Trapped in stained glass
Commentary
Object:
I love stained glass. I grew up in churches that were very traditional, older structures, and
stained-glass windows were essential parts of those sanctuaries. I have meditated on the
messages contained in those windows through the years. And I have gained great insight,
blessing, and inspiration from how stained-glass artists have depicted the events and
characters of scripture.
For all of that, though, it may be important in our day to free Jesus from stained glass -- at least in the minds of many people.
To an uninformed world outside -- and to a sometimes minimally informed Sunday morning congregation inside -- Jesus is seen as the exclusive property of religion. And mostly just one religion, at that. Just as the Bible became the privileged province of those educated few who could read Latin in medieval Europe, so Jesus has perhaps become the peculiar belonging of those who profess faith in him, with their mysterious liturgies, inscrutable traditions, and enigmatic doctrines.
Perhaps in the preaching, the teaching, and the emphases of the church through the generations, Jesus has taken a backseat to the two natural human preoccupations of religion: beliefs and behavior. One dogmatic group has insisted on right doctrine, while another, moralistic group has insisted on right living. And amid the kaleidoscope of peripherals, the world has not been able to see Jesus himself.
What an irony if the church has managed, inadvertently, to undo the incarnation. The Son of God put on flesh, but the church has put him in stained glass.
With the two New Testament lections we have for this week, we will have opportunity to put Jesus back where he belongs: as the flesh-and-blood center of God's good news for the world.
Isaiah 63:7-9
What things did you recount yesterday?
To recount is to recall in some detail. And we do a fair amount of recounting every day; some of which may be quite unhealthy.
If I am in an argument with someone, and the disagreement becomes personal, I might recount to him or her some unpleasant things. The times I have been right in the past, for example, or the times that he or she has been wrong. I might recount the other person's past failings, or I might recount their faults.
If I am in a complaining mood, I might recount to some poor victim in my proximity all of my aches and pains or all of my troubles or all of my worries. If I am in a bragging frame of mind, I might recount my accomplishments and achievements (or my children's). If I am feeling overwhelmed, I might lie in bed recounting all the things I have to do. If I am being prickly and critical, I might recount all that was wrong with that meal or that performance or that trip.
On the happier and healthier side, I would do well to recount to my wife the things that I love about her, to recount to my children the many ways I am proud of them, to recount to my coworkers the things I appreciate about them, and so on.
The prophet Isaiah, meanwhile, takes the highest path of all: "I will recount the gracious deeds of the Lord, the praiseworthy acts of the Lord."
Surely we have seen clearly in other people -- even if not always so clearly in ourselves -- the effects of what a person chooses to dwell on. We have seen it in committee meetings, in marriage counseling, and in hospital calls. We have seen the positive examples, as well as the negative examples -- and the cause-and-effect is clear.
Imagine, then, the effect on our faith, on our thanksgiving, on our hope, and on our overall outlook if we, each day, reviewed those two lists, and kept adding to them!
Next, the prophet makes an important theological point that should not be missed by our people. Pondering the deeds of the Lord, the prophet attributes them thus: "according to his mercy, according to the abundance of his love." That's an important truth, and it deserves elaboration.
Ask your congregation: "Why does the Lord do what he does?" A great many answers will likely spring to mind, including no doubt some cause-and-effect theology that includes our merit, our faith, our actions, our needs, and such. There is a place for those affirmations, of course, but those truths are not the whole truth.
The prophet says that the Lord does what he does "according to his mercy" and "the abundance of his love." In other words, he does what he does because he is what he is. That is tremendously good news for us.
Finally, it might be worth noting a few words and images that deserve to be recognized as part of the Old Testament lection. So many church folks operate with careless, broad- brush caricatures of the Old Testament and the New Testament. And, in so many hearts and minds, the Old Testament suffers by comparison. Yet, it was the Old Testament scriptures that Jesus explicated on the road to Emmaus, and that the apostles proclaimed throughout their preaching in the book of Acts. They found the good news there. And so we do well to observe here, in the midst of the Old Testament prophet, such lavish references to God's grace, his mercy, his steadfast love, and to the truth that he is a Savior who redeems his people.
Hebrews 2:10-18
In one of his most familiar songs from the 1960s, Ralph Carmichael noted some of the claims of Christ -- seeing his handiwork in the stars, his majesty on the wind, the way he rules both land and sea -- but then comes around to the practical question, "What is that to me?"
