Christ

Christ

John 1:1-14

December 24, 2019 • Mount Pleasant UMC

Dark. The night was dark, and the world was dark, though some would have thought it otherwise. The Roman Empire was in the height of its glory, but that meant many formerly free people and nations were now, often unwillingly, a part of that “glory.” Augustus was reigning. That was the chosen name of the emperor Octavian. Little Octavian had been born to Gaius Octavius, a Roman senator, but was adopted by the childless Julius Caesar. After his adopted father was murdered, he emerged to seize power and become the first Roman emperor. He wanted to rule the world, but he also did some good things. He brought peace and stability to a dangerous time. He raised Rome’s prestige in the world, but he often did it through power, might and oppression. It quickly became obvious that you were either a Roman citizen and “in” or you weren’t a Roman citizen and you were “out.” He did think pretty highly of himself; the title “Augustus” means “exalted one.” But some others agreed with his own assessment. He was remembered as the savior of Rome and the builder of the empire. But to others, those on the edges of the empire, he was a brutal dictator who enacted heavy taxes, seized land, and maintained his power through fear, intimidation and military might (cf. NIDB, Vol. 1, pgs. 349-351). It was a dark time.

Now, Augustus is only mentioned once in all of the New Testament, but his puppet ruler in Palestine is mentioned many times. Herod. Herod the Great. Boy, these rulers loved their own press releases, didn’t they? Herod was supposed to be the Jewish king, but he was unfailingly loyal first to Rome rather than to his “own” people. And they really weren’t his own people anyway. He had no legitimate claim to the Jewish throne. He wasn’t royalty; he won his position by being an effective military leader. He was cruel, especially to his subjects. When he was granted the title of king, he immediately had forty-five of Jerusalem’s wealthiest aristocrats executed because they had opposed him. And while he brought some stability to Palestine, he wasn’t well thought of even in Rome (cf. NIDB. Vol. 2, pgs. 802-806). Even Rome noticed that Herod would have members of his own household put to death if he thought they were trying to take his crown. Caesar once remarked that it was safer to be Herod’s pig than his son. Still, you can’t go to Israel today without seeing the effect of Herod’s rule; much of what remains from first century Israel was built under Herod’s direction, including the Temple Mount where the Dome of the Rock currently sits. Buildings don’t make up for the poor treatment of people, though. And it was a dark time.

Into that world, into that darkness, a light began to shine. Not a literal light, mind you. John, the Gospel writer, put it this way in a verse you have heard every single Sunday during Advent: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). That’s one thing I love about light. A space can be completely dark and the smallest of lights will break through, tearing apart the darkness. That’s the image John uses when he wants to describe the coming of the Son of God. “The light shines” into the darkness of the world. John doesn’t have any angels, shepherds, wise men or even Mary and Joseph in the beginning of his Gospel. John has the light; that’s what he wants us to see, to imagine. By the time he writes his Gospel, he knows we’ve already read Luke’s account of Mary, Elizabeth and the trip to Bethlehem. He knows we’ve already read about Joseph and his doubts and the angel who came to redirect him. John wants us to see the story of the birth of Jesus from a different perspective.

Imagine, he almost says, a virgin girl who is engaged to a man to be married. No, more than engaged; betrothed. There is no turning back now short of legal divorce. Imagine her encountering an angel, an angel who tells her the most astonishing news she’s ever heard. God has seen her! God knows her name! And God has chosen her to have a baby! Wait, what? Mary doesn’t do too much of a double-take, but she does interrupt the angel to ask a question: “How can this be?” In her mind, I imagine, that her question is loaded with a lot more than biological inquiries. Is this the best time to bring a baby into the world? It’s a hard world. There are soldiers on every corner. Our future as a people is in doubt. And Joseph and I together don’t have very much. How are we going to feed and clothe and raise a baby right now? We’re barely more than children ourselves! “How can this be?” It’s a dark world.

And imagine, John seems to say, a builder down in Bethlehem, maybe working on the Temple or other Herod-inspired building projects, making a decent living and carrying a reputation for not only cooperating with the ruling authorities but also upholding his faith. Joseph is known for being a righteous man more than he is for being a builder. Or you might say it this way: he was a better Jew than he was a builder, and he was a pretty darned good builder! Then he finds out the woman he is supposed to marry very soon is pregnant. In fact, she’s been pregnant for a while now, but it’s getting hard for her to hide it. Then he realizes he may be the last to know, and he’s angry. The darkness of the world has touched his life. This was not the life he planned, nor is it the life he wants. He will divorce her, that’s it. He can save her life and still get out of this awkward situation. After all, what would people think of him if he took up with someone…like that? Of all people, he knows this is not his child! And then, into the darkness of his sleep, a light shines: “Joseph, don’t be afraid…” (Matthew 1:20). And when he wakes up, he isn’t. He throws away his righteous reputation in order to do what love demanded, in order to do what God asked, even in the midst of a dark, dark world.

