Joel D. Kline
December 21, 2003
Highland Avenue Church of the Brethren
The Fourth Sunday of Advent
The old story is told of a youngster who frequently woke up in the middle of the night, awakened by troubling dreams and calling for the comfort of her parents. One night the sleep-deprived mother of the child became somewhat exasperated, and, convinced that she could do nothing more for her daughter, urged the child to pray to God. “God will be with you and comfort you,” the mother asserted. To which the child responded, “But I need someone with skin on to comfort me.”
In the incarnation, the coming of Jesus Christ into our world, God takes on human skin and becomes one with us. “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into our neighborhood”—this is Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase in The Message of the familiar verse from John’s Gospel, “The Word became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:14). In this Advent season it is fitting for us to celebrate that incarnation, to give thanks for God taking on human skin. And yet it is not an incarnation that makes much sense in our kind of world, a world so enamored with achieving power over others. Were we to orchestrate God’s entry into the world, would we not choose birth into a family of prominence among a people of influence located in the very center of the world’s power? Who but God would choose to impregnate a poor, unmarried woman, then send an angel to tell her that she is “blessed among women?” Talk about a story that stretches credibility to the limits!
And yet, as William Willimon, dean of the chapel at Duke University, reminds us, there’s so much more to the story of God entering human life in Jesus that confounds and amazes us. Writes Willimon,
Of all the ways for God to enflesh, God came as a Jewish peasant from Nazareth who was murdered by the authorities, not because of the peculiarity of his birth, but for the revolutionary quality of his life. Jesus was violently tortured to death, not because he was a baby born out of wedlock, but because of what he said and what he did once he grew up. His advent provoked a crisis in our settled intellectual and political arrangements, unmasking the relationship between our cherished notions of what can and can’t be and our sanctions about who is and who is not in charge.
Willimon goes on to assert that Luke portrays in subtle yet powerful ways the challenge of Jesus to the powers that be, putting upon the lips of the angels the very phrasing that had previously been used to praise Caesar. In the rapidly growing Caesar cult of that day, worshiping the Roman emperor as a god, Caesar was labeled both lord and savior. Yet in Luke’s Gospel the angel announce to the shepherds that a new Savior and Lord has been born. “Do not be afraid,” proclaims the angel; “for see, I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people”—not just for citizens of the mighty Roman Empire, nor, on the other hand, only for those of Jewish heritage, but for all humanity! And then the angel continues with words that have become so familiar to us that they are prone to lose their power: “To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”
It’s an incredible story, isn’t it? We are asked to believe that the birth of an infant in an obscure village in an out-of-the-way corner of the universe to an unwed mother—that this birth is the impetus for God’s creation of a whole new world. And perhaps just as remarkably, or even more so, the gospel asserts that the incarnation continues as you and I come to reflect the mercy and compassion, the grace and peace, the hope and self-giving love of Jesus in our relationships with one another and with the world around us. You and I are called to adopt an incarnational lifestyle, to embody the very good news we celebrate this season, to put skin on the gospel.
We begin to sense this happening in the person of Mary, the young woman chosen by God to give birth to Jesus. Who can forget the story of the angel Gabriel appearing to Mary, asserting, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you,” and then announcing that Mary will give birth to a child to be named Jesus, “the Son of the Most High.” Mary is perplexed and even distressed at the news, yet quickly comes to the point where she is able to affirm, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me just as you say.”
Mary does indeed put skin on the gospel, recognizing that the most radical aspect of the Christmas story is not that the Christ child is to be born to a virgin, but that Christ’s coming turns upside down life as we know it. With Christ’s coming, Mary asserts in her song of praise, God “has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;” God “has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.”
Mary travels to the home of her kinswoman Elizabeth, who also is bearing a baby who will become a key actor in God’s unfolding plan. When Mary arrives, Elizabeth’s baby—John the Baptist—leaps for joy in her womb, confirming the wondrous events told to Mary by the angel. In response, Mary utters the song of praise we call the Magnificat, a song E. Stanley Jones, noted missionary to India, labels “the most revolutionary document in the world.”
Perhaps the most revolutionary aspect of the Magnificat is that Mary does not speak in future tense. Mary does not assert that God shall lift the lowly and shall fill the hunger of the poor, nor that God shall scatter the proud and shall send the rich away empty. No, Mary speaks as if God has already acted, and as if life even now is being transformed.