That question may serve as an approach to this week's epistle lection.
The writer of Hebrews has one great theme: Jesus Christ. These verses are just a small sample of the author's much longer and larger explication of the person and work of Christ.
In the midst of all of our sophisticated Christology and all of the doctrines that we affirm about Christ, the average man or woman in the pew -- or on the street! -- might rightly ask, "Yes, but what is that to me?"
And the writer of Hebrews has the answers.
First, this: Jesus identifies us as his brothers and sisters. In the midst of theological debates that can be absolutely deadening, this is a refreshingly personal word. Jesus is not trapped in stained glass. He does not sit far off, detached and unreachable. Instead, he regards us as part of the family. This image may be especially refreshing since it does not even include the authoritarian image of a parent, but the peer, shoulder-to-shoulder relationship of a sibling.
Second, just as we are reckoned as part of his family, he also became one of us, for "he himself likewise shared the same things" and he "had to become like his brothers and sisters in every respect." There is nothing quite so essential to a feeling of solidarity with another person as the certainty that they understand us. That is, they understand our situation, our experience, where we're coming from, and how we feel. The writer of Hebrews offers us that sense of solidarity between us and Jesus, for he became one of us.
Third, though he became like us, he was not immobilized by our limitations. Instead, "he is able to help those who are being tested." And, beyond that, he is able to "free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death," as well as to "make a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people." So he became like us in perhaps the same way that a lifeguard becomes like the person who is drowning: namely, they are both in and experiencing the same water. This lifeguard, however, is not overcome by the waters in which we are drowning; rather, he is able to come in and help us out.
Matthew 2:13-23
We have made the Christmas scene in Bethlehem a lovely and sentimental one. The little town is, in our mind's eye, peaceful and serene. The stable is quiet and quaint. The animals are gentle and attentive. The shepherds are reverent, the magi majestic, and the whole scene is bathed in the light of a mysteriously bright star.
I expect our sentimentalizing of the scene is inaccurate to begin with. Even if it was so improbably tranquil, the whole lovely picture is shattered in an instant. The blessed couple with their newborn baby is suddenly on the lam -- and the little town of Bethlehem becomes a bloodbath.
This whole episode with Herod's slaughter of the innocents seems like such an unwelcome and unnatural intrusion into the beauty of the Christmas story. But there it is, inextricably tied up with the beloved wise men, the plotline that leads to Egypt, and the familiar association of Jesus' boyhood with Nazareth. Yet, with lights still on most houses and trees still in most living rooms, who wants to have to preach such unpleasantness this Sunday morning?
At its core, the Christmas story is not at all about sentiment; it's about a Savior. Trouble and tragedy, therefore, are out of place in the story. We do, indeed, preach the gospel this Sunday. For the gospel is not, after all, good news introduced into a happy setting. It is, rather, light shining in the darkness; good news proclaimed in the midst of a bad world.
We might highlight the good news of this tragic passage in several ways.
First, there is the strong affirmation of God's providence and omniscience throughout all of human history. The recurring theme of fulfilled prophecies (three are explicitly cited in just these eleven verses) reminds us that nothing catches God by surprise. He is not bewildered by the headlines, and he is not thwarted by the machinations of human despots. His good will is achieved in spite of the malevolence and opposition of fallen humanity.
That, in turn, leads to the second piece of good news: God's ultimate victory. In Herod the Great, we see a potentate who is paranoid, shrewd, and cruel. On paper, the poor nobodies from Nazareth would seem to be no match for him. The juxtaposition of a helpless baby with Herod's sword-wielding legions suggests no contest at all. It is all injustice and oppression. Yet, still, God's will prevails. By the end of the episode, the antagonist is dead, and the chosen family is preserved.
There is also a layer of incarnational good news in this terrible story. The writer of Hebrews affirms that "we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are" (4:15), and this scene may be included under that umbrella. Jesus was not insulated from the dangers of this world. As the Son of God, he was not accorded some special lane on the highway, which permitted him to pass by the troubles that we experience. No, "he was despised and rejected by others; a man of suffering" (Isaiah 53:3). And that, we see on this Sunday after Christmas, is not an affirmation for Good Friday only. It was true for him from day one.
