The Way, The Truth, The Life

Witnesses
by Michael Phillips

Ps. 96; Luke 2:1-20

What we often call “The Christmas Story” would be better understood if we were to say “The Christmas Stories.” A typical crèche scene portrays shepherds, animals, and angels in the company of the holy family on the night of Christ’s birth. Yet, in Matthew’s gospel there are no shepherds tending their flocks in the field, and in Luke’s gospel there are no wise men from the east bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. In Luke’s gospel, angels announce the birth of the savior, messiah, and Lord, but in Matthew’s gospel, a star bears witness to the birth of the king of the Jews.

In fact, many of the ways in which we speak of Christ’s birth, life, and death are murals, or collages of portraits and stories. A metaphor here, an image there, a phrase that captures a single facet of a complex mystery – these are what have been left to us by the witnesses of Scripture and the various communities of early Christians who made the effort to create a written account of a living event. Then, over the course of centuries, human beings attempted to hammer out the specifics of what it is we mean when we attempt to say what we mean, using theology commingled with philosophy. To make matters even more difficult, all of these dogmas were designed to settle not only matters of faith, but matters of politics as well – the politics of the various churches, and the politics of the states in which they resided.

Yet, the simple truth of the matter is that on some unknown day, in some unknown year, a child was born – to the family of a simple carpenter by means of an unwed mother – and nothing has ever been the same. It was an event too large to be contained or explained in all the teachings of Israel’s faith communities, and too small and insignificant to be widely noticed – except that it was. There were witnesses. It really doesn’t matter whether the witnesses were shepherds, or magi, animals, none of the above, or all of the above. It simply matters that this seemingly unimportant event of a child being born to a young girl in the back room of an overcrowded house raised the eyebrows of angels, or commanded the attention of an unusual star in the sky, or caused Mary to wonder what all of this might mean, and probably caused Joseph to consider what he’d gotten himself into.

We often hear the phrase, “The Word became flesh, and dwelt among us,” which comes to us from the gospel of John. We also know “the Word” of God is employed to describe a witness, faithful and true, to the nature and the character of God. And so all our high sounding words, like all powerful, and all knowing, and perfect, and many others, are shattered by the cry of a baby that witnesses to vulnerability, hunger, and helplessness. Centuries of theology and philosophy are here revealed for what they are – the struggle of humanity to come to grips with what it means for God to become one of us.

I can’t ever remember a time or place in my life where I have been a witness to any more grief, pain, and anguish, than these past fourteen years – Of course, there have been good times as well – and I am always thankful for the joys and pleasures that season the days of our lives. Even so, I am benumbed to some degree by the number of hard days that visit the houses and families of those who dwell upon the earth – perhaps because I am more a part of life and death in every day, week, month, and year as a pastor than I ever was as a soldier, or wilderness guide, or farmer, or student. There is simply no place to hide from the reality of the anxious existence that we call humanity, family, clan, community, and the terrors that visit so many of us on so many ordinary days. I remember an entry in the journal of the King of England which he penned on July 4th, 1776, in which he said, “Nothing of any importance happened today,” while half-way ‘round the world a brazen group of Americans committed their lives and properties to a revolution.

Nothing of any importance happened that day of Christ’s birth in the journals of humanity’s masses, or in the annals of their kingly courts, or in the proclamations of their earthly rulers. Yet, in the hours of labor, God crept in, unawares, and in that birthing moment, Spirit took flesh upon itself, and at the first filling of a babies lungs with air, and that first newborn cry of astonishment, God became one with us, and began a life among us.

I can’t imagine the pain and anguish that Jesus encountered in his days upon earth. If we interpret the psalms as applicable to Christ, we’re told that other children made up songs to taunt him as the child of an unwed mother. Then, some thirty-odd years later, he answered a call from the spirit, was baptized in the river Jordan, and made friends with a man named John, who would soon be murdered for telling things like they were. We know the crowds pressed him, crushed him, followed him for bread, cried out to him for healing, and confronted him with all manner of disease and demonic oppression. We know he was faithful to his calling, was persecuted by his religious betters, was betrayed by a close friend, and abandoned by the rest in his greatest hour of need. We know he was spat upon, beaten, whipped, and mocked, and we know he died alone – as we all do, in the end.

The simple truth of the matter is that the birth of this child into this world, our world, as the incarnation of God’s Word, God’s promise, can’t be fully comprehended without the rest of the stories that make up his story. Because it is all the stories, together, that teaches me there is an answer to the world’s pain and anguish. It is all the stories, together, that teaches me to have faith in the midst of our doubts, hope in the midst of our hardships, and love in the midst of our benumbing relationships. For this birth, like no other, witnesses to us that God is here, God cares, and this God is enough.

(Comments to Michael at mykhal@epix.net.)