As we gather here this holy night, we come from a variety of religious backgrounds. For some of you I’m sure the more familiar word during The Lord’s Prayer is “trespasses.” You will especially appreciate an internet story about the little boy who was sent to bed early on Christmas Eve. His boisterous excitement was getting in the way of all the hectic, last minute preparations his parents were trying to make, and they needed to get rid of him. A few minutes later his father overheard the child saying his prayers by the side of his bed — a bit confused, but poignant nonetheless. “And God,” the child said, “please forgive us our Christmases as we forgive those who Christmas against us.”
Christmas can be so wonderful. And it can be so terrible as we get caught up in the whirlwind — trying to doing it all. We get caught up trying to imitate Grandma and trying to balance the true meaning of this night with the TV inspired expectations of our children. As the poet W.H. Auden suggested, we are so materially bound, that we fail to see “the actual vision,” and only find fleeting time to entertain it as “an agreeable possibility.” We gather here tonight — some of us content, happy, relaxed — but all too many of us tired, stressed, guilty, anxious. Yes, we come here tonight restless, because despite all our preparation, we still don’t know what we are preparing for — why it is that in the deepest part of who we are, there is an emptiness and a hunger.
We come to church, some of us settled in familiar pews, others of us feeling a bit awkward because this is foreign territory and we’re not quite sure how to do all those things listed in the bulletin. But all of us are like the soldier during World War II who had his face blown apart, causing both disfigurement and amnesia. He didn’t know who he was or where he belonged. He began to visit villages, trying to find himself. After several tries he stepped off the train onto a particular main street and “something about the station and its environment seemed familiar. As he walked down the street, it all began to come back, and he turned this way and that, growing increasingly more sure of where he was, until he arrived at the cottage where his family lived and knew that he was home.” [1]
My friends, tonight we have come home. It’s all beginning to feel familiar — the sweet voices in the darkness, the comfort of well sung carols, the anticipation of light spreading warmth in our midst, and those words about a place and time when God was real. It is a place and a time that can become real again tonight. It is a simple Palestinian village where a husband and a wife weep and laugh over a baby — a soft, fragrant baby who looks up at us with total trust and innocence, waiting for us to take care of him. Grimy shepherds, terrified and electrified by an army of angels lighting up the sky with the transcendent glory of the same God who lies helpless in the manger. How odd and how wonderful! Yes, caught up by the familiarity, we are drawn into the story. And maybe if we let go and sink into it, we can touch, taste, see, hear, and smell this story. Maybe — for a minute — that emptiness deep inside of us can be filled by a very real, very living, very loving God. Maybe the agreeable possibility can become the actual vision — where everything is you and nothing is it.
A Canadian pastor tells the true story about a little girl who was being put to bed by her mother during a loud thunderstorm. As the mother tried to leave, the little girl insisted that she stay to comfort her during the storm. The mother explained that she and Daddy wanted to eat dinner and spend some time together. The mother tried to calm the little girl by saying, “God will take care of you. There’s no need to be afraid.” The little girl cried out, “I know Mommy, but when it thunders that way, a little girl like me wants somebody with skin on!” [2]
After all the theological arguments and philosophical debates, after all the careful exegesis of biblical minutiae, what Christmas boils down to is this — God with skin on — a God who wants to be loved and not feared, a God who chooses to become particular and personal with us where we are, a God who becomes human in order to teach us and invite us to become divine. The great divide — the divine/human gap — becomes instead, this night, an intimate relationship between partners in creation. That which is common becomes holy — and we need never be lonely again — we need never be scared again — we certainly will never be the same again.