Application
A woman from my congregation came into my office not long ago to talk about her husband. She is a woman of sincere and profound personal faith, but her husband does not share that faith. He is not so much antagonistic as he is disinterested. She is in church every Sunday; he is in church when it's his turn to usher. She told me that he just doesn't like church. She told me that she is worried about his soul.
I did not dispute her concern or minimize it, but I did tell her that she didn't need to invest a lot of effort in trying to get her husband to like church. "I don't think he's wired up to like church," I said, "but I'm very sure he would like Jesus!"
The only Jesus this man has known, I'm afraid, is the stained-glass Jesus. The Jesus of institutional religion, of suits and ties, of hymns and organs. I don't disparage any of those things, for they have been vessels of God's grace in my own life. But I'm certain that this member's husband needs to meet and see Jesus outside of church. He needs to see that Jesus also leans on the lawn mower, wiping his brow; he puts his head under the hood to change the spark plugs; he laughs at jokes and tosses a ball.
The Jesus of the gospels is not made of stained glass; he's flesh and blood. Marvelously, perfectly flesh-and-blood. He had a mom, a dad, and a home. He had both friends and enemies. He got hungry, thirsty, and tired. He went to parties, he fished, and he told stories. And he became like us "in every respect" -- struggling, suffering, and even dying.
The plight that we observed in our discussion of the gospel lection, as well as the whole theme and emphasis of the Hebrews passage, provide us with an opportunity this Sunday to tell our world what they need to hear and to show them what they need to see: Jesus Christ, the incarnate Son of God.
Alternative Applications
Isaiah 63:7-9; Hebrews 2:10-18. "Angels In And Out." Each of our three lections this week makes reference to angels. That's a rare coincidence. And while angels are meant to be instruments of God's work, not the center of our attention, the fact is that they do hold great interest among people today. Some skeptics want to deny their existence altogether, relegating them to the company of unicorns and mermaids. Others, meanwhile, are perhaps overly interested in angels and teach an angel paradigm that is way beyond what is plainly revealed in scripture. Perhaps the surprising theme of angels in our three selected passages offers us a chance to explore the topic a bit, and thus provide us with a unique angle for presenting the gospel.
The gospel lection offers us the picture of angels that we are most accustomed to seeing. In Matthew's post-Christmas story, an angel warns Joseph about Herod. Later, an angel alerts Joseph to the news of Herod's death. In both instances, the angel is instructing a human being in matters beyond that human being's natural knowledge, as well as giving direction ("Get up, take the child and his mother" is found in both v. 13 and v. 20). In short, therefore, the angels in the Matthew passage serve as instruments of God's work in human affairs. It is a utilitarian view of angels.
In the Old Testament passage, meanwhile, we encounter a passing reference to angels. In "recount(ing) the gracious deeds of the Lord," the prophet observes how God has -- and how he has not -- saved his people: "It was no messenger or angel but his presence that saved them." For all of the occasions in scripture when we see angels in the utilitarian role, the prophet makes a point of noting here that, ultimately, God's people are saved by God.
That is a very personal observation and affirmation. Such is the love and concern of almighty God for his people that, when it comes time to save them, he does not "staff it out." Gabriel is not God's errand boy, fetching, carrying, and delivering salvation for human beings. Michael is not dispatched. No, God does it himself. It is a marvelously personal picture.
Then, similarly, the writer of Hebrews also makes a personal point about God by his reference to angels. "For it is clear," he wrote, "that [Jesus] did not come to help angels, but the descendants of Abraham." Like the Old Testament prophet, the New Testament writer emphasizes the personal quality of God's saving act by demonstrating how angels are left out of the equation. Just as they are not the agents of salvation in Isaiah, neither are they the objects of salvation in Hebrews. God's saving work is not for their sake, but for ours.
People perhaps think more about angels at this time of the year than during any of the other eleven months. On this Sunday, we might turn our attention to the angels in these passages to see that -- for as glorious and as instrumental as they are -- their story only reveals still more God's tender love for us.
Isaiah 63:7-9. "The Gospel According To His Nature." In our discussion of the Isaiah passage above, we noted that the Lord does what he does because he is what he is. His marvelous acts are "according to his mercy" and "according to the abundance of his steadfast love." That is to say, his deeds are a function of his attributes.
