Fourth Sunday of Advent, 2019

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 7:10-16 [and Romans 1:1-7] and Matthew 1:18-25

The very first time my dad took me, along with my younger brother and sister, to the cinema, it was to see E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. It came out, in the UK, the day before my brother’s eighth birthday. I was ten years old, the same age as Elliot, the boy at the heart of the film; our sister, slightly younger than his little sister, Gertie.

E.T. is a magical story of the friendship between a lost alien, accidentally left behind by his fellow extra-terrestrial botanists, and the boy who discovers him, and keeps him safe until he can be rescued and reunited with his family. It is also the story of a boy who is lost and alone in the wake of his parents’ divorce. And this story is inspired by that of the director, Steven Spielberg, whose parents divorced, perhaps also drawing on his disorienting, vulnerable experience of being a Jewish kid in a predominantly Christian community. And beyond all that, it is the story of anyone who has ever felt alone in the world and in need of a friend. Sitting in the dark theatre, we were all caught up in the swell of John Williams’ spellbinding score; we all rode our imaginary BMXs into the air and across the backdrop of a full moon.

At this time of year, the Big Thing is the Christmas advert. John Lewis, Sainsbury’s, and a starry host of other retailers invest cinematic sums in telling us a story that will tap deep into our collective memory, tug hard at our heartstrings, and pull us in. And this year, in the Christmas advert for Sky, E.T. returned, looking for Elliot. Who is the same age as me: no longer ten, but now forty-seven. Initially, E.T. mistakes Elliot’s son for Elliot — much to the boy’s terror — before his old friend, running to respond to the screams of his children, sweeps in. And, much to the bewilderment of my children, I and my whole peer-group cried unashamedly.

That’s the power of story; and the power of a trigger, whether it be the silhouette of a bike crossing the moon, a Christmas orange, or a young woman with child.

Permit me to tell you three seasonal short stories.

A teenage boy lies afraid in the dark, wiping away bitter tears. He is four-day’s-journey from home, sleeping in the guest room of his father-in-law’s house. Their families, his and Mary’s, had arranged the marriage — it had seemed good to them, too — and as they lived far apart, Joseph had left his father and mother, like the patriarchs of long ago, to serve for a season Mary’s family. There was always work for a builder. He could be happy enough here. He loved his wife, who, day by day, was becoming less of a stranger.

Husband and wife though they were, they had not yet, well, you know. As was the custom, marriage was contracted before the girl reached puberty; consummated then. But Mary had confided in him. She was with child. Alone, far from home, betrayed — Joseph was angry, and, beneath the anger, afraid. Afraid, and young though he was, he was a good man. He would not accuse Mary of adultery; instead, he’d pay the price to her father for divorcing her for not having found favour in his eyes. It was, after all, only money; he’d already lost something far more precious to him.

That night, in the dark, in fitful sleep, an angel came and told the boy a story, to give him courage, to think again. To rise, and step into God’s future. And the story went something like this.

Once there was a young woman, with child. A son, she was sure that she was having a boy. But she was afraid. Everyone said there was going to be a war. All Jerusalem was consumed with dread. The king in Samaria had joined forces with the king in Damascus to march against the king in Jerusalem, and the whole population wasted away for worry. Her husband, wise beyond his years they said of him, went to the king. Told him that snake-heads would be crushed — that, if king Ahaz didn’t believe him, he should look: should look and see the woman and her offspring, the sign of God’s ancient promise, being fulfilled again, in their days. That he really ought to look, because if he didn’t, what he feared now would be the least of his worries.

The king lay on his couch, turned to the wall, refusing to eat or drink, too weary even to long for the sleep that kept running away from him. Dread does that, withers the ability to make choices, to act on them. Even the choice to lift a spoon to the mouth. Even to pay more than half attention to whatever it was Isaiah was saying, whatever tale he was spinning, going on about his pregnant wife and ancient stories from Eden. How did it go again?

Once, long ago, there was a man and a woman, and a story of such depth, so many layers. When the man looked into the eyes of the woman, he saw the very image of God: and it was a warrior, come to deliver. When the woman looked back into the eyes of the man, she too saw the very image of God: a husband to her, and a king over creation. But there was more. When the man looked at his wife, he also saw in her the faithful covenant people of God, the bride of a groom. And when the woman looked at her husband, she also saw in him the faithful covenant people of God, whom God fights alongside, and delivers. And, wider still, when the man looked upon his wife, he saw all of humanity, for she was the mother of all the living; and when the woman looked upon her husband, she too saw all of humanity, for we are all made from the soil of the earth.

And in the days of their innocence, before they were ready to reject evil and choose good, they were defeated by an enemy. But God stepped in. In time, the offspring of the woman — brought forth in labour, in a muddle of pain and desire, and under protection or covering — would crush the head of the offspring of the dragon, who would, in turn, strike the child’s heel. The man, too, would labour, would water the ground with sweat and tears; would return, at the last, to the ground from which he was taken, leaving the story to continue after him.

The frightened king in his palace in Jerusalem did not heed the story when he heard it. The young woman did take the story to heart: she did have a son, and weaned him, in peace, war averted, for now.

And the teenage boy, afraid in the night? He also heard, remembered, was caught-up in the story, as triggered by the sign. In the morning, he got up, went to his wife, and held her close. In the days that followed, they journeyed together to the home of his parents, in Bethlehem. And there, the woman gave birth to her son.

The great English writer and Christian apologist G.K. Chesterton wrote, ‘Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.’

And what of you? What dragons do you dread? What makes you afraid? Hear, again, the Christmas story.