Moving Forward

The subject of Jesus' childhood is delicate.  On the one hand, we have fanciful stories from ancient texts like the Gospel of Thomas that describe a wonderworking, sometimes vindictive, child magician. On the other hand, we have near silence from the authentic Gospels and wonder how to fathom this dimension of the incarnation.  

In our text for Sunday (Luke 2:41-52), Luke depicts an important event in the transition from Jesus' childhood to adulthood, when he was twelve.  On the cusp of entering adulthood, Jesus is shown in a complex relationship with his elders, especially his parents and teachers. Here, we see no fanciful wonder-worker.  But we do see Jesus' capacity for listening, for engaging, for communicating deeply.  It is poignant, because we see how Jesus begins to move independently of his family, to be present with them while aligning with his unique relationship with his heavenly Father and the dynamics of his kingdom.  Jesus' independence is difficult for Mary and Joseph. 

As Immanuel, "God With Us," Jesus bridges the distance between our finite mortality and God's eternal world.  As grateful as we are, we may often find it disorienting and even "distressing," as Mary says.  But to her credit and our example, Mary did not withdraw or strike out; she "treasured these things in her heart."  Sometimes, it takes awhile to discern God's unfolding plan.  In the meantime, Jesus is gracious, careful, present, and able to bring his world and ours together more richly and fruitfully.  

In the end, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph move forward together.  It's an encouraging thought as we move into a new year. 

God with us

Immanuel, God with us, is the name that God directs Joseph to give Jesus, taken from a promise made through Isaiah.  It is a very special name for Matthew, for whom it forms a through-line of his Gospel culminating in Jesus’ promise that concludes the story: “I am with you always, even unto the end ofthe age.”

It’s grand to think of “God with us.”  He’s with Israel against the threatening foreign armies, he’s with the Church unto the end of the world!

Yet Immanuel is not merely a grand concept that sweeps across cultures and epochs, conjuring armies and kingdoms.  It’s as finite and real as a baby in the arms of a young couple in a small village on the outskirts of the Roman empire.  

Joseph and Mary weren’t grand.  They were simple, devout, young.  Joseph was faced with the hard dilemma of a pregnant fiance and social shame.  Matthew says that Joseph “considered” these things–which may be appropriately translated as “took to heart, was concerned about, was angry at.”   There is intensity in it.  

And God was with him, concrete and accessible. He provided an answer for Joseph in a dream.  The answer was the infant. The angel said to Joseph, “you name him.”  Jesus was the answer for Joseph–both in that moment of trial, and for all the moments thereafter.  

Jesus isn’t just a means to end.  Jesus himself saves: “he will save his people from their sins.”  And this is how he saves: by being with us. In our sins and also our predicaments, pressures, concerns, and struggles. And in our joy.  

Minor Fall Major Lift

Leonard Cohen’s song “Hallelujah” (originally something like 80 verses!) was written as a somewhat bitter complaint to God. As originally written, the first verse says:

Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do ya?

It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift*

It’s a cold and ever broken Hallelujah.

In other words, even in rejoicing (or trying to) there’s the tension of a cold and ubiquitous kind of brokenness. And there’s truth there.

This side of the Second Advent, rejoicing isn't a simple thing. The beautiful Advent hymn “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” captures this tension well both lyrically and musically: minor fall, major lift (even if briefly), minor fall. It’s a song of rejoicing, and yet there’s brokenness.

The readings for this Sunday—Gaudete (i.e. Rejoice) Sunday (the pink candle)—also capture this tension well: minor fall (James and Matthew), major lift (Isaiah). But then, why shouldn’t they? This tension is the very heart of the Gospel itself: We are more sinful and flawed in ourselves than we ever dared believe, yet at the very same time we are more loved and accepted in Jesus Christ than we ever dared hope. Minor fall, major lift. Brokenness and rejoicing. Tension.

Restart

The 2000 psychological thriller Memento is the story of a man who, as the result of a past trauma, suffers from the inability to form any new memories. He’s desperately searching for the person who attacked him and killed his wife. And since he can’t remember anything new for more than a few minutes, he uses an intricate system of Polaroid photos and tattoos to help him remember what he’s learned.

The film begins dramatically with the Polaroid of a dead man, shot. As the sequence plays backward the photo reverts to its undeveloped state, entering the camera before the man is shot.

The story restarts, building up to the intense moment you’ve already seen.

That is Advent.

In his insightful book For the Beauty of the Church, David Taylor, writing about the Church year said, “If the Church doesn’t tell us what time it is, the surrounding culture surely will, and we usually end up all the worse for it.”

Time for a restart.