That's a critical point for us, because it is central to the gospel message. We understand and preach, you see, that our salvation is a free gift of God's grace (Ephesians 2:8-9). That it is because God so loved the world that Christ came (John 3:16). And that the Son of Man came into the world to seek and to save the lost (Luke 19:10). In each of these basic affirmations, what the Lord does is a function of his attributes. Therefore, our relationship with him is a function of his attributes.
That should be liberating news to an age in which so much experience of human love is superficial and conditional. We have come to expect that another person's love for us depends quite heavily, if not entirely, upon our attributes. But not so with God. His love for us depends not on our attributes, but on his. Our relationship with him is lived out, not in the context of how good or lovable we are, but in the gracious context of how good and loving he is.
The sun is not warm and bright because I am tan. Rather, I am tan because the sun is warm and bright. And so it is with God and us.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 148
Into everyone's life comes a moment of complete abandonment of all the careful boundaries and filters we have put into place. For each person there is a moment of wild joy and unrestricted passion.
For us as a people of faith, these moments come as we abandon ourselves to unqualified praise of the almighty God. In some of our traditions, such abandonment causes discomfort. Passion is not easily controlled. But then, neither is the Holy Spirit.
It is this kind of wild praise that can be felt in this psalm. The call is clear and unambiguous. Praise the Lord! Everyone and everything is called upon to shout out the glory of the creating God! From sea monsters to the elements to topography and back again; all are called upon to enter into the dance of praise.
It is easy to imagine Saint Francis shouting out the words to this psalm as he danced through the forest and claimed a life of simple service and poverty. It is a little less easy to imagine one's pastor in such a paroxysm of praise. It is still harder to imagine oneself stomping and shouting out praises to God.
Yet, it is the call, not merely of this psalm, but of our faith.
God, after all, is God. The great "I AM" (Exodus 3:14). This is the creator God, the one who brings us redemption through (his Son) on this Christmas Day. This is the God who knows each person down to the number of hairs on the scalp. This is the God who loves each one of us just as we are.
If all this is true, which we claim today that it is, how can we do anything but jump and shout our praises? How can there be any other response than this? Let all creation issue forth a chorus of wonder and joy, a cacophony of celebration. How blessed and fortunate we are! For God has done great things for us and given us a Savior, born this day in Bethlehem. And his name is called Jesus.
What else can we do but sing our praises?
What other choice do we have but to set aside our puny agendas and complicated tasks and simply shout to the heavens, "PRAISE THE LORD!"
For all of that, though, it may be important in our day to free Jesus from stained glass -- at least in the minds of many people.
To an uninformed world outside -- and to a sometimes minimally informed Sunday morning congregation inside -- Jesus is seen as the exclusive property of religion. And mostly just one religion, at that. Just as the Bible became the privileged province of those educated few who could read Latin in medieval Europe, so Jesus has perhaps become the peculiar belonging of those who profess faith in him, with their mysterious liturgies, inscrutable traditions, and enigmatic doctrines.
Perhaps in the preaching, the teaching, and the emphases of the church through the generations, Jesus has taken a backseat to the two natural human preoccupations of religion: beliefs and behavior. One dogmatic group has insisted on right doctrine, while another, moralistic group has insisted on right living. And amid the kaleidoscope of peripherals, the world has not been able to see Jesus himself.
What an irony if the church has managed, inadvertently, to undo the incarnation. The Son of God put on flesh, but the church has put him in stained glass.
With the two New Testament lections we have for this week, we will have opportunity to put Jesus back where he belongs: as the flesh-and-blood center of God's good news for the world.
Isaiah 63:7-9
What things did you recount yesterday?
To recount is to recall in some detail. And we do a fair amount of recounting every day; some of which may be quite unhealthy.
If I am in an argument with someone, and the disagreement becomes personal, I might recount to him or her some unpleasant things. The times I have been right in the past, for example, or the times that he or she has been wrong. I might recount the other person's past failings, or I might recount their faults.
If I am in a complaining mood, I might recount to some poor victim in my proximity all of my aches and pains or all of my troubles or all of my worries. If I am in a bragging frame of mind, I might recount my accomplishments and achievements (or my children's). If I am feeling overwhelmed, I might lie in bed recounting all the things I have to do. If I am being prickly and critical, I might recount all that was wrong with that meal or that performance or that trip.
On the happier and healthier side, I would do well to recount to my wife the things that I love about her, to recount to my children the many ways I am proud of them, to recount to my coworkers the things I appreciate about them, and so on.