Indeed, this is the leap of faith the Christmas story demands of us, that we trust that the very God who is in the business of making all things new has come to us in the person of Jesus Christ. The Christmas story is not simply a lovely legend pointing us toward a pie-in-the-sky future, but much more, an affirmation that, even now, we are being encountered by God and reconstructed by God. We cannot embrace the gospel of Jesus, while remaining content with the status quo. We cannot claim to be followers of Jesus, yet remain satisfied with business as usual. You and I are called to put skin on the gospel by taking Christ’s mission as our own—seeking the lost, caring for the neglected, healing the broken, feeding the hungry, setting free those who are oppressed, proclaiming peace, walking in paths of justice and righteousness, reconciling those who are at odds with one another, rebuilding the nations, embodying a life of self-giving love—all while planting a song of hope in humanity’s heart.
Perhaps you remember the wonderful children’s book, The Velveteen Rabbit, which includes a conversation between a new toy rabbit in the nursery and an old skin horse:
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you’re made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up, or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time—that’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily or have sharp edges or have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.
The wondrous gift we celebrate anew this Advent and Christmas season is that God’s love is indeed real, and that you and I are called to choose the revolutionary new way of living made possible by Jesus, the One who fully embodies the love of God. Some years ago I picked up a small book by Clyde Reid entitled You Can Choose Christmas. “There is a depth, a reality, a promise in Christmas,” writes Reid, “and this depth has nothing to do with the holiday, or family, or receiving gifts. It has to do with God’s eternal promise that we can have a new life, start over, begin again, be born anew.” “If we want that,” Reid concludes, “it can happen.”
Writing about the practice of gift giving, Reid suggests that
The true measure of a gift is in its cost. Not the money you spend, but the cost. How much of you did you spend? How much of your love and caring is invested in the giving of the gift? The money matters not at all if the caring is not there.
This is the discovery of the skin horse in The Velveteen Rabbit, that becoming real has to do with the willingness to give of ourselves, the willingness to give and receive love. Even more, this is the message of the gospel we proclaim this Advent and Christmas season, that in Jesus Christ God comes among us, offering comfort, challenge, and self-giving love. And what’s more, in Christ God empowers us to put skin on the gospel, to begin to live here and now in the light of God’s unfolding kingdom, to reflect the wonder of a love that knows no limits, a love that will not let us go.
Are you and I ready to put skin on the gospel, to share new life, new hope, new joy through relationship with the wondrous gift of the Christ child? For this is our calling, our privilege, our opportunity, our challenge. Thanks be to God. Amen.
Holy God, this is a season of anticipation. We yearn for anew for the coming of Christ into our world, a coming that shows your love aright. You come, O God, as holy child of Bethlehem, as a Rose e’er blooming, as gracious Lord, as Suffering Servant, as Word made flesh.
Yet we confess, loving God, what you already know to be true. The world—and frequently we ourselves—scarcely knows what to make of a Savior who comes armed in the ways of peace, a Lord who embodies the path of servanthood, a holy Example who calls us to go the extra mile, to seek reconciliation, to give of ourselves for the betterment of all creation.
God of compassion and grace,
Forgive us when we fail to grasp the radical nature of your presence in Jesus Christ. Forgive us when we turn from the remarkably inclusive love of Jesus, a love that reaches out to the neglected, the broken, the lost, the hurting. Forgive us when we dismiss the gift of peace as little more than an idle dream. Forgive our shortsightedness, O God, and take away those fears that keep us from becoming the persons you created us to be. Take away our reluctance to risk walking in paths of faithfulness. Grant us courage, grant us wisdom, grant us hope, grant us abundant life through Christ our Redeemer.
God of healing and wholeness, make us mindful of those beyond our midst who need your grace and our care. We pray for the homeless who, like Jesus, frequently have no place to lay their heads. We pray for the poor who, Jesus said, will be blessed in God’s kingdom. We pray for the victims of war and oppression, and particularly we remember this day the peoples of Iraq and Afghanistan, Libya and North Korea.
O God, who transforms enemies into friends, guide us in your ways of peace. Take us by the hand and journey with us in paths of compassion and servanthood and self-giving love.
Gracious God, we pray for those in our own community and circle of friends and family who need your healing embrace …. May your light and love uphold and empower each, and bring to them healing and wholeness.
Praise be to you, O God, for the incredible, the unspeakable gift of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.