When I was a child there was a game we would play in our neighborhood to pass the time on rainy afternoons. It was a game of the imagination, and if it had a name, which I don't think it did, it would have been called "Where Would You Leave the Treasure?" The idea was this: Suppose you had a large amount of money, a treasure really, but some unexpected crisis has come up, and suddenly you have to leave the treasure with someone for safekeeping. You can't put it in the bank or bury it under the oak tree in the back yard -- there isn't time. The rule of the game is that you have to entrust it to someone, some human being. Whom would you choose? The fun of the game, of course, was sitting around in a circle and exploring all the character flaws and virtues of the various possibilities, searching for a trustworthy person.
"How about the school principal?" someone would suggest. "Nah, he'd probably steal it."
"Well, how about the preacher?" "Too risky. He'd probably put it in the collection plate."
"Okay, then, what about your sister?" "Are you kidding? She'd want to split it."
And on it would go, the search for just the right person to keep the treasure. In the mind of a child, the stakes were high: your whole treasure risked on something as fragile as the trustworthiness of another human being.
Now, one way to read the first chapter of the Gospel of Luke is a divine version of "Where Would You Leave the Treasure?" God was searching for some place in human life to leave the treasure. In God's case, the treasure was not gold, but the gospel. The treasure was not silver, but news ... good news. Not cold, hard cash, but the deep, rich, and abiding promise that, when all is said and done, we are not alone, that God is finally "God with us," at work in our world, setting things right. That's the treasure. Despite appearances to the contrary, there is coming a time when swords will be beaten into plowshares, and peace will flow like a river. That's the treasure. The day is coming when justice will cover the earth like the sea, and empty barns, and empty stomachs, and empty hearts will be filled with grain and honey, joy and hope, and the dark stain of human destruction will be bleached clean by the grace of God. That's the treasure.
Now, where in the world do you leave a treasure like that? More fragile than silver, in a way, and yet infinitely more valuable. A treasure able to be squandered, dismissed, rationalized, even crucified. Where do you leave a treasure like that so that it will be preserved, cherished, and allowed to grow?
That's what Luke wants to tell us. Luke wants to tell us the story of where God decided to leave the treasure, and this is the way he begins: "In the days of Herod, king of Judea ... " (Luke 1:5), almost as if to say, "Now there's a possibility!" God could have left the treasure with the Herods of the world, with the politicians, the ones who pave the roads and collect the taxes, the ones who build the schools and pass the laws, the ones who command the armies and provide for the care of the weak. God could have left the treasure with the Herods, and it's not as strange a possibility as it might at first seen, because after all, the treasure is in part political. The treasure is the news that God is at work in the world to pull tyrants off their high horses and to lift up those who hunger and thirst for justice. That when one more starving child in Africa -- or anywhere else -- dies, something at the heart of God dies, too. That God is at work to break the deadlocks, to fill the bowls with food, and to send the greedy away empty. That every valley shall be exalted and every mountain and hill made low -- and that's not real estate; that's politics!
And since it is politics, it would have made a certain kind of sense for God to have entrusted the treasure to the movers and the shakers -- the Herods of the world. But God did not leave the treasure with Herod, because the gospel is the good news that, if there is to be justice in the world, there can only be one true King. If there is peace in the world, there can only be one true Ruler. If there is to be mercy, there can only be one true Lord ... and his name is not Herod.
Every year at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, there is displayed, beneath the great Christmas tree, a beautiful eighteenth century Neapolitan nativity scene. In many ways it is a very familiar scene. The usual characters are all there: shepherds roused from sleep by the voices of angels; the exotic wisemen from the East seeking, as Auden once put it, "how to be human now"; Joseph; Mary; the babe -- all are there, each figure an artistic marvel of wood, clay, and paint. There is, however, something surprising about this scene, something unexpected here, easily missed by the causal observer. What is strange here is that the stable, and the shepherds, and the cradle are set, not in the expected small town of Bethlehem, but among the ruins of mighty Roman columns. The fragile manger is surrounded by broken and decaying columns. The artists knew the meaning of the treasure: The gospel, the birth of God's new age, was also the death of the old world.1
Herods know in their souls what we perhaps have passed over too lightly: God's presence in the world means finally the end of their own power. They seek not to preserve the treasure, but to crush it. For Herod, the gospel is news too bad to be endured, and Luke wants us to see that God had to find another place to leave the treasure.
"In the days of Herod ... there was a priest named Zechariah ... " (Luke 1:5), Luke tells us, and there's another possibility. God could have left the treasure with the Zechariahs of the world, the ones who think holy thoughts, handle holy things, and perform holy deeds. God could have left the treasure with the Zechariahs, and it's not a strange thought, because Zechariah is a priest. Priests are theologians of a sort, and, after all, the treasure is, in part, theological. The treasure is the good news that it is God who is at work to set things right, that it is God who gathers up all efforts of human good will and gives them strength beyond their measure, mercy beyond their depth, and hope beyond their grandest dreams. It is God who has made us, and God who is with us, and God who reclaims us, and not we ourselves. So, Zechariah, a man who handles holy things, and thinks holy thoughts, and performs holy deeds, would be a good place to leave the treasure.
