Christmas Day

 

A few years ago, my parents very sensibly downsized, from the family home in the West End of Glasgow to a ground floor apartment in Milngavie. When we visit, there is not room for us to stay with them, and so we make use of the Premier Inn a five-minute’s walk away. This is a popular Premier Inn, the starting point for tourists from all over the world who come to walk the West Highland Way from Milngavie to Fort William.

My mother-in-law is a widow. She lives in a two-bedroom ground-floor barn conversion. When we visit her, some of us might get to sleep in the guest bedroom, but if we all go at the same time, some combination must sleep on the living room floor.

Contrary to popular belief, Jesus was not born in a stable round the back of a fully booked inn, Premier or otherwise. Jesus was born in a family home, almost certainly the home of relatives of Joseph, quite possibly his parents’ home. Families in Bethlehem lived in what was essentially a one-room dwelling. Plenty of people lived in just that way here in the UK, even post- the Second World War, though we, in our comfortable houses, have largely forgotten such a world. Families in Bethlehem slept on the floor of the communal room, with their small herd of goats corralled at one end or on a slightly lower level at night, providing safety for the animals and warmth for the people, just as families have lived in crofts in the Scottish Isles or chalets in the Swiss Alps. But these homes also had a room or place for guests: the ‘katalyma,’ inaccurately rendered the ‘inn’ in several English translations. The lodging for guests might be on the flat roof, no more than a canopy on wooden poles; or else a small room directly off the family room, at the opposite end from where the animals were kept. In an urban home in nearby Jerusalem, a home that might welcome pilgrims several times each year, Jesus would eat a meal with his disciples on the night of his arrest in just such a katalyma, or upper room; but in Bethlehem, guest rooms were smaller.

Joseph is from Bethlehem, but he has been away in Nazareth, working his dowry to marry Mary, whose relatives are from around Bethlehem but whose immediate family had moved north. So, Joseph, who is a builder by trade, has not had time to complete the home in which he and Mary will start out in their married life. And like many couples since, they begin their married life living with his parents. Probably.

Now, they are family, but they would be offered the guest room, for space and a little privacy. But when Mary comes to give birth, while they are there, there is not a secure space for her in the guest room. Perhaps it is on the roof, and in the later stages of pregnancy she could no longer get up and down the ladder. Perhaps it is simply a room that is too small for a woman to give birth in, attended to by the women of the home and the village midwives. In any event, there is not the necessary space, and Jesus—like both of my sons, as it happens—was born in the main room of the house, in the heart of the home. And laid in the manger, probably a bowl carved out of the stone floor, just the right size to cradle a baby.

The theme chosen by the Church of England for Christmas this year is ‘the heart of Christmas.’ And at the heart of the Christmas story is the birth of Jesus, at the heart of a home, into the heart of a family, in the heart of Bethlehem, in the heart of God’s people in the heart of their history. Jesus is at the heart.

Perhaps you have family living with you this Christmas. Or perhaps you hope, Covid restrictions permitting, to travel to stay with relatives. And it may be that room must be found, or made, psychologically as well as physically, internally as well as externally. For others, this time of year is one spent painfully aware of being alone, estranged from fellow humans, not least by bereavement, perhaps estranged from God. For others still, it is a time of demanding work to serve the stranger, with heart and mind and soul and strength, for love—embodied love—of God and neighbour. Room must be found, for forgiveness, or compassion, for ourselves as well as for others. One way or another, there always seems to be so much riding on this time of year, and our resources and our imagination are flexible, but only to a point.

And it is into the actual circumstances of our lives that Jesus is born, again. Not some nostalgic Nativity play where we pretend to be an innkeeper or a donkey, an angel or shepherd, or want to be Mary. But in the very heart of your life, and mine. Whether it feel too empty a room without him or impossibly full of other things, he comes, in his good time, not ours. This Christmas, may you know the joy that he brings, at the heart, to the heart. Joy that washes away our tears of pain and sweat of exhaustion, our fears, and our sense of inadequacy or of not being ready (you’ll never be ready). And may his felt presence come in time to transform every part of your life, from the heart out. Not as guest but as kin. Happy Christmas!

 

Christmas Eve

 

On the twenty-first of July 1969, Apollo 11 astronauts Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong placed a two-foot-wide array of 100 retroreflectors on the surface of the Sea of Tranquillity. A mirror on the moon. The crews of Apollo 14 and 15 also left mirrors at locations on the moon, and in addition to these three there are two further sets of mirrors on Soviet Union unmanned Luna mission robotic rovers parked on the moon’s surface. By firing lasers at these mirrors, scientists have been able to trace the moon’s orbit with remarkable accuracy.