My family and I were fortunate enough to get tickets to the Vermeer exhibit at the National Gallery of Art — the most complete showing of the artist’s work ever to be assembled. A deeply religious man, Vermeer expressed his faith through his work. But there is nothing “religious” about this art. His portraits are small and limited in subject matter — common people in common places doing common things. And yet to see these paintings and to be embraced by them is a holy experience. It is the light and the skin that does it — soft, moist, luminous skin that begs to be touched and kissed and caressed — common human flesh that glows with the full-bodied spirit of the divine: incarnation — God with us. In these human-holy portraits, Vermeer proclaims the reality of God in the midst of the artist’s everyday human experience.
When the angels startled the somnolent shepherds in those grimy fields outside Bethlehem — the angels proclaimed: “This shall be the sign for you. You will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” The shepherds left immediately to find this sign and they were so excited about this God-thing breaking into their very human existence that they become irresponsible. They did not follow the process, they did not do their duty, they did not meet management objectives. They left the sheep unattended and went to see this thing that had happened.
And indeed they found a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. This year I have become fascinated with this image of swaddling cloth — mentioned twice by Luke — and only three other times in scripture. A swaddling cloth was a large square cloth with a long diagonal strip hanging off one corner. The baby was wrapped in the cloth and then the long strip was wound firmly around the full length of the infant — for warmth, for security, to remind the child of the dark, safe, protection of the womb. Just in the past year, as I have held my swaddled grandson in my arms, I have been reminded all over again about how important warm, snug love can be for a newborn baby. In Hebrew scripture whenever this word swaddling appears, it refers to a child who is beloved, who is special, and who is safe amidst the terror of real life. And so it is with Jesus — with Yeshua — whose Hebrew name means salvation. This beloved child, safe amidst the terror of a Herod-filled world, is swaddled salvation, tightly wrapped wholeness. This child is God’s promise — tangible and visible — God with skin on.
Can you see the baby? Reach out and touch him. You are touching God — safe, precious, special, beloved. But look again. You are also touching yourself. For you too are safe, precious, special, beloved. Through your baptism you have become one with Christ and you have become a bit of God with skin on. There are swaddling cloths of grace wrapped tightly around you. Can you feel them? They are there to keep you safe, to keep you warm, and to tell you just how beloved you are. But then, please look in the manger one more time. What you see is not just God — or yourself. What you see are all the brothers and sisters around you — all the people for whom salvation has come — safe, precious, special, beloved. You see those for whom God sent Jesus, because God so loved the world. And if we can see the multicolored face of humanity in the baby — with all the physical and spiritual needs that come with innocent human life — then we will also see and hear our calling. For when this God with skin on gets under our skin, our calling is to wrap all of God’s precious children with swaddling cloths of protection and love.
George was the custodian of a small church in rural Louisiana. He was married to Alice and together they had six children. One afternoon, Alice, aged 34, was hanging wash in the backyard and dropped dead of a heart attack. One of the church elders who was a friend, upon hearing of the death, went to be with George. When he arrived George was stretched out on the bed staring at the ceiling, numb. His friend said nothing, but instead pulled up a rocker and sat down by the bed. He lit up a cigar and began to rock. George drifted into soul-soothing sleep as night fell. Later George recounted how on the day Alice died he awoke in the dark and instinctively reached out for Alice, but she was not there. When he touched the empty side of the bed, he was stabbed awake by the agony of his lostness and loneliness. Just as the pain of isolation became unbearable, George said he caught in the corner of his eye an arcing red glow, the movement of his friend’s lit cigar as he rocked quietly. “I got through the night because my friend was there.” [3]
Brothers and sisters, we can get through this night and all the dark nights of the soul, because God is there — because God is here — swaddling us with grace that holds us tight and keeps us safe — so that we can become the presence of God for others. Our God is a God with skin on — in all the people and all the experiences and all the intuitions — that lead us to a place of peace and wholeness.
May it be so, for you and for me. Amen.
1. John Killinger, Lectionary Homiletics, December 1992, p. 25.
2. Leonard A. Griffith, Lectionary Homiletics, December 1989, p. 36, adapted.
3. Don Wardlaw, Lectionary Homiletics, January 1992, p. 9, adapted.