I took drivers ed in Houston, TX when I was 15. My instructor was less-than-stellar. Or maybe it was me, who was less-than-stellar
as a student. My friend Greg and I were
taking the course together, and we were more interested in the girls in our
class than we were about the text book and rules of the road. Whatever it was that prompted our instructor
to speak of ultimate things, I’ll never forget when did: Frustrated with me, I’ll never forget when he
said: “Man, if you don’t learn nothin’ else in my class, learn this: watch out
for big trucks. They’re bigger than you,
and they’re going to do whatever the hell they wanna do.”
"Watch out for big trucks" -- best driving lesson I ever had. Sometimes it’s good to have a simple but good word,
even if it’s prompted by some less-than-stellar behavior. Nothing fancy; short and to the point. Something you’ll never forget.
Kelly Fryer tells a similar story in her book Reclaiming the “L” Word: Renewing the Church
from its Lutheran Core. She recalls
her days in seminary, when she had to attend a large class where the professor
was anything but short and to the point.
One particular day he was droning on and on about “some dead theologian”,
as she says. Fryer was tired and uninterested, and she
notes that she wasn’t the only one. In
fact, almost every other classmate was drifting off or doodling in their
margins or drooling on their desks. Ever
had a class like that? Brutal.
The professor, while boring, wasn’t blind. Suddenly, as she tells it, he slams shut his
notebook. “He wasn’t going to waste
another breath on [them].” He marched
over to the chalk board and draws a giant arrow on the board. Angrily he pointed to the arrow: “If you understand that, you understand
everything you need to know about what it means to be a Christian!” Then he walked out of the classroom and slams
the door.
The class just sat there, stunned. Even scared.
Naturally our narrator assumed the professor was telling them that they
were all going to hell, for not being better and more faithful students.
But as she learned, she couldn’t be farther from the
truth. For when the professor came back
to class the next Monday—and you can bet everyone was ready to pay better
attention, coffee in hand—he drew the down arrow on the board again, only this
time he explained what it meant: “God always comes down, he said, God always,
always, always comes down. There is
never anything we can do to turn that arrow around and go UP to God. God always comes down. God came down in Jesus. And still comes down in Jesus, through the
bread and the cup and the fellowship of believers. God ALWAYS comes down.”
I can almost hear my old drivers ed teacher’s voice: “Man,
if you don’t learn nothin’ in my class, learn this: God always comes down.”
Sometimes it’s good to have a simple but good word, even if it’s
prompted by some less-than-stellar behavior.
Perhaps we, if we're hones, have been at times "less-than-stellar" this
year, a little more naughty than nice.
Doesn’t change the fact that God comes down to us. That’s the bottom line this Christmas
Eve. God comes to dwell with you this
holy night…and always.
You matter to God that much.
Even you. God loves you that
much. And there’s nothing you can do
about that.
Christ was born in Bethlehem, yes.
And Christ is born today in our midst – wasn’t just while Quirinius was
Governor of Syria. It’s also when Jerry
Brown was Governor California.
Christ is born today in our midst
– wasn’t just when shepherds of old were watching their flocks, and perhaps
even some dear sheep are lost in the process.
It’s also when teachers and parents are doing their best to watch after
their children – and some dear ones are lost.
Even with all the violence and horror of our times, and even with our
shortcomings and sinfulness, God still comes down.
Christ is born today in our midst – wasn’t just the angels of old who sang a song that countered the violence and corrupt power
of Rome, “Peace on earth, good will to all.”
It’s also we, the angels of new,
forgiven, blessed and sent, who sing a similar song tonight, even with evidence
to the contrary, God still comes down, and you are part of the angelic chorus,
sweetly singing o’er the plain: “Silent night, holy night, Christ the Savior is
born.”
We proclaim together to this frightened world that God
always comes down. Draw this down arrow
with your lives, you heavenly angels! Let us live like Christ has moved into our
neighborhood.
God comes down…to dwell in the midst of our darkness. To suffer with us in our pain, grief,
loneliness and fear. (Some said that God wasn't present with those children in Connecticut that terrible day. That's wrong. God was with them. And God weeps now with their families. God's power is not made in our image of power. God chooses to be born in a manger, among the poor.) Jesus didn’t arrive
in an armored motorcade. He arrived as
vulnerable as a homeless man in downtown San Diego. Born to a mother as insignificant as a hungry
teenager in Tijuana.
Jesus Christ slips into our world, by the cover of night,
and transforms it with love and forgiveness, from the inside out. Christ comes down and is born in you and me,
as we are being daily forgiven and renewed in the waters of baptism, weekly fed
in bread of wine of his holy supper. God
comes down to save us, from sin and from fear, so that we can offer ourselves
as little lights of hope for this dark world.
“Man, if you don’t learn nothin’ else in this sermon, learn
this: God comes down, and so we are lifted up.
All of us.” Amen.
[pause]
Rarely do we sing a
less-familiar hymn on Christmas Eve, but we’re going to right now. Hymn 298, “The Bells of Christmas”, is
actually not new, it’s older than anyone here.
It was written by Danish composer Nikolai Gruntvig, and he wrote at a
time when rationalism was pushing the church toward irrelevance. Its title might make it sound simplistic but
as we sing, pay attention to the rest of the words for they are a profound proclamation
of God’s incarnation, God’s coming down, in Jesus Christ…
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