Bill Countryman Good Shepherd, Berkeley

CHRISTMAS EVE, 2015

Year C: Isaiah 9:2-7; Psalm 96; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)

OUTRAGEOUS!

One might feel that there’s a bit of a disconnect between reading the newspaper this morning and celebrating Christmas this evening. The world at large seems particularly stricken with hatred and destruction as the Year of our Lord 2015 slips away. And yet, here we are singing about glory in the highest and peace on earth.

You could think of it—I’m sure some people do think of it—as a bit of escapism, a retreat from reality into a candle-lit fantasy of better times. And maybe there is a bit of that in it for most of us. And why not? A little escapism from time to time, a chance to draw your breath before turning back around to face reality, helps us get through otherwise difficult times. But that’s not the main thing Christmas is about.

And what is it about? It’s about the whole big story of the universe and of us in it. And it’s a completely outrageous version of that story. Well, it would have to be, wouldn’t it? What other sort of story could measure up to this great, improbable, rich, sumptuous, many-colored world of which we are a part? Yes, there are great sorrows and dangers. And, yes, the wonder of it all—of day and night, rain and sun, winter and summer, plants, animals, people— the wonder of it all is still beyond telling.

The story begins with God creating this universe—not because God had any need of it, but rather as an immense and outrageously splendid work of art. And the story goes on to tell that God created, in this world, some beings that, we are told, share God’s image and likeness. Why would God want such odd creatures? There can be only one reason. God wanted creatures who could respond to God as friends. Of course, they also had to be creatures who could refuse God’s friendship because you can’t choose something that you aren’t free to reject.

Some of us have chosen that friendship. I think of Abraham, who was called “God’s friend.” Some of us have worked hard to keep clear of it. Most of us are probably somewhere in between. And mostly, I suspect, we just try to avoid thinking about it because, after all, it is so outrageous that God should even be asking for friendship with us. Us?

And, after all, we do have other things to be concerned about. Just keeping one’s head above water is enough to occupy most of our time and attention. Do we have the energy to care whether the One who unleashed all this wonderful but perplexing world on us is also trying to be friends?

But the Creator doesn’t give up easily. Knowing that we finite, mortal creatures have a hard time raising our sights to the wonder that lies in and around and under this world we live in, the Creator does what a friend would do: God comes to see us, comes live among us as one of us.

Not just to see the sights. It’s not a visit to the zoo or the botanical garden. It’s not like the old gods who would sometimes roam around among the peasantry just for the fun of it, perhaps dealing out some blessings here, playing some pranks there. No, this is God sharing our lives, taking on all our weaknesses, our uncertainties, our mortality. This is serious friendship.

And that’s the meaning of this strange event in Bethlehem:

Here comes to birth

the One who birthed us all.

Here lies the Upholder of all,

too weak to raise his head,

God, choosing helplessness instead,

has left the throne of deep tranquillity

to live in human poverty—

has come to earth.

Outrageous nonsense! Makes no sense at all! Why would anyone take it seriously?

Well, it sounds very much like the God who made this outrageous universe to start with. An outrageous God will do outrageous things. And the outrageousness of Bethlehem has about it the peculiar logic of immortal, unfailing friendship, seeking friendship in return.

And so we celebrate it, even in a time when the newspapers are full of dark things, of hatred and harm. We celebrate it because the outrageous One is here, with us, to share the risks.