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Reading
this nativity narrative ... and looking for ways to see it
fresh ... leads me to wonder whether Mary was the kind of mother
who kept a baby book. When the Ritters took a gift to the
Hooks last Friday, Leigh was talking about something she needed
to include in Joy Elisabeth's baby book. I assume that Matt
and Leigh now have four such books. But I am willing to bet
that the book for Hunter, their firstborn, is probably the
biggest. Not because Hunter is the brightest star in the "Hook
Kinder Quartet," but because Hunter came on the scene
when there was no quartet ... or even a duet.
Now mind
you, I am not being flip. The question of a baby book for
Jesus is not all that ludicrous. In fact Luke, in this lovely
little touch, suggests that Mary may well have kept one in
her heart. I suppose that was the only way she could have
kept one, given the fact that there are no Hallmark Card Shops
in Bethlehem. I should know. I've been there. And I looked.
Actually,
it might be interesting to know what Jesus' baby book might
have contained, had Mary written in one. Think about the traditional
questions:
Describe
baby's first Christmas
Give
date, time and place of birth
Name
of attending physician
Baby's
first visitors
Baby's
first presents
Whatever
may or may not have happened ... and whatever it must have
felt like when it happened ... Mary tucked it all away and
held on to it.
But she
did more than that. She tried to make sense out of it. For
the scripture tells us that she did two things in her heart.
She "preserved" what happened and she "pondered"
it. Joseph Fitzmayer, who may be the best translator that
Luke ever had, traced the original meaning of the verb "to
ponder." It meant much more in the original Greek than
it does today. To my way of thinking, to "ponder"
something is to reflect casually upon it, with emphasis on
the word "casual." "Pondering," to me,
does not mean "puzzling," "groping" or
"probing." But it means all of that and more in
the Greek. In the original language, it would appear that
Mary "tossed these things to and fro in her heart, as
one trying to hit upon their correct meaning."
Well,
she is not alone. We who find it far easier to keep Christmas
than to understand it, are right in there with her. What do
we have here, really? Do we have history? Do we have story?
Do we have His ... story? How many facts do we have? How many
filters are we looking at them through? And what do they mean?
And if
that weren't problematical enough, we are forced to contend
with a 2000 year overlay of Christian theology, which suggests
that this baby boy is not just any baby boy ... but may just
be God's baby boy ... and may just be God. Which, you've got
to admit, is not the easiest thing in the world to comprehend.
Certainly Mary didn't "get it" then ... or ever.
And Joseph ... well, we talked about his astonishment on Christmas
Eve. Pretty near bowled him over, it did.
Between
the 9:00 and 11:00 service on Christmas Eve, I took a phone
call in the church office from Jackie Patt. It seems that
Jackie had attended the 9:00 service ... heard my story about
Joseph being blown over on the front lawn of my previous church ... heard
my word about Joseph's inability to comprehend it all ("Oh
God, it's a boy" or "Oh boy, it's a God") ... and
said: "Have I got a Joseph story for you."
It seems
that several years ago ... when she was a little girl growing
up in this church ... Jackie was Mary. The occasion was a Christmas
pageant which took place in Fellowship Hall. And she looked
very lovely ... and entered very properly ... and sat very serenely ... in
a chair, just for her, on the stage. She was backed by Joseph,
fronted by Jesus, and surrounded by angels. Joseph's hands
rested comfortably on the back of her chair. Until the chair
began to shake. First gently. Then violently. Followed by
a small Josephean thud ... and by a large angelic scattering ... as
Joseph fainted dead away.
Well,
not quite "dead away." Stagehands dragged him off.
The show went on. And the audience was none the wiser. But
something got to Joseph. And as to whether Jackie (or the
original Mary) have figured it out yet, who can say?
But while
you are working on that, I want to interrupt your concentration
for awhile to tell you the story of the twins, John and Michael.
Don't worry about how the story fits anything that has gone
before. Just listen to it.
John and
Michael were identical twins with an incredible capacity for
numbers. You may have read about them or seen the television
documentary about their lives. They have been the subjects
for numerous psychological tests and experiments. Their talent
for numbers is truly amazing. The twins will ask you to give
them a date taken from any point in the calendar over the
last 4,000 years, or projected into the next 4,000 years.