The prophet Isaiah, meanwhile, takes the highest path of all: "I will recount the gracious deeds of the Lord, the praiseworthy acts of the Lord."
Surely we have seen clearly in other people -- even if not always so clearly in ourselves -- the effects of what a person chooses to dwell on. We have seen it in committee meetings, in marriage counseling, and in hospital calls. We have seen the positive examples, as well as the negative examples -- and the cause-and-effect is clear.
Imagine, then, the effect on our faith, on our thanksgiving, on our hope, and on our overall outlook if we, each day, reviewed those two lists, and kept adding to them!
Next, the prophet makes an important theological point that should not be missed by our people. Pondering the deeds of the Lord, the prophet attributes them thus: "according to his mercy, according to the abundance of his love." That's an important truth, and it deserves elaboration.
Ask your congregation: "Why does the Lord do what he does?" A great many answers will likely spring to mind, including no doubt some cause-and-effect theology that includes our merit, our faith, our actions, our needs, and such. There is a place for those affirmations, of course, but those truths are not the whole truth.
The prophet says that the Lord does what he does "according to his mercy" and "the abundance of his love." In other words, he does what he does because he is what he is. That is tremendously good news for us.
Finally, it might be worth noting a few words and images that deserve to be recognized as part of the Old Testament lection. So many church folks operate with careless, broad- brush caricatures of the Old Testament and the New Testament. And, in so many hearts and minds, the Old Testament suffers by comparison. Yet, it was the Old Testament scriptures that Jesus explicated on the road to Emmaus, and that the apostles proclaimed throughout their preaching in the book of Acts. They found the good news there. And so we do well to observe here, in the midst of the Old Testament prophet, such lavish references to God's grace, his mercy, his steadfast love, and to the truth that he is a Savior who redeems his people.
Hebrews 2:10-18
In one of his most familiar songs from the 1960s, Ralph Carmichael noted some of the claims of Christ -- seeing his handiwork in the stars, his majesty on the wind, the way he rules both land and sea -- but then comes around to the practical question, "What is that to me?"
That question may serve as an approach to this week's epistle lection.
The writer of Hebrews has one great theme: Jesus Christ. These verses are just a small sample of the author's much longer and larger explication of the person and work of Christ.
In the midst of all of our sophisticated Christology and all of the doctrines that we affirm about Christ, the average man or woman in the pew -- or on the street! -- might rightly ask, "Yes, but what is that to me?"
And the writer of Hebrews has the answers.
First, this: Jesus identifies us as his brothers and sisters. In the midst of theological debates that can be absolutely deadening, this is a refreshingly personal word. Jesus is not trapped in stained glass. He does not sit far off, detached and unreachable. Instead, he regards us as part of the family. This image may be especially refreshing since it does not even include the authoritarian image of a parent, but the peer, shoulder-to-shoulder relationship of a sibling.
Second, just as we are reckoned as part of his family, he also became one of us, for "he himself likewise shared the same things" and he "had to become like his brothers and sisters in every respect." There is nothing quite so essential to a feeling of solidarity with another person as the certainty that they understand us. That is, they understand our situation, our experience, where we're coming from, and how we feel. The writer of Hebrews offers us that sense of solidarity between us and Jesus, for he became one of us.
Third, though he became like us, he was not immobilized by our limitations. Instead, "he is able to help those who are being tested." And, beyond that, he is able to "free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death," as well as to "make a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people." So he became like us in perhaps the same way that a lifeguard becomes like the person who is drowning: namely, they are both in and experiencing the same water. This lifeguard, however, is not overcome by the waters in which we are drowning; rather, he is able to come in and help us out.
Matthew 2:13-23
We have made the Christmas scene in Bethlehem a lovely and sentimental one. The little town is, in our mind's eye, peaceful and serene. The stable is quiet and quaint. The animals are gentle and attentive. The shepherds are reverent, the magi majestic, and the whole scene is bathed in the light of a mysteriously bright star.
I expect our sentimentalizing of the scene is inaccurate to begin with. Even if it was so improbably tranquil, the whole lovely picture is shattered in an instant. The blessed couple with their newborn baby is suddenly on the lam -- and the little town of Bethlehem becomes a bloodbath.
