Most of us
have heard this majestic and abstract poem from John’s Gospel, filled with
mystical and evocative images like, “The Word became flesh and lived
among us.”
Okay. So?
The image of
God dwelling among us is beautiful and a bit abstract, but what does it mean?
What kind of dwelling? A castle? A Frank Lloyd Wright house like Falling Waters?
An ante-bellum mansion?
We can
imagine all kinds of dwelling places for God —but what about a tent? That might
have been the preferred residence of a semi-nomadic people in the ancient near
east. What kind of dwelling do you think God would prefer?
A small-town
paper in another city recently reported on the growing population of homeless
people in their community. The paper reported how the word got out about a
local storefront ministry that serves hot breakfasts and lunches seven days a
week, and a 90-day transitional housing program they run. The trouble is that
people came from miles around pitching tents on vacant lots, and hanging out
all day waiting for their next meal. Predictably, many local residents and
small business owners were unhappy. Either they were concerned that there
wouldn’t be enough food to go around, or, more often, they were afraid that
this wave of homeless folks might send the wrong signal and hurt business,
especially right before Christmas. So the idea of anyone pitching a tent in that
town—except for scouts in the backyard—was viewed with suspicion and the police
were called.
John’s Gospel
tells us that the Word, the Logos, was in the Beginning before Creation
dwelt among us— and that the logos dwelt—lived, camped out, worked with
and interacted with ordinary people every day.
How would you
feel about the Christ showing up in our backyard and asking us to pitch his
tent right next to our house. I don’t know about you, but that makes me feel a
bit… vulnerable.
I remember a
long time ago going on a camping trip as a teenager with my Baptist youth
group. I shared tent with three other boys in the group and soon, instead of
sleeping, we were having a frank conversation about life in our high school and
the questions we faced, the uncertainties we felt… the girls we liked. The next
morning at breakfast, the youth pastor said to me quietly as he was flipping
pancakes “You know, I could hear you four talking last night.” I suppose I
ought to have been embarrassed; but if I was, I don’t remember feeling that way
for very long. Because that conversation cemented friendships that has survived
geography and the decades.
Another thing
about tents: they are always a bit dirty, no matter how careful you are about
keeping your shoes outside. After a few days of wrapping up the same tent and
hiking or biking to the next place, it can get a little well… ripe.
Dirtiness and
exposure. We might want to put on our Sunday best to come to church, but when
God comes to dwell among us, he is okay with a little dirt and some
vulnerability. Jesus would not do well on social media because has a lot to
learn about managing his reputation!
The problem
for us though is just that--- vulnerability and with it how to be
interconnected and appropriately intimate. A recent cover story for The
Atlantic explored the steady delay and decline in intimate
relationships (not just marriage) among younger people. We live in an age and
culture where self-sufficiency and independence are upheld as attainable goals.
If you lack a cup of sugar, don’t bother your neighbors, just run to the super
store. Don’t know how to fix something? Pull up a YouTube video on your
smartphone. Need a ride to the airport? Don’t ask a friend Uber instead, all you need is your credit card. Small-talk
optional.
Genuine
intimacy is risky. It means that we’ll be exposed, with all our anxiety, imperfections,
short-tempers, and quick assumptions for all to see. Nope, in our culture, we
will either say “No, thank you. I’ll take care of myself” or else pay a
professional to provide for our physical needs.
Contrast this
to what God does in Christ. Later in the same verse, when St. John tells us
that the Word, the logos, the Christ, Jesus, has come to pitch his
tent among us, he says that we have seen Jesus’ glory—and it is full of grace
and truth. Grace and truth. Imagine: the majesty of God in street clothes.
Which leads
to our second discomfort: It’s hard enough to entertain the idea of Jesus
pitching a tent in our backyards, it is even harder to let his Spirit take up
residence in our hearts,
But, as Paul says
in Galatians, we need the assurance of Christ’s grace—the loving confidence and
relief that comes from knowing that God sees us exactly as who we are—but
through the divine lens of mercy, loving-kindness, and unconditional love.
And that
assurance of God’s grace, of God’s desire to be with us—no matter how much we fear
being exposed, being caught with metaphorical dirt under our nails, no matter
how much we want to hide because of our shame, our guilt, or just the fact that
we are imperfect, never measuring up to the person we’d like to be—that
assurance is the greatest gift we can receive. It is the gift of the
Incarnation, the gift of Emmanuel – God-with-us. That is the gift
of Christmas. That is why God is born a fully human person.
The
invitation of the Christmas season is to accept the gift. To enter into, as we
did at Baptism, a lifelong process of growing more comfortable with God, ourselves,
our living, and our relationships, “Just as I am,” as the old hymn says.
Once upon a
time, I was a church that had a small Saturday night service. One cold rainy night a person showed up at church
looking for food and help. He was drenched and scruffy looking. He lived in a
tent that he pitched on the Delaware River, but his tent was washed away in the
rain. I was at a loss as to how to help. So, while I was thinking about phone
numbers, and whom to contact, and how to access this or that agency, three of our Saturday night worship regulars got to
work. They invited him to a restaurant for food, one of the group went into her
trunk and gave him a tarp to rebuilt his tent. Others found him dry clothes
from our donations pile to the local clothing bank. Maybe it wasn’t the best
casework on the planet, but I will never forget their spontaneous and pragmatic
compassion. It was as if Jesus showed up unannounced and dwelt amongst us… and
these folks passed the test.
The Feast of
the Incarnation, Christmas, show us that Jesus pitched his tent in the middle
of the messiness of the human condition, and here he lives our struggle, our uncertainty,
our finitude, our sin, our truth. And through his incarnation, death, and
resurrection he shows us—welcomes us—as Jesus’ brother, or sister, as adopted
children of God.
God in Jesus pitches
his tent among us and dwells with us, so that we may dwell with him, become
homes for the Holy Spirit, and welcome all kinds of people from every possible
place and situation into God’s kingdom.
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