So you give them a date, something like April 19, 1356, A.D.
and they will tell you on what day of the week it fell. Their
memory for digits is remarkable and, evidentially, unlimited.
Furthermore,
they seem to have total recall from about their fourth birthday
on. You ask them what happened on February 4, 1940. Their
eyes will roll for a minute, fixate, and then they will recite
the weather on that day, the events of history that happened
then, and the things they remember as having experienced personally,
on that date, in their lives.
Some of
those memories evoke the painful anguish of their childhood,
including the contempt, the jeers, and the mortification they
endured as children. Because, you see, the twins are physically
deformed, mentally retarded, and classified as "schizoid."
They have spent most of their lives in mental hospitals. Their
performances with numbers, apart from the controlled experiments
they do for the psychiatrists, are little more than "routines"
they have developed to entertain people at hospital talent
shows and ward parties.
I am told
that they belong to a class known as "autistic-savants,"
and that they are mentally defective in all areas except one.
But in that area they perform with extraordinary power. When
asked how they can do what they do with numbers, the twins
say: "We see them." And, evidently, they really
do. It would seem that they see them with some inner eye,
given that you can see their eyes rolling, as if they are
viewing a rapidly-rewinding tape, which contains the trillion
or more events that have occurred in their lifetime.
To those
of us who must carry around notes reminding ourselves of what
we are supposed to do on any given day, and then (more often
than not) lose the notes, such powers are uncommon to say
the least. But there have been others with similar capacities.
If you are among those who marveled at the movie Amadeus,
you recall much discussion about the genius of Mozart. You
will especially recall how incomprehensible Mozart's genius
appeared to his arch-rival, the court composer, Scoliari.
It appeared that Mozart could see the melodies and harmonies
of entire pieces in his head, so that the act of composing
on paper resembled an act of copying notes already seen, rather
than the tedious efforts of trial and error.
In fact,
it is said of Mozart that when he was two years old, he was
taken to a pig farm. Upon hearing a pig squeal, Mozart apparently
shouted "G sharp." Sure enough, someone ran to a
piano and G sharp it was.
The twins
have a similar genius, only for numbers. Once a box of matches
fell to the floor. Instantaneously and simultaneously the
twins called out: "One hundred and eleven." This
happened to be the exact number of all the matches when picked
from the floor and counted. But the twins said: "We did
not count them, even by sound. We just saw one hundred and
eleven."
But forget
the stunts. Listen to what the twins do to amuse themselves
in private. One day the psychologist saw them sitting quietly
in the corner of the ward. He noticed a smile on their faces,
the kind of smile that radiated an inner serenity that we
have often called "a sense of calm and peace." The
psychologist sat down quietly, in a way that enabled him to
listen to them, unobserved. John would say a six-figure number.
Then Michael would catch the number, nod, smile, then offer
a six-digit number of his own. John would acknowledge Michael's
number, as if appreciating it in the way that a connoisseur
of art would appreciate an object of great beauty.
Puzzled
by this, the psychologist wrote down the numbers they were
reciting, in hopes of finding some thread of meaning. Later,
at home, it came to him. Each of the numbers was a prime number,
meaning that it could not be divided evenly by any other whole
number except the number one. So the psychologist got a book
of prime numbers and began to study them.
He took
the book with him the next time he returned to the hospital.
Finding the twins reciting prime numbers of six digits, he
waited until they got used to his physical presence. Eventually,
and very quietly, he inserted into the conversation his own
number, a eight-digit prime. The twins were startled. They
stopped. Then they stared at him for a complete minute. Finally
they nodded, and smiled. They got it!
In fact,
it was a double joy that came into their faces. There was
the joy of considering a brand new number. And there was the
joy of discovering a brand new player. They moved their chairs,
the better to include him in. Then John thought of a new number.
A nine-digit prime. Michael responded with a nine-digit prime
of his own. The psychologist, who had a cheat-sheet hidden
in his hand, peeked downward, adding a ten-digit prime. John
and Michael engaged in deep thought, then each produced a
twelve-digit number. Now the psychologist was out. His crib
sheet only went to ten figures. But an hour later the game
was still going on, with both boys up to twenty-digit primes.
Well,
the psychologist drew some fascinating conclusions from all
of this. He concluded that the twins, who incidentally can't
calculate, do basic arithmetic, divide or subtract, nevertheless
have what can only be called "a sense for numbers."
