The Word Became Flesh And Lived Among Us
One of the more interesting aspects of the Anglican Book of Common
Prayer and Revised Common Lectionary liturgies for the Feast of the
Nativity is that we are given a choice of three Gospel readings.
This practice evolved from the number of services offered, initially by
the Pope, and eventually in monastic houses and the large churches and
cathedrals at the celebration of Christmas.
Two of those readings are the account of Christ’s nativity at told in
Luke’s Gospel—with options to omit certain sections in order to place
emphasis on different parts of that story—though often, as tonight, we
read that story as a whole. The third choice is the prologue to
John’s Gospel; “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with
God, and the Word was God…”
The first part of the Lukan account gives a setting and places an
emphasis on the visual images of Jesus’ birth; he is born in the manger
after Mary and Joseph are left stranded and with only the barest of
creaturely comfort as the time of his birth arrives. The visual
is then enhanced by the aural as the angels announce the birth to
shepherds who are in the fields—shepherds; servants of a community from
which they are isolated as vagabonds and those who are treated as
less-than by the very nature of their servanthood. It is they, of
all the people of Bethlehem, who hear the angels’ song that
night. And it is they, of all the people, who glorify God that
night.
Then there is John’s Gospel. John seemingly jumps into the middle
of the story, but I think the truth is, for John, it is as Dylan Breuer
says, “that the beginning, middle, and end of the story of the world is
one of love—intimate and unwavering love.” That is, the end, the
beginning, the middle—they are all of one piece; parts of one eternal
song, a timeless unfolding of God’s love that is the Creation.
Tonight is a night to listen for the music of God’s love, to look for
the star of promise, to see with spiritual eyes the peace of God
enfolding a dark and wounded world. Tonight, we find ourselves in
the midst of the beginning, the middle, and end of the story, and the
questions I pose to you is “Do you hear the song? What do you hear?”
The year was 1962; I was a new father and a college student. Late
October—the news was not good and it was recommended that we have
portable radios—not so widely used then as now—as well as emergency
supplies. President John Kennedy was demanding the Soviet Union
withdraw missiles being shipped to and assembled in Cuba and for a
couple of weeks, the world seemed to teeter on the brink of nuclear
war. The situation was moving toward peaceful resolution by
Thanksgiving and although the tension remained, the threat eased and
there truly was giving of thanks that year.
A young Frenchman, Noel Regney, someone who had seen war close up and
personal in Europe just 20 years earlier, wrote a Christmas song that
year that reflected a hunger for peace among all people. It would
be another year—Kennedy’s assassination in November of 1963 was a
benchmark for that generation—before the song would ‘catch on’ and
become a standard for the season.
Said the night wind to the little lamb, "Do
you see what I see? Way up in the sky, little lamb, do you see
what I see? A star, a star, dancing in the night with a tail as
big as a kite, with a tail as big as a kite."
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy, "Do you hear
what I hear? Ringing through the sky shepherd boy, do you hear
what I hear? A song, a song, high above the trees with a voice as
big as the sea, with a voice as big as the sea."
Sight and sound—the way we take in, the way we
connect. And so it was that God reached out to us, in the song of
the ages—Jesus, the Christ, come in the most fragile of human forms.
As I read John’s Gospel, it struck me that the quietly forceful melody
of creation’s love was echoing in the rhythmic words: In the beginning
was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He
was in the beginning with God. The sounds called to me, drew me
in; here I attempt to share what I heard:
JOHN 1 (Paraphrase)
Long, long ago, tomorrow—or was it a soon to be
yesterday?—a soundless word echoed through a dark universe, echoed back
to the one who spoke, reflected back to the one who was, existed in the
one who was and became all that is to be.
All that is was in that Word and the soundless word
echoed until it shook a world which was not into existence. All
the words that are exist in that Word but no word can describe it, no
word can fill it up. Life, light, love; death, darkness,
destruction – all words competing for being in the universe – were,
are, yet shall be contained within that soundless word, even as its cry
go out to the ends of the world it echoed into existence.
Darkness and death were hidden in the light and life;
swallowed up as it were, and are swallowed up again and again.
But at last there was a night, a dark night, the darkest of nights,
when the light shone down and the song could not be contained.
Few saw, fewer heard—but it was no less real for those who did—for a
mother and a father and for those who needed love. It was a song
to ponder, a time to sing, a time to shine.
After time, one came as a path through which the sound
could shine, as an instrument played by the great singer whose song
cried out to be sung and heard by ears long deaf to any sound but the
beat of hardened hearts. And the singer’s soundless song was
taken up by one who ran into the lonely desert to learn that song; one
who cried, “Prepare, repent!” one who was the least.
Still, ears listened not, eyes saw not, mouths cursed for
lack of food, hands struck out in a deadly darkness—and yet, and yet,
the song got brighter and brighter and brighter until it appeared with
glory to the blind; with laughter to the ones with no joy, no hope;
with healing to the sick, the lame, the dying; with love for the
hated—and for the haters. But we didn’t know, we just didn’t
know, how could we know?
Oh, sure—some heard; some tried to sing the song, to echo the soundless
song that filled the emptiness, shined in the darkness, created from
the chaos that was and is and is to be. We killed them. We
killed the one who cried prepare the way. And then we killed the
way. We didn’t know, we just didn’t know, how could we know?
Do we hear now? Will we sing now? Will we bear the light and life into a dark world?
And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his
glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth.
Regney ended his Christmas song with a plea:
Said the king to the people everywhere,
"Listen to what I say! Pray for peace, people everywhere, Listen
to what I say! The Child, the Child, sleeping in the night, He
will bring us goodness and light, He will bring us goodness and light."
"Bring us Light!"
Lord Jesus, bring us Light!
The Rev. John Dryden Burton
Eureka Springs, Arkansas
December 24, 2008