The Christmas Sign
Sermon
Hope Beneath the Surface
Cycle A First Lesson Sermons for Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany
Ever need a sign of hope? Ever need a sign that things are going to be all right? Ever need a sign that you were going to pass the test, or that she wasn't going to break up with you? Ever need a sign that God was still around or that life was still worth living?
Ah, we all know of the need of a sign, don't we? It's funny how we are built. Inside, I mean. We can have proofs and explanations and insistent documentation, but that's not what we really need deep inside, is it? We want a sign.
The most subtle, fragile, subjective hint of all, a sign, is what we need to assure us of our place in a person's life, or to assure us that it'll be okay, or to assure us that God is there.
Just a sign. Like looking off to the side of the cluster of stars called Pleiades to bring them out in a brightness and richness that looking straight on never can do. We often need a subtle but honest sign, a hint of truth from an unguarded moment. A sign.
Centuries before a tiny urgent cry in a bed of hay that night, a king shook from fright at the collaboration of foreign nations who would do Judah in. King Ahaz needed a sign desperately and Isaiah the prophet was sent by the Lord to assure him. "Don't be afraid of these two smoldering stumps of firebrands,'' Isaiah quoted the Lord to Ahaz. And then he finished with those marvelous words: "If you do not stand firm in faith, you shall not stand at all.''
But they were strong words. They were words meant to convince. They were too direct, too positive for Ahaz to hear. He needed a sign. Just a gentle, subtle sign.
And so, reading his mind, the Lord spoke to him and said, "All right, ask for a sign, any sign! Let it be as high as the sky or as deep as the earth. Just ask me and I'll give it to you.''
But Ahaz couldn't do it. The reason he gave was a clear example of false deference to the Lord. "Oh, I couldn't!'' More likely it just wouldn't be the same to ask for a particular sign. That would be like having your parents ask you what gift they should surprise you with on Christmas morning! If you tell them, it takes away the surprise!
I can remember the three of us boys as children, sneaking downstairs at 6:30 on Christmas morning. The tree was dark until we plugged in the lights, splashing the wrapping paper with even more color. The presents were all there, and we quietly poked around the pile, trying to guess what might be in the presents with our name on the tag. And after all that effort to guess, what a crushing thing it was when a shape or a rattle or a poor wrapping job enabled us to guess for sure! The fun was gone.
But God was not going to leave Ahaz without his sign, whether he wanted it or not, and so a sign he got. A woman would conceive and bear a son and the name of that son would be Emmanuel. Emmanuel. It means "God with us.''
Oh, what a sign. Not a direct statement that God would see to it that the foreigners would not conquer. Not a rosy picture of how the history of the battle would be written. No, it was much more important than that. It was a sign. A gentle, general, generic surprise. We're talking about a king shaking from fear of a foreign army, wondering whether he or the nation of Judah would survive, and the Lord, in spite of his protest, offers ... a sign. God would be there no matter what happened. It'll be all right.
"And this will be a sign for you. You will find the Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.''
Now that's a more definitive sign, isn't it? I mean, a baby wrapped up in the Pampers of the day. That's not a hint; that's direct, right? Right? Or is it?
Could those shepherds have had a clue as to what was wrapped in those swaddling cloths? Could they have had a clue what was going on in that humble setting where mother shook from the cold and shock of childbirth and father, exhausted from seeking shelter, looked warily out of the stable, not eager to welcome anyone else into their family ... one more was fully enough for the time being.
Mary and Joseph, too, were looking for a sign. A sign that what they had experienced over the last nine months really was something of God. A sign that they would not be left alone to deal with this. A sign that Emmanuel, God, was with them. Everything had been so powerful that day for them. Only a subtle wisp of a sign would get through to their pounding hearts. Perhaps a little baaa from a lamb did it. Maybe. But surely the Lord gave them a sign of comfort that night.
Christmas is a magic time of signs, most of which are far beyond and beneath words.
One of those magic signs happened at the turn of the century in New York City. The great playwright Moss Hart wrote in his autobiography about a particular Christmas Eve when he was ten. He knew his family was almost penniless, so he was surprised that special night when his father said to him, "Let's go downtown,'' and they set out on a walk down to 149th Street, a part of town where pushcarts full of toys were lined up for late Christmas shoppers.
Mr. Hart knew his dad was going to buy him a Christmas present, but he also knew that his dad had very little money. As they walked by these carts, Hart said he saw all sorts of toys he wanted. But after his father asked the price, the two of them would move quietly to the next cart, his father putting his hands in his pocket and fingering the coins. So it went from one cart to the other. Nothing the youngster wanted could be purchased for what his father had been able to save. This is how Moss Hart remembered his feelings that night:
As I looked up at [my father] I saw a look of despair and disappointment in his eyes that brought me closer to him than I had ever been in my life. I wanted to throw my arms around him and say, "It doesn't matter ... I understand ... this is better than a chemistry set or a printing press ... I love you!'' But instead we stood shivering beside each other for a moment, then turned away from the last two pushcarts and started silently back home.
(Homiletics, Oct.-Dec., 1991, p. 42)
A sign had been given. Indirect. But powerful. And a sign had been received.
The question this Christmas is whether we got the Christmas sign. Whether, in spite of or through the plays and the carols, the worship and the family meals, we caught the sign. Whether in spite of missing a family member at the table due to death or distance we saw the sign, the subtle, powerful sign of Emmanuel, God is with us.
