keep our balance while we scratch out a tune for our lives.  And just when the wind seems too strong, just when it seems that we will lose our balance, Christ, our all in all, helps us keep our footing and the music of our lives together goes on.

            In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.  Amen.