We might imagine the opening move of John’s Gospel as firing a laser at mirrors left on the surface of Genesis chapter 1—‘In the beginning…’—and counting how long it takes for the light to be received back.

‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

‘And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.’

(John 1:1-5, 14)

Our home planet is one of eight that orbit our home sun, flung out on the Orion Arm of a spiral galaxy, the Milky Way. Our home sun is one of some 40 billion suns in our home galaxy, which is in turn one of 100,000 galaxies in our home Supercluster, the Laniakea (“immense heaven”) Supercluster. These, in turn, are just some of the trillions of galaxies in the universe.

For all the vast, awe-inspiring grandeur of the universe, it is local place where we find meaningful personal connection to God. Often, when I meet with a family to plan a funeral, I am told that dad, or mum, was christened at ‘my’ church, they were married there, that they were always proud of the place and their connection to it mattered deeply to them. They may not have connected with organised religion week by week, but through their whole life long they knew that they could connect with God while this building stood open.

It is a given in the Bible that God created the world and everything in it. But I do not believe that Genesis 1 is concerned with this. Rather, I believe this to be a text, from the time of the Babylonian exile and the return from exile, that is concerned with the Temple in Jerusalem—for the Jewish people, the very centre of the cosmos—and which describes its catastrophic destruction, and God’s initiative to restore Jerusalem and have the Temple rebuilt.

By the time John writes, that second Temple has been desecrated by the Greeks, retaken and reconsecrated, massively extended by Herod the Great, and—between the Jesus event and the time of John’s writing, and, therefore, being read aloud to congregations—destroyed again by the Romans.

John’s Gospel begins with a statement of intent, that God is, once again, about to restore the meeting-place between God and God’s people. But this will not be a Temple of stone, that, impressive though it may be, will be thrown down. When John writes, of Jesus, that he lived among us, the word he chooses is ‘tabernacled,’ recalling the tent of meeting, the place where God was present in the very midst of the people while they lived in the wilderness, between the exodus from Egypt and their entering the promised land. A touchstone for the displaced.

This, then, is the account of the cosmos being restored, from its very centre. *

Those scientists with their lasers discovered that the moon is spiralling away from us at a rate of 3.8 cm per year. Imperceptible to the human eye. In Jesus, on the other hand, God is moving towards us. At times, this too may be invisible to the naked eye. But over the years, mirrors have been left that reflect the light—our holy places are such mirrors, as are moments such as the ‘Midnight Mass’ on Christmas Eve. As are our lives, even when our buildings are closed, temporarily, by pandemic, or when, for whatever reason, we feel unable to come. The light and the mirror and the time between pointing to Jesus, God-with-us, full of grace and truth, in the dark dying days of the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty-one. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. May you rest confident in that and may your sense of wonder be renewed.

 

*As John would later record Jesus as saying, “For God so loved the cosmos that he sent his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish away but have enduring life.” (John 3:16). See also the death and resurrection of Jesus, alluded to by Jesus himself as a destruction and rebuilding of the Temple.

 

Third Sunday of Advent 2021

 

Lectionary readings: Zephaniah 3:14-20 and Philippians 4:4-7 and Luke 3:7-18

‘Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! The Lord has taken away the judgements against you, he has turned away your enemies. The king of Israel, the Lord, is in your midst; you shall fear disaster no more.’

Zephaniah 3:14, 15

‘Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.’

Philippians 4:4-7

‘As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, ‘I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing-fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing-floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.’

‘So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.’

Luke 3:15-18

On the Third Sunday of Advent, the Church remembers John the Baptist, who prepared the way for Jesus, and in keeping with this, the readings set for this day are full of joy. Luke quotes John as saying, of Jesus, that, “His winnowing-fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing-floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” Good news, right? Well, yes, it is. Really good news. Here’s why.

This is an image taken from the harvest, when a local community gathered in the grain that would feed them until the harvest next year. Grain is composed of a nutritious inner heart, the kernel, and a protective outer casing, the husk. Some of the grain would be set aside for planting, to produce next year’s harvest; and the husks would prevent the grain from rotting in the barn. But the husk is inedible, and before you can turn the grain into flour for making bread, must be removed. This was done on a threshing-floor, a flat area of exposed rock. Grain would be poured onto the floor, and a threshing-sledge dragged back and forth over it: a heavy wooden bar with iron teeth on the underside, pulled by animal-power. This process broke the husks open. Then someone would take a threshing-fork and throw the grain into the air. The heavier kernels would fall back to the ground; and the light husks, now known as chaff, would be blown away by the breeze. Not far, but far enough to sweep off to the side, and pile up for fuel for the fire. Waste not want not. So, this is an image of Jesus separating the husks from the kernels. But what has this to do with joy? As it happens, everything.