If we did, everything else is fine print. If we didn't, then it's back to the war games of Ahaz and back to the filthy sheep on the hillside, with nothing to show for it but a sign. Just a sign.
Ah, we all know of the need of a sign, don't we? It's funny how we are built. Inside, I mean. We can have proofs and explanations and insistent documentation, but that's not what we really need deep inside, is it? We want a sign.
The most subtle, fragile, subjective hint of all, a sign, is what we need to assure us of our place in a person's life, or to assure us that it'll be okay, or to assure us that God is there.
Just a sign. Like looking off to the side of the cluster of stars called Pleiades to bring them out in a brightness and richness that looking straight on never can do. We often need a subtle but honest sign, a hint of truth from an unguarded moment. A sign.
Centuries before a tiny urgent cry in a bed of hay that night, a king shook from fright at the collaboration of foreign nations who would do Judah in. King Ahaz needed a sign desperately and Isaiah the prophet was sent by the Lord to assure him. "Don't be afraid of these two smoldering stumps of firebrands,'' Isaiah quoted the Lord to Ahaz. And then he finished with those marvelous words: "If you do not stand firm in faith, you shall not stand at all.''
But they were strong words. They were words meant to convince. They were too direct, too positive for Ahaz to hear. He needed a sign. Just a gentle, subtle sign.
And so, reading his mind, the Lord spoke to him and said, "All right, ask for a sign, any sign! Let it be as high as the sky or as deep as the earth. Just ask me and I'll give it to you.''
But Ahaz couldn't do it. The reason he gave was a clear example of false deference to the Lord. "Oh, I couldn't!'' More likely it just wouldn't be the same to ask for a particular sign. That would be like having your parents ask you what gift they should surprise you with on Christmas morning! If you tell them, it takes away the surprise!
I can remember the three of us boys as children, sneaking downstairs at 6:30 on Christmas morning. The tree was dark until we plugged in the lights, splashing the wrapping paper with even more color. The presents were all there, and we quietly poked around the pile, trying to guess what might be in the presents with our name on the tag. And after all that effort to guess, what a crushing thing it was when a shape or a rattle or a poor wrapping job enabled us to guess for sure! The fun was gone.
But God was not going to leave Ahaz without his sign, whether he wanted it or not, and so a sign he got. A woman would conceive and bear a son and the name of that son would be Emmanuel. Emmanuel. It means "God with us.''
Oh, what a sign. Not a direct statement that God would see to it that the foreigners would not conquer. Not a rosy picture of how the history of the battle would be written. No, it was much more important than that. It was a sign. A gentle, general, generic surprise. We're talking about a king shaking from fear of a foreign army, wondering whether he or the nation of Judah would survive, and the Lord, in spite of his protest, offers ... a sign. God would be there no matter what happened. It'll be all right.
"And this will be a sign for you. You will find the Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.''
Now that's a more definitive sign, isn't it? I mean, a baby wrapped up in the Pampers of the day. That's not a hint; that's direct, right? Right? Or is it?
Could those shepherds have had a clue as to what was wrapped in those swaddling cloths? Could they have had a clue what was going on in that humble setting where mother shook from the cold and shock of childbirth and father, exhausted from seeking shelter, looked warily out of the stable, not eager to welcome anyone else into their family ... one more was fully enough for the time being.
Mary and Joseph, too, were looking for a sign. A sign that what they had experienced over the last nine months really was something of God. A sign that they would not be left alone to deal with this. A sign that Emmanuel, God, was with them. Everything had been so powerful that day for them. Only a subtle wisp of a sign would get through to their pounding hearts. Perhaps a little baaa from a lamb did it. Maybe. But surely the Lord gave them a sign of comfort that night.
Christmas is a magic time of signs, most of which are far beyond and beneath words.
One of those magic signs happened at the turn of the century in New York City. The great playwright Moss Hart wrote in his autobiography about a particular Christmas Eve when he was ten. He knew his family was almost penniless, so he was surprised that special night when his father said to him, "Let's go downtown,'' and they set out on a walk down to 149th Street, a part of town where pushcarts full of toys were lined up for late Christmas shoppers.
Mr. Hart knew his dad was going to buy him a Christmas present, but he also knew that his dad had very little money. As they walked by these carts, Hart said he saw all sorts of toys he wanted. But after his father asked the price, the two of them would move quietly to the next cart, his father putting his hands in his pocket and fingering the coins. So it went from one cart to the other. Nothing the youngster wanted could be purchased for what his father had been able to save. This is how Moss Hart remembered his feelings that night:
As I looked up at [my father] I saw a look of despair and disappointment in his eyes that brought me closer to him than I had ever been in my life. I wanted to throw my arms around him and say, "It doesn't matter ... I understand ... this is better than a chemistry set or a printing press ... I love you!'' But instead we stood shivering beside each other for a moment, then turned away from the last two pushcarts and started silently back home.
(Homiletics, Oct.-Dec., 1991, p. 42)
A sign had been given. Indirect. But powerful. And a sign had been received.
The question this Christmas is whether we got the Christmas sign. Whether, in spite of or through the plays and the carols, the worship and the family meals, we caught the sign. Whether in spite of missing a family member at the table due to death or distance we saw the sign, the subtle, powerful sign of Emmanuel, God is with us.
If we did, everything else is fine print. If we didn't, then it's back to the war games of Ahaz and back to the filthy sheep on the hillside, with nothing to show for it but a sign. Just a sign.
