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"The Wonder" Sermon by Brian Russo December 27, 2009, Presbyterian Church of Chestnut Hill Luke 2:39-52 It was just 48 hours ago. 48 hours since we celebrated the first Noel; 48 hours since we revered that oh-so-little town of Bethlehem; 48 hours since we sang how the most silent of nights turned into one of the world's most historic of joys. And yet. what really excited me during all that, what really fascinates me still about this entire Christmas season, is the wonder of what came next. And no, just to be clear, I'm not talking about came next after we spent our Eve; about how some of us just may have woken up on Christmas Day with a headache perhaps derived from unnatural causes. ahem, hangover. Or about how some of us acted like ungrateful children, disappointed with Santa for not getting us exactly what our grubby little fingers asked for on our list - and yes, adults can have grubby little fingers too. Yes, even I, your beloved pastor in training has been guilty of such. I remember this one time, at my Father's house, on a snowy Christmas Eve where I was particularly unbecoming toward my cousin, Laura. You see, every year for like seven straight years, Laura had baked a batch of Christmas M&M cookies, and would make sure they were served after dinner to my uncontained delight. But this one year, there were no cookies, and suffice it to say, I let her know of, candidly, my disappointment. Well, can you imagine just how ridiculous and ashamed I became once I opened her wrapped present later that night, only to discover that she did indeed bake those cookies, but that she made them exclusively for me in the form of a present? Thank God enough time has passed that I/we can laugh at that now, but it certainly still makes me quiver at how pathetic and disgraceful I was. But really, this is neither here nor there, for this is not what I intended to talk about this Sunday morning, no matter how interested you may or may not be in hearing about my flaws. No, the message for us this day resonates within the wonder of what came after that first Noel. For me, I've always wondered. what was Jesus like after he was born? What kind of infant was he? Was he like you and I? Did he cry for his mother, reach out with the tiniest of fingers for Joseph's thumb? Was he self-aware? Did he know of his divinity, or better, of his fully human and fully divine endowment? These are questions that have always fascinated me, if for no other reason than mere fascination itself. Or perhaps they have forever been a source of intrigue because of the seeming paradox between how we conceptualize Christ and the probable reality of Jesus himself. Consider this, in one of our favorite Christmas carols, "Away in a Manger," we sing, "The cattle are lowing / the poor Baby wakes / but little Lord Jesus / no crying He makes." "No crying he makes" - did Jesus really not cry? It's odd, but it seems to me that singing this hymn over and over again, each and every Christmas, has almost made me balk in thought that Jesus could ever cry. Of course, we all know that he wept at the death of his friend Lazarus, but the thought of Jesus uncontrollably crying, making a scene if you will, with Mary and Joseph looking cautiously around in that nervous form of shame many of you know so well - as if your child's crying is somehow an extension of poor parenting (which obviously it is not) - is just something that seems at odds with our thinking of Christ, isn't it? Nick Baines, a bishop in the Church of England, some years ago came under fire for his lambasting of the carol, "Away in a Manger." Baines felt that it was, or should be, a cause of embarrassment for Christian adults. He asked, are we really to think that Jesus didn't cry after being born into this world? That he was clean, perfect, smelled right and silent? Does this not only encourage the adversaries of Christianity into mocking us at such a discord of reality? To fend off attacks from the offended Christian circle, Baines' wrote in a subsequent book, "I am just not prepared to encourage people to live in a fantasy world, but doing my job as a Christian bishop in calling people back to the original story. Grasp it - and then celebrate hard and fully. I'll be belting out the carols and watching the nativity plays along with the rest of them. But I will also be living in the real world and engaging my brain." Perhaps indeed, all of this is silly, that is to condemn a carol as a source of detachment for Christians, but I nonetheless think that Baines' point is a good one. For to engage your brain when dealing with the peculiarities of the nativity, and for that matter, all of the subsequent gospel writings, is a quest that ought to be sought for the 2009/2010 Christian. Furthermore, I think it's imperative, enlightening, and fun mind you, to even ask the most simple of questions of our "knowledge" of Jesus. Did he cry? Did he whine? Did he grow into an adolescent boy, who at times questioned his father's judgment? Did he ever talk back to his mother? Did he stay out late with friends, when he ought to have been at home getting rest for the day of work ahead? And does any of this, all of it, even matter? In my mind, probably not, but nonetheless, I just can't help being seduced by the wonder. In scripture, we are left without a fingerpost of what Jesus did in his infancy