Imagine, too, a small town, a sleepy hamlet laying just a short distance from the mighty capital of Jerusalem. Many people probably didn’t think much about Bethlehem, unless they were on some sort of historical tour and they stopped by to snap pictures of the “hometown of King David.” It’s also likely King Herod wanted to downplay that part of Israel’s past, for people to forget David altogether. And despite the fact that we sang it tonight, I seriously doubt that the little town of Bethlehem was anywhere close to “how still we see thee lie” on this night. After all, people were crowding the streets to participate in Caesar’s census. The population has gone way, way up temporarily, and that influx included two young people who came from Nazareth to this tiny town because he is from here. Bethlehem is Joseph’s hometown, and it’s where he had to go to register. Mary wouldn’t have had to go, but I believe he brought her to protect her. Everyone knew she had been pregnant before they were fully married, and by the Jewish law, they would have been within their rights to put her to death. Joseph brings her home—and they apparently stay here for some time—so that he can protect her. Now, we always have this image (because it’s the way the movies make the story dramatic) of Joseph coming into town just when Mary goes into labor, and he frantically goes from the Hampton Inn to the Holiday Inn Express and even to the Motel 6 but he is turned away time and time again. At least that’s the way it’s often told. But Bethlehem in those days wasn’t large enough to really have a thriving hospitality industry. And people didn’t travel here much anyway. There was no reason to—until a census comes along. More likely, Joseph has brought Mary to his family’s home—a home which is crowded with other relatives coming home for the census. And since it’s crowded, they are put in the stable area, connected to the main home but with enough privacy that when she does go into labor, she can do so with dignity. Bethlehem, during this season, is caught up in the darkness of the world, unwilling client to Caesar, and unknowing birthplace to the one who is the light of the world.

The world is dark, but the light shines in the darkness. And John says this light helps us see who God the Father is. The light is Jesus Christ, and though all through Advent we have been talking about the gifts of Christmas, tonight we celebrate The Gift that all the other gifts have been pointing toward. Jesus is the hope of the world and the hope beyond this world. Jesus is joy that resides deep in our soul even when life is hard. Jesus is the love of God made flesh; we don’t have to wonder anymore if God loves us. Jesus came, lived, died and rose again to tell us just that. And Jesus is peace when the storms of life rage. He speaks to our souls just like he spoke to the stormy wind and waves: “Peace, be still.” He is the gift of Christmas; he is the “Christ” that Christmas speaks of. Christmas is not about reindeer and snowmen and wassail and Hallmark movies. Christmas is about Jesus. He is Christ—and no, that is not his last name. Christ means “Savior;” it’s the same word as “Messiah.” He has come to save us—from sin, to be sure. He rescues us from the penalty that sin brings, and he restores our relationship with God the Father. But he also saves us from ourselves, from our our brokenness, from our inclination to hurt and harm one another, from the dividedness of our own dark world. He comes to rescue the world from darkness. Into the dark of that first Christmas night, into the darkness of this Christmas night, Jesus comes as a light to the world. Not just to you. Not just to me. He is the Christ—the Savior—for the whole world.

Today, if you were to go to Bethlehem (and I’m going again in about a year, so yes, that is a shameless plug), you would find that the little town (which isn’t so little anymore) is surrounded by a barrier wall. Bethlehem lies in Palestinian territory and so as a defensive measure, the nation of Israel has built a wall to keep people in and keep others out. My point is not to get into the politics of all that, but to share that it always makes me sad, every time I go through the wall into modern Palestine, modern Bethlehem, to know that this place where the light of the world was born, where Christ came to save the world, is now effectively cut off from the world by a man-made wall. And it makes me also think about how often we build walls against the coming of the Christ child into our lives. Walls of pride, of independence. Walls of self-sufficiency. Walls that say, “I don’t need anyone to save me.” Walls that say, “You’re not going to tell me what to do, Jesus.” And sometimes those walls get so tight around our hearts that they cut off all connection to the one Jesus came to save—you and me. But you know what? If even the smallest crack appears in that wall that is around your heart, the light will be able to break through. That’s another beautiful thing about light—you can’t stop it. It shines on, even if you refuse to see it, even if you close your eyes and your life against it. It still shines. So my prayer for all of us on this night of nights is that if you have a wall, a barrier keeping Jesus away, you will allow that barrier to crack just enough tonight so that a ray of light can begin to shine in your life. Jesus is the gift of Christmas. He is the light of the world and he wants to bring hope and joy and love and peace to your life this night and every night.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5).