Not Pro Forma

There’s a very funny and smart scene in the irreverent comedy Monty Python and the Holy Grail in which King Arthur demands to know from a filthy peasant what Lord lives in a nearby castle. An argument ensues, which leads to this exchange:

Arthur: “I order you to be quiet!”

Filthy Peasant: “Oh, order, eh? What gives you the right?”

Arthur: “I am your king!”

Filthy Peasant: “Well I didn’t vote for you.”

And that’s just the point of the bit. We’re entirely acclimated to appointing our leaders by election and not having them accede by divine right. Kings don’t have to be electable, they’re just king. Monarchy is literally foreign to us, which makes The Feast of Christ the King—this Sunday—a little foreign to us, too. Add to that the fact that because it happens like clockwork every year the end of a long season of Ordinary Time, and it makes the whole thing seem maybe just a little pro forma.

Except that it’s not.

Why is it it good and necessary that we set aside a time every year to bow to and celebrate Christ the King? That’s what I’m planning to explore with you this Sunday.

Risking some things

Last week our Small Group gathered to share a meal, and it was both beautiful and joyful. Part of the discussion around the table was, “What was your favorite toy as a child, and what might that tell us about you?” It was illuminating. So many straight lines from favorite toy to vocation and interest decades later.

My favorite toy, by far, was a cowboy outfit consisting of a suede leather vest and chaps, a two-and-a half gallon hat (I was a lot smaller then), and two cap guns that looked like pearl-handled revolvers. I wore that outfit nearly everywhere till it was unwearable. A little later, my best friend, Peter, owned an American Quarter Horse named JR, which we spent a lot of time over several years grooming and riding. Today, I still watch just about every cowboy show I can, own an overpriced wool “cowboy” vest from Filson (the J. Crew of the cowboy world), and am currently saving to buy the equipment required for Cowboy Action Shooting.

Beyond the fact that I can be a little quirky, I think what this might say about me is that I have always been exhilarated by adventure. From surfing, to motocross racing, to snowboarding, to church planting, to flying airplanes for fun. I truly enjoy adventure, especially those that, like most good adventures, require risking some things.

In this week’s Gospel, Jesus tells of a time when his followers will be marked as criminals and outcasts. A time when they'll be on trial for their lives because oftheir allegiance to him. And this passage, so vital and precise in its reference to the first generation of Christians, also has something to say to you and me today.

Clearly, even though we may not face the same dangers right here, right now, following Jesus means risking some things.

But is it an adventure we’re up for?

Frieze Frame

Construction began on Notre Dame Cathedral in 1163 and took 187 years to complete. Nine generations—some of the same family—participated in its creation, six or seven of which never saw the magnificent building completed. For some contrast, when I was part of a mega-church staff in the early 2000s, our first 92,000 square foot building took just under thirteen months to build. And it was agonizing. (Facepalm emoji).

In our three visits to Paris over the decades, Lauren and I have spent many meaningful hours strolling through that great cathedral. Part of its design—and that of most European cathedrals—as you process around the ambulatory encircling the choir and the apse—is a frieze that frames the Bible in pictures, not as much for art’s sake, but so that even those who couldn’t read could still know the Scriptures. And what look initially like distinct pictures in themselves are actually a sequence of frames that together tell the whole story. An ancient graphic novel, if you will.

The four debates in Luke 20 are like that—a sequence of frames that only together tell the whole story—and it will help us understand the theological, spiritual, and relational impact of this week’s Gospel if we see where and how it fits within the sequence.

Fighting Evil

Like many, I'm a big fan of JRR Tolkein's "Lord of the Rings" saga, both the books and the movies. And like many of you, I could go on-and-on about my favorite passages or scenes, share personal reflections on their meaning, and debate interpretations. In fact, our family is currently watching the movies again now, and there is one thing that continues to stand out for me: the orcs are really bad fighters. We shouldn't be too hard on them, they have many physical impediments, inter-personal communication problems, and family-of-origin issues. Even so, they are a bit more advanced than the Storm Troopers, who could not hit the broad side of barn with their laser guns. Maybe we'll be treated to a sequel featuring a battle between the two.

It seems right to kill orcs; they are bad, they are not human, and they do not illicit empathy from most us. So it seems easier for me to navigate the heroic battle scenes without getting too squeamish.

But we are uneasy ground. "Evil" isn't abstract. Evil is made concrete in people who do evil things. And when the Messiah returns at the end of the age to triumph eternally over "evil," real people—not orcs—are objects of His vengeance.

The drama of persecution, suffering, and deliverance is not something we face on an epic scale in Annapolis. But we are a part of the Body of Messiah, and we know that our brothers and sisters elsewhere are facing such things.