or his youth. In fact, outside of our text today in Luke, we are left without any notice of Christ's comings and goings for his first 30-something years of his life. What was he doing during all that time? Why did it take him 30 years to begin his ministry? Or perhaps, more appropriate than all of these questions, why did the writers, these supposed disciples, friends, and followers of Christ leave out the most formative years of his "calling". The wonder. In 1945, near the Egyptian town, Nag Hammadi, a collection of early Gnostic Christian codices were found buried in the sand. Contained within these codices were long-lost texts of early Christian movements, peculiar in meaning and surprising in word. As assumedly most of you already know of this discovery, I will spare you all of the details, and rather focus more keenly on one particular text that was unearthed. Scholars call it The Infancy Gospel of Thomas. Scholars date this work to the late second century, about 150 years after Jesus' death. And don't let the title fool you, this is not about the disciple Thomas' infancy, rather it is about Jesus'. (Gasp!). You see, soon after the canonical gospels were circulated, people like you and I, began to wonder about the "splices" - the missing pieces of Jesus' life. Why do we only get a picture of the final three years, what about the first 30; and that my friends, is where this gospel finds its relevance. For even if its veracity can be, and probably ought to be questioned, The Infancy's account espouses a theological narrative, which seeks to explain just how and when the Christ Child grew into the Prince of Peace of the New Testament. But before I continue, I simply ask for you to keep in mind that The Infancy narrative employs a direct theological correlation to verse 52 in Luke 2, our text for this morning: "And Jesus increased in wisdom and in stature, and in divine and human favor." Increased in Divine favor. So in the Infancy gospel, we see Jesus as what leading theologian, Dominic Crossan, calls a "Divine Brat." He blinds men, belittles teachers, and even, quite horribly, kills other children. Obviously, this is not the Jesus we are used to hearing about. But, as he ages and matures in years he also increases in wisdom, such that Jesus begins to learn that his power can be, and should be, channeled for the good of humanity. By the end of the gospel, Jesus is witnessed multiplying crops for the poor and healing those stricken with sickness; and lo and behold, the narrative officially ends with a retelling of Jesus at the Temple, just as we see in Luke, therefore filling in the gaps of the Christ Child's upbringing. Now, should we take the Infancy Gospel as historical fact - I would hope and believe that we should not. History, back then, was a funny word anyway. Gospels weren't written as an eyewitness account, like that which we see reported by our nightly news anchors, or even TMZ for that matter. Rather than trying to get each detail excruciatingly accurate (please don't infer that I think news anchors/TMZ are successful at this!), it was the message of the story that was crucial. And might I say, the message that both Luke and The Infancy Gospel speak to us today is nothing short of profoundly appropriate. For as we gaze into the New Year approaching, wouldn't it be just and right to learn to use our gifts, our blessings, our talents and "powers" for the betterment of our societies? That we would cease to strike down our neighbor, but rather exorcise our abilities to lift her and him up? Isn't this, after all, why we celebrate the Christmas season to begin with? That on that most silent of nights, a babe was born in a manger, who later increased in such wisdom and divine favor, so to teach and leave with us the greatest commandment of them all - to love thy neighbor as thyself. But surely some of you are silently asking, did Jesus really increase in anything? Was he not, in fact, always perfect as the good doctrine tells us? To be honest, I simply can't answer that. I mean, not to be totally blasphemous here, but do you think that Jesus could throw a javelin particularly well, shoot a better jump shot than Michael Jordan, or run faster than Usain Bolt? Who knows, but probably not. Thus, I also suspect that somewhere in Jesus' upbringing, he had to learn the language, to learn social constructions, of Rome and governmental policies, of really just the way that life worked. Remembering Baines' challenge then, it's simply too hard for me to rationally consider otherwise, that all of these things were instantly known to him by the waking-memory age of five. But even after saying all of that, what I do know, what I can declare is that Jesus was born in a manger, into one of the poorest of classes (the carpentry/artisan profession was considered just above a slave in social status, mind you), and he yet finished his life on the cross as one of the richest in historical importance. Assured of such, wouldn't it be wondrous, and fun even, to seek the biography of all that happened in between? Wouldn't this excite your faith, keeping it fresh and engaging? For to claim to have understood everything, to know everything, infers that your journey of faith is over. But unless you are omniscient, it is never truly over, but rather open, beginning, and continuing; increasing in wisdom by increasing in years. Keep the wonder alive. Amen. |