The American professor of social work, Brené Brown, states, “When we lose our tolerance to be vulnerable, joy becomes foreboding.” When we lose our tolerance to be vulnerable, joy becomes foreboding. Brown continues, “In moments of joy, we try to beat vulnerability to the punch, by dress-rehearsing tragedy.” What does she mean? Joy is an intense, overwhelming emotion. Those of us who are parents may have experienced joy as we look at our sleeping child. Or perhaps you have experienced joy looking up at the night sky, or when you come upon a particularly pleasing tree, or on seeing old friends for the first time in a long time. But we need to be vulnerable to experience joy: it cannot coexist with anything defensive such as cynicism. Yet we all know what it is to lose our tolerance to be vulnerable. We’ve all been hurt, and perhaps you reach the point where you promise yourself that you won’t allow yourself to be hurt again. We all have our defence-mechanisms against vulnerability, and the cost of that, Brown notes, is that we reach a point where joy becomes foreboding. That is, the moment we experience that intense joy emotion, our response is to contain it. To say, it won’t last. To imagine losing the thing that has given rise to that joy.

There is a neuroscience to foreboding, or the fear of disaster. The more we go down that path, the more well-worn that path becomes in our brain. There is nothing that gives me greater joy than being with my wife, Jo. We are such a good fit, we often have the same thoughts at the same moment, join in to finish one another’s sentences in unison, and laugh at the simple wonder of it. And when Jo is out longer than I expect, I find myself literally pacing up and down the room and wondering how long it is reasonable to wait before calling round all the hospitals to ask whether there has been a serious accident on the A19 and if she is lying on a resuscitation table with a crash team fighting to save her life. It bears no connection to reality, causes me anxiety, and tempts me to withdraw when I am with Jo so that it won’t hurt so much if it happens—though the real tragedy is that nothing can protect you from the loss of a loved one, and pre-emptive withdrawal only robs you of the present. And you can laugh at me, or feel sorry for Jo, but such scenarios are played out in countless minds.

And I am really glad that Jesus comes to break open the protective husks of the grain of my heart and mind, that he gathers up the kernels of joy, and that he has an unquenchable fire so that the chaff is consumed and need not blow grit into my eyes and the eyes of those around me. That really is good news.

There is also a neuroscience to joy, and it is possible to disciple the brain by habitual practices, to enter more often and more fully into the joy Jesus hopes for us (on the night he was arrested, he prayed that the joy his disciples knew might be made complete). Again, Brené Brown notes that those people whose lives are joyful have one thing in common: they regularly practice gratitude. Not some vague ‘attitude of gratitude,’ but actual, concrete disciplines, practices, such as writing down three things each day for which you are grateful; or going round the family at the dinner table and everyone sharing one thing they are grateful for today; or asking friends on Facebook to share something they are grateful for this week. The apostle Paul had a gratitude practice of praying for the churches he knew, calling to mind—with his travel companions—specific people and specific things about them that he was grateful for. And then he wrote letters to let them know he was thinking of them, with deep gratitude, and, therefore, great joy.

Gratitude is the threshing-sledge that breaks us open to vulnerability and transforms foreboding into joy. As we choose to be grateful, Jesus is then able to step in with his winnowing-fork, dealing with the chaff, the defensive mechanisms, the trust issues that prevent us from knowing joy made complete. So, if you want to know the joy of the Lord, take up a practice of gratitude. Try one you like the sound of, or which you think might work well for you in your life right now and give it a go, between now and Christmas, and see how you get on. And then, perhaps in addition to writing down three things every day that you are grateful for, or whatever it may be, you might choose to pause, any time you experience joy, and, instead of catastrophising, respond with gratitude: thank you, God, for this moment, for this sunrise, for this person in my life; I’m grateful for this gift.

I say this not as an expert witness who has got it all worked out, but as one who needs to hear the good news, yet again, on this Third Sunday of Advent as we prepare ourselves for Jesus to come in glory. As one who has habitual patterns of thought that need re-wiring, but who knows that this is possible, by the grace of God and the wonder of the mind and the decision to follow Jesus and be a disciple, to live a disciplined life, a joyous life. Come, Lord Jesus! Amen.