The last two years, I have been particularly struck by the way in which society on the whole and even many Christians romanticize the birth of Christ. We have manger scenes with cool-looking animal figurines; we have attractive manger scenes on the front-lawns of some of our churches. Sometimes even, the story of Christ’s birth reads like a fairy tale – just look at popular books and movies. There is nothing wrong with these things, and they often are very enjoyable and are great for teaching and witnessing to others about what Christmas is truly about. But I have realized that sometimes that these things, they can also potentially keep me from seeing something else about the Nativity – its earthiness, its fuller reality as it occurred here, on earth, under real and somewhat stressful circumstances in tumultuous political and social climates.
Every Advent, and even sometimes outside of Advent, the song that strikes me as being most true to the perhaps real dynamic preceding the birth of Christ is “Breath of Heaven” – yes, the Amy Grant song. The lyrics talk of Mary’s waiting and silence on the Lord, her fatigue, her desire for the Lord to draw near to her even as she bears him in her womb. I imagine the pilgrimage that the Holy Family embarked on in order to get to Bethlehem, and how that journey must have been quite a task. I think about how Mary may have felt – joyful, yet overwhelmed at arriving in a crowded city that was not her home, pregnant, and on the cusp of giving birth, to the Messiah. I imagine her to be joyful, yet utterly exhausted. I can’t imagine the scene, though I have tried: knocking on every single door in Bethlehem that fateful night, only to have every single one shut in my face – wanting rest, about to give birth, and striving to be faithful and faith-filled about God’s timing , provision, and plans.
Finally, a stable: this is where the Lord Jesus Christ has his earthly birth, and this is where God always had intended for the Christ-child to be born. Again, I’ve tried to wrap my mind around this, too: God, sovereign and almighty, had always intended for his son to be born in a stable, a space that was never made for human habitation. Why not just a simple inn, not a fancy one, just a simple one? Here, in a detail like this, I see that God is wonderfully creative, and I learn that he works outside my human paradigms of how things should and do function. There’s something I see here about God’s character: it’s not enough for God that His Son be incarnate; His son will also be born in a stable. God is a God of details, and He cares about them and us. The Lord shows off and teaches me even more about Himself when, in this stable, shepherds come and worship, angels appear, and kings from afar come with gifts.
In Advent and in life in general, I often find myself on pilgrimage to Bethlehem or just inside the city walls, seeking shelter, knocking on every door, hoping that one will open because it’s late, I’m tired, and I’m uncomfortable, and sometimes, I only perceive all the doors I knock on closing in my face. But then I think of Mary and Joseph. The doors that were closed to Mary and Joseph: they were closed so that the prophecy might be fulfilled. The birth had to take place in Bethlehem because Jesus is the descendent of David – more prophecies fulfilled. And who bore the earthly implications of these prophecies fulfilled? Joseph and Mary. They bore them joyfully and faithfully. In Christian circles, we often use the image and wording of doors open and doors shut, and sometimes, we put more precedence on the ones that open more than on the significance of the ones that shut. But I look at this holy family, and how every shut door in Bethlehem, even, every added moment of waiting, stress, and fatigue, brought them closer and closer to the gloriously intended stable and more into the center of God’s will for their lives and brought more glory to God.
And then, I’m inspired, because isn’t this the reason why we take manger scenes and add glitz to them? It’s our way, as Christians, of reifying for ourselves and proclaiming to the world what we know in our hearts and souls to be true: that here, in this simple, humble manger scene, something miraculous and beautiful has occurred, and we must note that, glitter, rosy pictures and all, before the whole world.
--- Somewhat unrelated, but the most provocative Advent reading I've read this year ---
Peter Chrysologus, an excerpt from a sermon on the subject of the Incarnation and God's Love:
"...But the law of love is not concerned with what will be, what ought to be, what can be. Love does not reflect; it is unreasonable and knows no moderation. Love refuses to be consoled when its goal proves impossible, despises all hindrances to the attainment of its object. Love destroys the lover if he cannot obtain what he loves; love follows its own promptings, and does not think of right and wrong...A love that desires to see God may not have reasonableness on its side, but it is the evidence of filial love. It gave Moses the temerity to say: 'If I have found favor in your eyes, show me your face.' It inspired the psalmist to make the same prayer: 'Show me your face.' Even the pagans made their images for this purpose: they wanted actually to see what they mistakenly revered."
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