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If I am not
mistaken, it was the late E. Stanley Jones who told of an
elementary-age schoolboy who was sent back to America by his
missionary father because the education he could get in a
boarding school here would be far superior to the education he
could get in a village school there. The boy accepted the
logic behind his return to the States and, separated from his
family, actually did quite well. Until Christmastime. Hearing
reports that the boy was nursing a pretty good case of
pre-holiday blues, the headmaster paid a visit to his room.
Before leaving, he asked if there was one thing, more than any
other, that he would like for Christmas. Whereupon the boy,
looking at the photograph of his father hanging on the wall
above his bed, said: "All I want is for my father to step
out of that frame."
Well, that kid has
plenty of company. For many of you would say the same thing to
a photograph that hangs on one of your walls, or sets on one
of your tables. "If only, just for one night, you could
step out of that frame." I know I have pictures like that
at my house, along with wishes like that in my heart. And so
do you. I know you do.
I suppose it would
be simple to suggest that Christmas Eve is the night our
heavenly Father stepped out of the frame….the better to meet
and greet us in the flesh. For isn’t that what John (who
wasn’t into nativities) said about the Word….that it
became flesh and dwelt among us….full of grace….full of
truth….sufficient so that we could see it….and in seeing
it, experience a small splash of its glory?
People had been on
God’s case for a long time to step out of the frame. And,
insofar as I can discern it, we are on it still (God’s case,
I mean). "Make thyself plain," is one way of putting
it….not "plain" as in "bland," but
"plain" as in "clear."
The problem,
however, is that there is no clear consensus about which God….and
which frame. Some want a Father who is a fighter. Others want
a Father who is a forgiver. Still others, a Father who is a
befriender. And nobody would turn their back upon a Father who
is a lover. Although, now that I say it, I’m not all that
sure.
Trying (as I get
paid to do) to put my finger on the pulse of this particular
year, I think I know the kind of Father we are looking for….the
kind of Incarnation we want. I think the One we want to see
step from the frame is a Father who looks like an ice hockey
linesman. You know who I mean. I’m talking about the guy in
the striped shirt….no name on his back….who skates in and
around play (more or less anonymously)…. blowing the whistle
when anyone ventures off-side….signaling infractions when
rules are flagrantly violated….and occasionally jumping into
the fray and breaking up fights. A hockey linesman knows that
fights are inevitable….that they are part of the game
(sometimes, the greater part of the game, as in Johnny Carson’s
old joke about going to Madison Square Garden for a prize
fight, only to see a hockey game break out). But the linesman
waits for just the right moment in a fight and then skates in….separating
the combatants….hauling this one off that one….doing
whatever needs to be done to restore a bit of order.
I suppose that
this hockey image surfaced in my head because my daughter….my
sweet, serene daughter….my Harvard- matriculating daughter….my
corporate-bound, turn-the-recession-
around-overnight-once-I-graduate daughter….called earlier in
the fall to announce that she had joined the Harvard Business
School women’s hockey team. Not because she’d ever played
hockey before. Not because she’d ever worn a pair of hockey
skates before. And not because she’d taken many twirls
around a frozen pond before. So why did she do it? Because,
like the mountain (I guess), it was there. Now, every time I
talk to her, instead of inquiring about her grades, I ask
about her teeth.
She claims that
girls’ games have rules against body checking. But what I
want to know is whether they also have rules against boarding,
tripping, spearing, slashing, or otherwise….in any way….for
any reason….at any time….disfiguring my daughter’s
pretty face. Lacking such rules, I guess I’ll just have to
trust the linesman.
Oh, if only God
would step out of history’s frame tonight….strong of hand….swift
of skate…. striped of shirt….and roll through Bethlehem
(and every town and village within 90 miles). That way, God
could sort out the mayhem….separating this one from that one….pulling
that one off this one….sending everybody to their respective
benches, locker rooms or bedrooms (maybe even without supper)….handing
out penalties where appropriate (don’t they sometimes call
the penalty box, "The Sin Bin"?)….two minutes for
spearing….five minutes for fighting….eight minutes for
grenade throwing….eleven minutes for settlement leveling….
twenty-three minutes for suicide bombing….complete with game
misconducts for the recalcitrant and unrepentant….and maybe
even life misconducts for those who not only inflict pain and
sorrow, but sneer and laugh while others suffer and die.