This whole episode with Herod's slaughter of the innocents seems like such an unwelcome and unnatural intrusion into the beauty of the Christmas story. But there it is, inextricably tied up with the beloved wise men, the plotline that leads to Egypt, and the familiar association of Jesus' boyhood with Nazareth. Yet, with lights still on most houses and trees still in most living rooms, who wants to have to preach such unpleasantness this Sunday morning?
At its core, the Christmas story is not at all about sentiment; it's about a Savior. Trouble and tragedy, therefore, are out of place in the story. We do, indeed, preach the gospel this Sunday. For the gospel is not, after all, good news introduced into a happy setting. It is, rather, light shining in the darkness; good news proclaimed in the midst of a bad world.
We might highlight the good news of this tragic passage in several ways.
First, there is the strong affirmation of God's providence and omniscience throughout all of human history. The recurring theme of fulfilled prophecies (three are explicitly cited in just these eleven verses) reminds us that nothing catches God by surprise. He is not bewildered by the headlines, and he is not thwarted by the machinations of human despots. His good will is achieved in spite of the malevolence and opposition of fallen humanity.
That, in turn, leads to the second piece of good news: God's ultimate victory. In Herod the Great, we see a potentate who is paranoid, shrewd, and cruel. On paper, the poor nobodies from Nazareth would seem to be no match for him. The juxtaposition of a helpless baby with Herod's sword-wielding legions suggests no contest at all. It is all injustice and oppression. Yet, still, God's will prevails. By the end of the episode, the antagonist is dead, and the chosen family is preserved.
There is also a layer of incarnational good news in this terrible story. The writer of Hebrews affirms that "we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are" (4:15), and this scene may be included under that umbrella. Jesus was not insulated from the dangers of this world. As the Son of God, he was not accorded some special lane on the highway, which permitted him to pass by the troubles that we experience. No, "he was despised and rejected by others; a man of suffering" (Isaiah 53:3). And that, we see on this Sunday after Christmas, is not an affirmation for Good Friday only. It was true for him from day one.
Application
A woman from my congregation came into my office not long ago to talk about her husband. She is a woman of sincere and profound personal faith, but her husband does not share that faith. He is not so much antagonistic as he is disinterested. She is in church every Sunday; he is in church when it's his turn to usher. She told me that he just doesn't like church. She told me that she is worried about his soul.
I did not dispute her concern or minimize it, but I did tell her that she didn't need to invest a lot of effort in trying to get her husband to like church. "I don't think he's wired up to like church," I said, "but I'm very sure he would like Jesus!"
The only Jesus this man has known, I'm afraid, is the stained-glass Jesus. The Jesus of institutional religion, of suits and ties, of hymns and organs. I don't disparage any of those things, for they have been vessels of God's grace in my own life. But I'm certain that this member's husband needs to meet and see Jesus outside of church. He needs to see that Jesus also leans on the lawn mower, wiping his brow; he puts his head under the hood to change the spark plugs; he laughs at jokes and tosses a ball.
The Jesus of the gospels is not made of stained glass; he's flesh and blood. Marvelously, perfectly flesh-and-blood. He had a mom, a dad, and a home. He had both friends and enemies. He got hungry, thirsty, and tired. He went to parties, he fished, and he told stories. And he became like us "in every respect" -- struggling, suffering, and even dying.
The plight that we observed in our discussion of the gospel lection, as well as the whole theme and emphasis of the Hebrews passage, provide us with an opportunity this Sunday to tell our world what they need to hear and to show them what they need to see: Jesus Christ, the incarnate Son of God.
Alternative Applications
Isaiah 63:7-9; Hebrews 2:10-18. "Angels In And Out." Each of our three lections this week makes reference to angels. That's a rare coincidence. And while angels are meant to be instruments of God's work, not the center of our attention, the fact is that they do hold great interest among people today. Some skeptics want to deny their existence altogether, relegating them to the company of unicorns and mermaids. Others, meanwhile, are perhaps overly interested in angels and teach an angel paradigm that is way beyond what is plainly revealed in scripture. Perhaps the surprising theme of angels in our three selected passages offers us a chance to explore the topic a bit, and thus provide us with a unique angle for presenting the gospel.
The gospel lection offers us the picture of angels that we are most accustomed to seeing. In Matthew's post-Christmas story, an angel warns Joseph about Herod. Later, an angel alerts Joseph to the news of Herod's death. In both instances, the angel is instructing a human being in matters beyond that human being's natural knowledge, as well as giving direction ("Get up, take the child and his mother" is found in both v. 13 and v. 20). In short, therefore, the angels in the Matthew passage serve as instruments of God's work in human affairs. It is a utilitarian view of angels.
