First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Christmas Eve, 2001
If I am not mistaken, it was the late E. Stanley Jones who told of an elementary-age schoolboy who was sent back to America by his missionary father because the education he could get in a boarding school here would be far superior to the education he could get in a village school there. The boy accepted the logic behind his return to the States and, separated from his family, actually did quite well. Until Christmastime. Hearing reports that the boy was nursing a pretty good case of pre-holiday blues, the headmaster paid a visit to his room. Before leaving, he asked if there was one thing, more than any other, that he would like for Christmas. Whereupon the boy, looking at the photograph of his father hanging on the wall above his bed, said: “All I want is for my father to step out of that frame.”
Well, that kid has plenty of company. For many of you would say the same thing to a photograph that hangs on one of your walls, or sits on one of your tables. “If only, just for one night, you could step out of that frame.” I know I have pictures like that at my house, along with wishes like that in my heart. And so do you. I know you do.
I suppose it would be simple to suggest that Christmas Eve is the night our heavenly Father stepped out of the frame….the better to meet and greet us in the flesh. For isn’t that what John (who wasn’t into nativities) said about the Word….that it became flesh and dwelt among us….full of grace….full of truth….sufficient so that we could see it….and in seeing it, experience a small splash of its glory?
People had been on God’s case for a long time to step out of the frame. And, insofar as I can discern it, we are on it still (God’s case, I mean). “Make thyself plain,” is one way of putting it….not “plain” as in “bland,” but “plain” as in “clear.”
The problem, however, is that there is no clear consensus about which God….and which frame. Some want a Father who is a fighter. Others want a Father who is a forgiver. Still others, a Father who is a befriender. And nobody would turn their back upon a Father who is a lover. Although, now that I say it, I’m not all that sure.
Trying (as I get paid to do) to put my finger on the pulse of this particular year, I think I know the kind of Father we are looking for….the kind of Incarnation we want. I think the One we want to see step from the frame is a Father who looks like an ice hockey linesman. You know who I mean. I’m talking about the guy in the striped shirt….no name on his back….who skates in and around play (more or less anonymously)…. blowing the whistle when anyone ventures off-side….signaling infractions when rules are flagrantly violated….and occasionally jumping into the fray and breaking up fights. A hockey linesman knows that fights are inevitable….that they are part of the game (sometimes, the greater part of the game, as in Johnny Carson’s old joke about going to Madison Square Garden for a prize fight, only to see a hockey game break out). But the linesman waits for just the right moment in a fight and then skates in….separating the combatants….hauling this one off that one….doing whatever needs to be done to restore a bit of order.
I suppose that this hockey image surfaced in my head because my daughter….my sweet, serene daughter….my Harvard-matriculating daughter….my corporate-bound, turn-the-recession-around-overnight-once-I-graduate daughter….called earlier in the fall to announce that she had joined the Harvard Business School women’s hockey team. Not because she’d ever played hockey before. Not because she’d ever worn a pair of hockey skates before. And not because she’d taken many twirls around a frozen pond before. So why did she do it? Because, like the mountain (I guess), it was there. Now, every time I talk to her, instead of inquiring about her grades, I ask about her teeth.
She claims that girls’ games have rules against body checking. But what I want to know is whether they also have rules against boarding, tripping, spearing, slashing, or otherwise….in any way….for any reason….at any time….disfiguring my daughter’s pretty face. Lacking such rules, I guess I’ll just have to trust the linesman.
Oh, if only God would step out of history’s frame tonight….strong of hand….swift of skate…. striped of shirt….and roll through Bethlehem (and every town and village within 90 miles). That way, God could sort out the mayhem….separating this one from that one….pulling that one off this one….sending everybody to their respective benches, locker rooms or bedrooms (maybe even without supper)….handing out penalties where appropriate (don’t they sometimes call the penalty box, “The Sin Bin”?)….two minutes for spearing….five minutes for fighting….eight minutes for grenade throwing….eleven minutes for settlement leveling….twenty-three minutes for suicide bombing….complete with game misconducts for the recalcitrant and unrepentant…. and maybe even life misconducts for those who not only inflict pain and sorrow, but sneer and laugh while others suffer and die.
I’m not necessarily proud of this feeling or comfortable with this longing, but there are times when virtues like peace, harmony, justice and righteousness seem so far in the distance, that the restoration of order seems like a wondrous gift, indeed. As every policeman who has ever responded to a domestic violence call knows, you can’t work things out until you first calm things down.
But when God steps out of Bethlehem’s frame….now as well as then….he is neither swift of step nor striped of shirt. He does not skate from the womb or the frame. He restores nothing. He penalizes no one. For he comes as a baby. That’s right, a baby. Love is a baby, tonight….who, in his infancy, will ask more of us than he will bring to us. For, in the short run, we will have to take care of him….he, who in the eternal scheme of things, was born to take care of us.
But I have noticed something about life. I have noticed the most precious things tend to require the most cautious handling and the most delicate care. Babies come into the world with “special handling” stickers attached. As do marriages….friendships….congregations….not to mention truces, cease-fires, coalition governments and dreams (especially dreams). In a world where people continually drop the ball, we had better not drop the baby.
For to all who would receive the baby….welcome the baby….hold the baby….open their hearts to the baby…. amazing things can happen. After more than a quarter century of no babies on my side of the family, my niece Lauren was born last year at Christmastime. This week, she turned one. We spent last night together at a family dinner. Now concerning my extended family, you need to know that Norman Rockwell never knocked on our door and suggested painting us for posterity. So watching a one-year-old draw us close to her….and (in the process) draw us closer to each other…..I was freshly impressed with how much one so new can do. But then, God has known this all along.
Not everybody welcomes children. It is a common practice for adults….especially for adults who have a lot of nice things and want to protect them….to childproof their homes, making sure that visiting children can’t touch anything of value. Leading Don Rush, a columnist out of Florida, to write: “My wife and I childproofed our home three years ago, and they’re still getting in.” As will this one, my friends. You can count on it. For whatever else Christmas is, it is the story of a child who will not be denied.
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Christmas Eve – 2001. Like the song will soon remind us, the night is silent now….especially (and sadly) in Bethlehem, where the silence has nothing to do with reverence and everything to do with fear. Which does not mean that Jesus cannot be born there, but that only those who have no choice but to live there will welcome him there. Which is all right….maybe even good…. because if healing should start and metastasize from anywhere, maybe it should start and metastasize from Bethlehem.
Fewer of us are flying high this Christmas. And those of us who are, are being forced to shed our shoes at the airport. But, as with most things, there’s biblical precedent for that, too. Thanks be to God, we are grounded in faith, although we have rediscovered that holding fast to one religion gives no mandate to wipe out all the others.
As for me and mine, life is good….church is good….we are good. To be able to work in a place where we are wanted, needed and valued is a blessing that many covet, but few receive. At the end of the working day, the sweat of my labor is still sweet to the taste, leaving me wanting more.
In a little while, we shall sing the last song here….turn off the last light here….and wend our way home from here. To where at least this gentleman will “rest ye merry” with two of the loveliest women God ever granted to share road and load. Together, we shall butter a little bread and sip a little soup….well, not just any bread or any soup, so much as baguette and bisque….oh, all right, lobster bisque, if you must know. Then, looking at the pictures on our mantle, we shall think about the one who we would call forth from his frame. But then we will cherish what we have and whose we are. By which time it will already be dawn somewhere in the world. Like, maybe Bethlehem. Merry Christmas, dear ones. Merry Christmas.
