In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Amen.
Merry
Christmas! It is a joy to be with you this most holy of mornings. As it often
is, the Gospel text for Christmas morning, which this year also happens to be
the Lord’s Day, is the prologue from the Gospel according to John. This is one
of the best-known passages in all of Scripture and it really captures what we
might call the most important claim of our faith – that the Word became flesh.
Sure, the Cross was important, and so was the Resurrection, as was Jesus’
teaching, but none of that happens if the Word doesn’t become flesh first. So
this morning, before us is the cornerstone of our Christian faith and life.
John
certainly provides a different sort of nativity story. No angels, no magi, no shepherds,
not even Mary and Joseph. Rather, it is a cosmic nativity story. There are many
themes that are packed into this theologically dense passage. We might consider
how John presents the coming of Christ as a commentary on the Creation
narrative from Genesis. No one who knows their Bible can hear the phrase “In
the beginning” without thinking of the first verse of Genesis. John borrows
that phrase to retell that same Creation narrative, to show us that same story
from another angle, one that makes it clear that the Word was very much a part
of that Creative action. That would make the start of a fine sermon, maybe next
year.
We
might also consider the use of the symbols of light and darkness and how that
light enlightens the world and isn’t overcome by the darkness. Again, a fine
sermon could be built on that foundation. Maybe another time though. Or we
could use this text to explore our own discipleship as we think about whether
or not we know Christ and receive him. A fine sermon could consider what this
Word made flesh looks like, namely, as John puts it, in glory, grace, and
truth. I think I’ve preached that before, and it’s not quite time to revamp
that one.
Instead,
in this entire passage there is one word that is worthy of focusing on this
morning: flesh. John writes “And the Word became flesh and lived among us.” It
would be easy to pass over the particularity of that word “flesh,” but to do so
would be to miss out on the depth and radicalism of this central claim of our
faith. John had the entirety of the Greek language at his disposal when he
wrote these words. He could have easily said “The Word was born of Mary,” or
“The Word became a man,” or “The Word became human,” or “The Word dwelled
within Jesus.” But no, none of those is quite right.
Scholars
tell us that this passage is likely one of the oldest hymns of the early
church. We have no idea what the music that accompanied these words may have
sounded like, but these verses, at least in John’s community, would have been
as well-known as “Joy to the World” or “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” And as we
know from poetry and song-lyrics, word choice is deliberate. The point of the
Word becoming flesh isn’t that God got a life, but rather that God got flesh.
In
Christian language, we call this the Incarnation. You might think of the Spanish
word for steak, carne. That is what
Incarnation is about, not just God coming to visit us as a vision, as a
manifestation, as a spirit of some sort, but that God got fleshy. So much of
our lives, philosophies and sometimes even our faith are about trying to escape
our flesh, and yet that is exactly how God chooses to come. Theologian Karl
Barth once wrote that “God may speak to us through Russian Communism, a flute
concerto, a blossoming shrub, or a dead dog. We do well to listen to Him if He
really does.” And certainly, God can speak to us through those means. But in
Jesus, God chooses to speak to us most fully through flesh, and so we ought to
pay attention to it.
So
often we try to transcend our flesh. We try to rise above it through science,
trying to achieve what is beyond our physical limitations. I recently listened
to an interview with the author of a new book called “Getting High,” and it’s
not about what you think. It’s a book that chronicles humanity’s desire to get
as high off of the surface as possible. It started with towers, and then it was
flying machines, and then rockets. He sees this human desire to get higher to
be indicative of our attempts to transcend ourselves and gain a higher
perspective, assuming that if we can just get high enough up, that we’ll
finally understand all of the mysteries of life and the universe.
