Improbable

Improbable

For a child is born to us, a son is given to us. The government will rest on his shoulders. And he will be called: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His government and its peace will never end. He will rule with fairness and justice from the throne of his ancestor David for all eternity. The passionate commitment of the Lord of Heaven’s Armies will make this happen! (Isaiah 9:6-7)

Sometimes I sit at my computer and await the arrival of the Holy Spirit – that impulse that comes and seems to cause my fingers to move over the keyboard. Other times, it’s not so easy or so magical. In fact, there are times when nothing happens at all – I just sit there, waiting for the fingers to move, or the Spirit to prompt, or the mind and heart to jump-start.

But I don’t leave it all up to prompting, mind you. I create computer folders for many of what could be my next messages. I label these folders with a date, assign the broad topic in a question, and file it away, like: “Christmas – 2013.” Then, if I find a verse or a story or an article that seems to approximate the topic, I drop it into the folder. The low moments come when I’m sitting there, staring and listening, and then I look in the folder and it’s empty, too.

But, thankfully, it wasn’t completely empty this week. There were three little tidbits in my folder, “Christmas – 2013.” One was a clipping from the internet: “Did you hear about the teenage girl with chronic bronchitis who was found to have a bit of evergreen lodged in her lung for a dozen years – the result, presumably, of inhaling the aroma of a Christmas tree when she was a toddler? The still-green sprig was removed and she’s now fine. The moral of the story? Celebrate but don’t inhale.” This brief story, in and of itself, had the potential for a pretty good lesson, maybe even saving that last line for a sermon title: “Celebrate, but don’t inhale.” But I thought the image kind of spoke for itself. So, I simply pass along the wisdom of it all.

The second was about a desperate, Massachusetts couple trying to sell their home. And in their efforts, it seems that the husband had succumbed to some peculiar customs of the area. I checked with a real estate agent friend of mine who assured me that this is not California practice, but – apparently – Joseph, besides being a carpenter and the husband of Mary, is also the patron saint of discouraged homeowners desperate to sell. So, in an effort to sell their house, the husband bought a statue of St. Joseph, and then buried it – head down – in the front yard facing his house. Yes, really.

Of course, that was last Christmas. And although it took almost a year, the couple finally received an offer. He and his wife tried not to appear too anxious, but they quickly accepted and left the neighborhood. Of particular interest was the husband’s observations about himself, especially in response to the incredulity of his family and friends at his willingness to bury a saint, head-down in his front yard.

“It’s true,” he says, “that aspects of my behavior sometimes strike me as bizarre. And yet I firmly believe that to be religious is to be ‘not all there’- not stuck in the status quo, not resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.”

And I was thinking to myself that maybe this is what Christmas was all about – a suspension of the world as it appears: the mother, the father, the baby, the angels, the shepherds, the star, the wise men. The improbable story of a virgin birth, and the child becoming the Prince of Peace.

And the improbable becomes Christmas: angels, shepherds, stars, the birth of a baby, animals, a stable, no room in the inn. We’ve heard it all before. It’s a bizarre story. How could there be such things as angels? How could anyone follow a star? To enter into this story is to “be not all there;” a religious person “not stuck in the status quo, not resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.”

So, I got to thinking that the real estate story could have been grist for a pretty good lesson this week, too. However, the “not accepting the world as it appears” message led me to the third note in my “Christmas – 2013” folder, an excerpt from Rebecca Wells’ novel, The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. It’s an exchange of letters between a daughter, Sidda, and her mother, Vivi.

Dear Mama and Daddy,

I have decided to postpone my wedding to Connor. I wanted to tell you before you hear it from someone else. I know how word spreads in Thornton. My problem is, I just don’t know what I’m doing. I just don’t know how to love. Anyway, that’s the news.

Love, Sidda

Siddalee,

Good God, child! What do you mean, you ‘don’t know how to love?’ Do you think any of us know how to love? Do you think anybody would ever do anything if they waited until they knew how to love?! Do you think that babies would ever get made or meals cooked or crops planted or books written or what-have-you? Do you think people would even get out of bed in the morning if they waited until they knew how to love? You have had too much therapy. Or not enough. God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors. Forget love. Try good manners.

Vivi Abbott Walker

If you’re lucky, maybe you’ve received a letter like that. Or, better yet, written one. “God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors. Forget love. Try good manners.” I think Vivi may be onto something. Because what she’s saying is at the heart of the Christmas message of the Incarnation, and at the core of Christian belief: God became human in the form of a baby, and was born in the most humble of places. Immanuel – God with us.

The second verse of Charles Wesley’s “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” says: Christ, by highest heaven adored; Christ, the everlasting Lord! Late in time behold him come, offspring of the Virgin’s womb. Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; Hail the incarnate Deity; Pleased as man with men to dwell, Jesus, our Emmanuel.

“God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors.” It’s all there, isn’t it? Beginning with the story of Jesus’ birth, we read on of his life and teachings, and of his death and resurrection. We don’t have to wait to love perfectly. “For God so loved the world that He gave his only son,” John says. “God knows how to love, Kiddo,” Vivi says.

“The rest of us are only good actors.” And sometimes not so good. We know best our own imperfections. But, most of the time, we manage to get out of bed in the morning. Some of us may have had too much therapy. Some of us may not have had enough. But we can’t wait to get it right. “Forget love. Try good manners.” Which is to say, the kind of love people speak of when they speak of the love of God. That kind of love is bigger than us. So, how about trying good manners, for starters.

Good manners. Like, leaving worship and acting with peace. Acting with courage even when we don’t feel like it. Not giving back evil when evil comes at us. Or, strengthening the faint heart someone else is carrying around. Supporting the weak and helping the suffering through words and deeds. Honoring all, including the grouchy neighbor next door, or the guy who cut you off in traffic this morning.

It’s Christmas. Try good manners. Listen to the story in a new way. Don’t worry about being “not all there.” Don’t be “resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.” Christmas is the story of a miracle, of the birth of peace, of infinite love, of a God of love that comes crashing into our lives in the bizarre story of a baby born in a barn in Bethlehem centuries ago, amidst the turmoil of war and government tyranny.

It’s Christmas. On second thought, don’t forget about love altogether because God so loved the world that He gave his Son. But, if you haven’t finished your shopping yet, and you can’t muster up that kind of love, try good manners, instead. Who knows? The improbable can never happen unless you say “yes” to the God for whom nothing is impossible.

Merry Christmas,

Randy