I’m not
necessarily proud of this feeling or comfortable with this
longing, but there are times when virtues like peace, harmony,
justice and righteousness seem so far in the distance, that
the restoration of order seems like a wondrous gift, indeed.
As every policeman who has ever responded to a domestic
violence call knows, you can’t work things out until you
first calm things down.
But when God steps
out of Bethlehem’s frame….now as well as then….he is
neither swift of step nor striped of shirt. He does not skate
from the womb or the frame. He restores nothing. He penalizes
no one. For he comes as a baby. That’s right, a baby. Love
is a baby, tonight….who, in his infancy, will ask more of us
than he will bring to us. For, in the short run, we will have
to take care of him….he, who in the eternal scheme of
things, was born to take care of us.
But I have noticed
something about life. I have noticed the most precious things
tend to require the most cautious handling and the most
delicate care. Babies come into the world with "special
handling" stickers attached. As do marriages….friendships….
congregations….not to mention truces, cease-fires, coalition
governments and dreams (especially dreams). In a world where
people continually drop the ball, we had better not drop the
baby.
For to all who
would receive the baby….welcome the baby….hold the baby….open
their hearts to the baby…. amazing things can happen. After
more than a quarter century of no babies on my side of the
family, my niece Lauren was born last year at Christmastime.
This week, she turned one. We spent last night together at a
family dinner. Now concerning my extended family, you need to
know that Norman Rockwell never knocked on our door and
suggested painting us for posterity. So watching a
one-year-old draw us close to her….and (in the process) draw
us closer to each other…..I was freshly impressed with how
much one so new can do. But then, God has known this all
along.
Not everybody
welcomes children. It is a common practice for adults….especially
for adults who have a lot of nice things and want to protect
them….to childproof their homes, making sure that visiting
children can’t touch anything of value. Leading Don Rush, a
columnist out of Florida, to write: "My wife and I
childproofed our home three years ago, and they’re still
getting in." As will this one, my friends. You can count
on it. For whatever else Christmas is, it is the story of a
child who will not be denied.
* * * * *
Christmas Eve –
2001. Like the song will soon remind us, the night is silent
now….especially (and sadly) in Bethlehem, where the silence
has nothing to do with reverence and everything to do with
fear. Which does not mean that Jesus cannot be born there, but
that only those who have no choice but to live there will
welcome him there. Which is all right….maybe even good….
because if healing should start and metastasize from anywhere,
maybe it should start and metastasize from Bethlehem.
Fewer of us are
flying high this Christmas. And those of us who are, are being
forced to shed our shoes at the airport. But, as with most
things, there’s biblical precedent for that, too. Thanks be
to God, we are grounded in faith, although we have
rediscovered that holding fast to one religion gives no
mandate to wipe out all the others.
As for me and
mine, life is good….church is good….we are good. To be
able to work in a place where we are wanted, needed and valued
is a blessing that many covet, but few receive. At the end of
the working day, the sweat of my labor is still sweet to the
taste, leaving me wanting more.
In a little while,
we shall sing the last song here….turn off the last light
here….and wend our way home from here. To where at least
this gentleman will "rest ye merry" with two of the
loveliest women God ever granted to share road and load.
Together, we shall butter a little bread and sip a little soup….well,
not just any bread or any soup, so much as baguette and bisque….oh,
all right, lobster bisque, if you must know. Then, looking at
the pictures on our mantle, we shall think about the one who
we would call forth from his frame. But then we will cherish
what we have and whose we are. By which time it will already
be dawn somewhere in the world. Like, maybe Bethlehem. Merry
Christmas, dear ones. Merry Christmas.
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