I once watched a television program on the theoretical physicist, Richard Feynman. It was said that he had the finest mind since Einstein. He had worked on the Manhattan Project, taught at the California Institute of Technology, and as a final project, had served on the commission that investigated the Challenger disaster.
The TV program talked about Feynmanâs friendship with an artist, and how the artist had taught Feynman about art and Feynman had taught the artist about physics. At one point in the program Feynman held up a flower. He commented that his artist-friend had said how wonderful it was that everyone could see its beauty, that no specialized knowledge was necessary to appreciate the wonder of the flower.
Feynman agreed that this was partially true, everyone could look at the flower and see it; but as a scientist, he was able to âseeâ much more of the flower than most of us. He could see the beauty of the cells working together to support life; the mystery of the flowerâs color, locked in its cells, that attracted insects; which, in turn, would lead him to wonder about the insectâs perception of color. In short, Feynman âsawâ much more in that flower in a few minutes that most of us would see in a lifetime of looking.
Christmas, too, is deserving of that same kind of looking.
We need to âseeâ Christmas in ways that move beyond the sentimental and saccharin. So often we see Christmas and the familiar Christmas story by looking at a Christmas card that has a neat and tidy picture of the nativity on it. We look at it the way we might look at the flowers at the market as we pass by to get to the produce.
The prologue to the Gospel of John invites us to look at the Incarnation as Richard Feynman looked at the flower. The Church, in its wisdom, chooses the prologue to Johnâs gospel both for Christmas and the Sunday following each year. We are invited to let the words roll over us, like waves of music. We love to hear them, even though we may not be too sure about what they mean. Johnâs words can be like wonderful music that is experienced before it is understood.
The passage from John is more than just the preface to the gospel; indeed, the remainder of the book is in a sense an elaboration on Verse 18: âNo one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Fatherâs heart, who has made him known.â
John has no nativity story, no animals in the barn, no shepherds and angels, but presents us instead with this hymn to Christ. This hymn is a love song, full of increasing light, celebrating the relationship between God and Godâs only child and then extending that intimate relationship to embrace all humankind. These are powerful words that speak to us about the one who comes to us in power to make all things new for us â the exiles, the inhabitants of darkness.
Who is this Jesus, the Word who became flesh and dwelt among us?
If we see only the baby lying in the manger, we see only part of the picture. As we did not celebrate Advent by pretending that Christ has not come, so we do not celebrate Christmas by pretending we donât know what is going to happen to this child.
Christmas does not stand alone; it cannot be celebrated properly in isolation from the whole story of Jesus the Christ. To separate the story of Jesusâ birth from the harsh reality of the crucifixion is to engage in denial. The whole story reminds us that we must also see Jesus as the one who is not received. The very people who hoped, finally got the one for whom they hoped, and they did not recognize him and rejected him. When God came to us, it was as one who is weak and vulnerable, not just as the holy infant, but also as the adult hanging on the cross.
Yet Jesus, the weak, flesh-and-bone one, has real power. It is not the worldâs power; it is not the power to make things right or prosperous. The power of Christ continues to be rejected by the world because it is the wrong kind of power. Jesusâ power is to let us be who we are created to be â children of God.
By embracing his weakness, our lives are transformed, and we are empowered. It is the one who is empty who makes full. It is the one who is poor who makes rich. It is the one who dies who gives life.
This Jesus, the rejected yet powerful one, comes full of grace and truth. The Evangelist here quotes a phrase from the Hebrew Scriptures meaning loyalty and reliability. Because of the coming of Christ, we look at the world in a new way. Godâs faithfulness contrasts with our daily experiences in the world and calls us to faithfulness also.
The coming of Jesus presents us with a choice. We can be transformed by the power of the gospel to be Godâs people, walking in Godâs vulnerable ways. Or we can reject him and continue business as usual. Business as usual means sitting in the darkness, shielding our eyes, and turning away from the life-giving light. The story around which we gather today is one of transforming hope for a new life. We are invited to cooperate with the divine initiative, to let the light enable us to see the path more clearly, to make a new beginning as Godâs people. Where that happens, heaven and earth do sing, there is joy to the world, and the waste places do break forth together in singing.
The Church gives us not one day, but twelve, to celebrate the birth of Christ, Emmanuel, God-with-us. Join me in taking that time. Donât be overwhelmed or fatigued by the cultural trappings that have surrounded us since August.
Persevere in hope and joy; donât abandon them like Christmas trees discarded on Christmas afternoon.
For the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a fatherâs only son, full of grace and truth.