In the Old Testament passage, meanwhile, we encounter a passing reference to angels. In "recount(ing) the gracious deeds of the Lord," the prophet observes how God has -- and how he has not -- saved his people: "It was no messenger or angel but his presence that saved them." For all of the occasions in scripture when we see angels in the utilitarian role, the prophet makes a point of noting here that, ultimately, God's people are saved by God.
That is a very personal observation and affirmation. Such is the love and concern of almighty God for his people that, when it comes time to save them, he does not "staff it out." Gabriel is not God's errand boy, fetching, carrying, and delivering salvation for human beings. Michael is not dispatched. No, God does it himself. It is a marvelously personal picture.
Then, similarly, the writer of Hebrews also makes a personal point about God by his reference to angels. "For it is clear," he wrote, "that [Jesus] did not come to help angels, but the descendants of Abraham." Like the Old Testament prophet, the New Testament writer emphasizes the personal quality of God's saving act by demonstrating how angels are left out of the equation. Just as they are not the agents of salvation in Isaiah, neither are they the objects of salvation in Hebrews. God's saving work is not for their sake, but for ours.
People perhaps think more about angels at this time of the year than during any of the other eleven months. On this Sunday, we might turn our attention to the angels in these passages to see that -- for as glorious and as instrumental as they are -- their story only reveals still more God's tender love for us.
Isaiah 63:7-9. "The Gospel According To His Nature." In our discussion of the Isaiah passage above, we noted that the Lord does what he does because he is what he is. His marvelous acts are "according to his mercy" and "according to the abundance of his steadfast love." That is to say, his deeds are a function of his attributes.
That's a critical point for us, because it is central to the gospel message. We understand and preach, you see, that our salvation is a free gift of God's grace (Ephesians 2:8-9). That it is because God so loved the world that Christ came (John 3:16). And that the Son of Man came into the world to seek and to save the lost (Luke 19:10). In each of these basic affirmations, what the Lord does is a function of his attributes. Therefore, our relationship with him is a function of his attributes.
That should be liberating news to an age in which so much experience of human love is superficial and conditional. We have come to expect that another person's love for us depends quite heavily, if not entirely, upon our attributes. But not so with God. His love for us depends not on our attributes, but on his. Our relationship with him is lived out, not in the context of how good or lovable we are, but in the gracious context of how good and loving he is.
The sun is not warm and bright because I am tan. Rather, I am tan because the sun is warm and bright. And so it is with God and us.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 148
Into everyone's life comes a moment of complete abandonment of all the careful boundaries and filters we have put into place. For each person there is a moment of wild joy and unrestricted passion.
For us as a people of faith, these moments come as we abandon ourselves to unqualified praise of the almighty God. In some of our traditions, such abandonment causes discomfort. Passion is not easily controlled. But then, neither is the Holy Spirit.
It is this kind of wild praise that can be felt in this psalm. The call is clear and unambiguous. Praise the Lord! Everyone and everything is called upon to shout out the glory of the creating God! From sea monsters to the elements to topography and back again; all are called upon to enter into the dance of praise.
It is easy to imagine Saint Francis shouting out the words to this psalm as he danced through the forest and claimed a life of simple service and poverty. It is a little less easy to imagine one's pastor in such a paroxysm of praise. It is still harder to imagine oneself stomping and shouting out praises to God.
Yet, it is the call, not merely of this psalm, but of our faith.
God, after all, is God. The great "I AM" (Exodus 3:14). This is the creator God, the one who brings us redemption through (his Son) on this Christmas Day. This is the God who knows each person down to the number of hairs on the scalp. This is the God who loves each one of us just as we are.
If all this is true, which we claim today that it is, how can we do anything but jump and shout our praises? How can there be any other response than this? Let all creation issue forth a chorus of wonder and joy, a cacophony of celebration. How blessed and fortunate we are! For God has done great things for us and given us a Savior, born this day in Bethlehem. And his name is called Jesus.
What else can we do but sing our praises?
What other choice do we have but to set aside our puny agendas and complicated tasks and simply shout to the heavens, "PRAISE THE LORD!"