Sometimes
we deny our flesh through the beauty industry; we quite literally make
ourselves look unnatural, trying to escape the scars, the aging, the
imperfections of our flesh. In other ways we try to transcend our flesh by the
insistence that we have an immortal soul that is somehow superior to our
bodies, which are just sacks of blood and bones. But to take this position is
to deny the worldview of the Old Testament, and also the Resurrection of Jesus,
which clearly has a physical dimension to it. Even atheists do this by making
the intellect their means of escaping the world of the flesh and retreating to
the realm of the mind. But God doesn’t come as an idea, a written statement, or a
theological doctrine, but as flesh. God’s love isn’t a concept, not an idea to
be debated, not a disembodied argument that you can take or leave as you see
fit, but God’s love came down in a very real and tangible and undebatable body
of flesh and blood.
The
Incarnation puts the brakes on all of the attempts to dismiss our fleshiness.
In fact, the phrase “The Word became flesh” is a sort of oxymoron. In Greek
thought, that word, logos, means
“logic,” “reason,” or “word.” So even within John’s introduction to Jesus,
there is a defiance that this is not somehow about elevating our status to a
higher realm. Rather, the Incarnation is all about God coming to us on our
terms. In Jesus, God takes on flesh, and all that goes along with it. Jesus
knew pain, he suffered, he sweat, he bled, he cried, he was hungry. Having
flesh means being fragile, being susceptible to brokenness, betrayal, disease,
decay, even death. And in order for us to know the grace, truth, mercy, peace,
and love of God, God is willing to take part in the messiness and fragility of
our flesh.
And
that is quite the powerful and radical claim. Jews and Muslims find it utterly
inconceivable that the Creator of the Universe could or would ever become
flesh. And on the other side, Universalists find the claim to be disturbing
because it means that God is specifically known in Jesus. Because if the
Eternal Logos takes on flesh, well, then we have no choice but to pay attention
to it.
In taking our on our
flesh, God redeems the idea of our flesh. No longer are our bodies seen as
traps for our souls, no more is the flesh sinful. Because if flesh is good
enough for God, then it is good indeed. And this is something that our society
deeply needs to know: flesh is good. Sex is not shameful. Bodies of all shapes
and sizes should be given dignity. Our flesh, with all of the weird sounds,
smells, and sensations that come from it, is indeed very holy, so holy in fact
that it once held God.
The
taking on of flesh by God though had a purpose beyond simply reminding us of
the embedded holiness of all of God’s Creation, including our flesh. Throughout
John, faith is not as much as what you believe about Jesus, but rather what
sort of relationship you have with him. Is it a relationship of trust or one of
alienation? As John writes in this passage “All things came into being through
him.” This means that by the very fact that we have flesh, we are created by
God and are in a relationship with God. But the question that John wants us to
consider is what sort of relationship it is.
God
comes to us on our terms so that we can see first-hand what God looks like. And
in Jesus, we see that God looks like dignity for all people, God looks like
brotherly and sisterly love between all people, God looks like not forgetting
any people, God looks like a deep and intimate relationship with the Father. In
becoming flesh, God takes an enormous risk. By coming down from on high, God
becomes vulnerable to rejection and death, both of which are a part of Jesus’
story. But in Jesus, we see that this doesn’t scare God off, it doesn’t keep
God away, it doesn’t make God love us any less. God continues to risk, and
trust, and love by becoming flesh. And by doing so, God gives us the confidence
to respond with risking, trusting, and loving.
God doesn’t give us a set
of directions and say “Do this and you can join me in Heaven.” God isn’t the
prize at the end of the game if we play our cards right. No, God comes to us in
our flesh to say “Let me show you how this is done” and “How about if I do it
with you.” But this only happens because God makes himself subject to our
flesh. This is what the Incarnation, what Christmas is all about. The miracle
that God is intimately knowable.
So this year, instead of
packing Christmas up in boxes and storing it away in the attic, maybe you keep
an ornament out on a shelf or mantle to remind you that things are good and
holy, including your body. It can remind you of God’s love for you in Jesus. It
can remind you that God is with us as one who can be trusted and loved. Perhaps
this Christmas might be more than a holiday, but an opportunity to go deeper
into our faith, just as God came deeper into our flesh. The Word became flesh –
thanks be to God.