They possess this gift in the same way that musicians have
"a sense for harmony." Indeed, in publishing his
research findings, the psychologist compared Michael and John
to musicians, even quoting the words of Sir Thomas Browne:
Whoever
is harmonically composed delights in harmony and delights,
further, in a profound contemplation of the First Composer.
But maybe
it is not just music and math that can tap into the greater
harmonies and wholeness of God's marvelous universe. Maybe
other disciplines can do so as well. One day someone asked
the great atomic physicist, Robert Oppenheimer about the quotations
on the blackboard in his laboratory: "Why do you do all
of this?" And referring back to his quotations, Oppenheimer
said: "Because they are so beautiful."
But push
the idea a little bit further. You've come this far, don't
give up on me now. Listen to Mark Trotter's amazing suggestion
that perhaps the soul is harmonical. No matter what your intelligence ... no
matter what your education ... maybe the soul responds (resonates,
if you will) to wholeness and harmony. In fact, it may be
that the soul not only resonates to harmony, but goes looking
for it.
And what
the twins show us is this. Perhaps when our lives are deprived
of the capacities that ordinary people develop in order to
function in this so-called normal world ... capacities like
brainpower, schooling and socialization ... then maybe (in
some exaggerated way) the soul becomes free to do what it
was created to do, namely to seek out and experience the harmony
and wholeness in all of creation. Perhaps it is nothing less
than the capacity to behold the First Composer...the Most
Prime Number ... or, in more traditional language, to see God
as He is.
If what
I am saying is even remotely true, then it follows that reason
cannot find God. Neither can it see him. Reason can frame
the right questions for the search. And reason can organize
whatever answers there may be. But the mind cannot grasp God.
And if it could, He wouldn't be God; for the lesser cannot
grasp the greater. Which makes faith not only a matter of
believing things, but also a matter of sensing them ... sensing
the harmony that is in all things ... and, through the harmony,
sensing the First Composer.
Back,
then, to Christmas. How can Mary "toss all of these things
to and fro" and hope to hit upon their right meaning?
How can any of us? Can Christmas be comprehended? Or must
it be apprehended? Do we think our way into Christmas with
the head? Or do we feel our way into Christmas with the heart?
Have you ever noticed that at every crucial point in the New
Testament, where the writer stops trying to tell what happened,
and starts trying to articulate the idea that God is present
in the midst of what's happening, that the language borders
on the fantastic and the incredible.
At Jesus'
birth, angels sing in the skies.
At Jesus'
baptism, a mysterious voice is heard from heaven.
At Jesus'
death, darkness covers the earth and earthquakes shake the
very rocks apart.
At Jesus'
resurrection, angels appear, as does an unrecognized gardener.
What's more, there is an empty tomb and a body that can walk
through doors.
At Pentecost,
mysterious tongues of flame come to rest on the heads of the
disciples, accompanied by the roaring of a gale-force wind.
Incredible
language! And the writer chooses it precisely because it strains
and defies credibility. For so does the idea of a God who
enters human history. Therefore, why should Christmas be credible?
Why should Mary understand it? Why should any of us? As with
Joseph, out blowing in the wind, we lean heavenward, not quite
knowing whether to shout:
"Oh
God, it's a boy" ... or
"Oh
boy, it's a God."
But, you
see, the heart knows there is something here in Christmas.
Something that hints of harmony ... not just the kind of harmony
that exists when people are a little kinder to each other
in December ... but the kind of harmony that exists when people
are sucked out of themselves, into something bigger than themselves
and, therefore, closer to God.
Let me
take you back (as we close) to the story of the twins. After
being together for something like 40 years, it was decided
by the professionals who cared for them, to separate them
("for their own good"). It was hoped that the separation
would end their unhealthy communication, the better that they
might develop other capacities that would enable them to lead
more normal lives. So in 1997 they were separated, put in
halfway houses, and given menial jobs to do in the community.
As a result, they lost their powers. For without their communion
with each other, they lost their sense of the wholeness of
things.
Well,
perhaps there is a parable there, too. If the birth of Jesus
is meant to be a visual reminder of the God in whom the wholeness
of things resides, I suppose it is imperative that we maintain
communion with him. So, if I were you, I wouldn't get too
far from Jesus. At any rate, it's worth pondering.
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