There are signs that God did indeed consider leaving the treasure with his priest Zechariah. Zechariah was an ordinary priest, with the ordinary priestly responsibilities of burning incense and making sacrifices up at the Temple, and he had done the ordinary thing of marrying Elizabeth, herself the daughter of a priest. But he and Elizabeth had one very extraordinary problem. They had no children -- could have no children -- for Elizabeth was barren, and for reasons which have to do with the culture of the first century, that was a pain to them both and an embarrassment to Elizabeth. Then, one day in the Temple, when Zechariah was lighting the incense, God -- almost as a way of testing to see if Zechariah were a good place to leave the treasure -- gave Zechariah a taste of the good news, an anticipatory touch of the treasure. An angel appeared to Zechariah and told him, "Do not be afraid, your prayer has been answered. You will have great joy and gladness. Your wife will become pregnant and bear a son."
It was then that Zechariah, who thought holy thoughts, and handled holy things, and performed holy deeds, showed that he was not the place to leave the treasure. Zechariah, so familiar with the holy, finally could not believe the presence of the holy when it intruded into his life. "How shall I know this?" he whined. "I need proof. I'm an old man. This is impossible. My wife is an old woman. How shall I know this? I need proof." And in a scene of great sadness, the angel reaches forth toward Zechariah's lips, saying, "You will be silent. You will be unable to speak, for you did not believe my words." There is a familiarity with the holy which, ironically, produces a numbness to the holy, and Zechariah was not the place to leave the treasure. For Herod, the gospel was news too bad to be endured. For Zechariah, it was too amazing to be believed, too good to be true.
There is a well-known legend about a seminary student approaching the great theologian Paul Tillich. Tillich had just lectured on the authority of the Scripture, and the student was clutching in his hand a large, black, leather-bound Bible. "Do you believe this is the Word of God?" shouted the student. Tillich looked at the student's fingers tightly gripping the book. "Not if you think you can grasp it," said Tillich. "Only when the Bible grasps you." There is an over-familiarity with things holy, which, ironically, can make us numb to the intrusion of the holy in our lives.
The novelist and essayist Annie Dillard has written about this kind of over-familiarity with the holy. She says that she does not find Christians, outside of those who worshiped in the catacombs, "sufficiently sensible of conditions." She thinks of church people in worship as children who think they are playing around with a chemistry set, but who are actually mixing up a batch of TNT. She maintains:
It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to worship; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews.2
God did not leave the treasure with the Herods; they would crush it. God did not leave the treasure with the Zechariahs; they could not believe it. God did not leave the treasure in the courthouse or in the sanctuary. God did not leave the treasure in the palace or under the altar. It is now that Luke tells us the surprise: God left the treasure in a place which was in that time the weakest of all places, the least likely of all spots -- the womb of a woman. And Luke also tells us that the first time that the gospel is proclaimed by human lips, it is not in the Roman Senate or in the Holy of Holies; it is not by Caesar, or Peter, or Paul. It is in a place the world would count for nothing: a conversation between two women, Mary and Elizabeth, facing their pregnancies. God left the treasure in a woman's womb, and it is in a conversation about stretch marks and swollen ankles that the treasure is first proclaimed.
For Herod, the news was too bad to be endured. For Zechariah it was news too amazing to be believed. But for Mary, too unimportant to be counted, it was, in Frederick Buechner's phrase, "too good not to be true." Maybe Luke wants us to know that the treasure of the gospel, which will one day fill the earth with its power, must first be planted in those weak and helpless places which yearn for it the most, hunger for it most deeply, and thus can believe and cherish it most fully.
There is a scene in Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire when Blanche, an unlovely person desperately seeking love, meets Mitch, a man who is grossly overweight, who is embarrassed that he perspires profusely, and who, like Blanche, is frantically lonely. It is not their strength, but their mutual weakness, which brings them together, and because they are both so needy, Blanche is able to trust Mitch with the tragic story of her life. Mitch then takes her in his arms and says, "You need somebody, and I need somebody, too. Could it be you and me, Blanche?" She looks at him in amazement, then reaches for him, her eyes filling with tears, and says, "Sometimes there's God, so quickly."3
It is the places of weakness in our lives and in the world which are most open to the amazing intrusion of God's presence. And part of the good news is that it is precisely there where God leaves the treasure. God does not come to that part of us which swaggers through life, confident in our self-sufficiency. God, rather, leaves the treasure in the broken places where we know we cannot make it on our own. God does not come to us in that part of us which brushes aside all who threaten our status, all who bore or bother us. God comes to us in those rare moments when we transcend our own selfishness long enough to glimpse the needs of others and to feel those needs deeply enough to hunger and thirst for God to set it right. As the old hymn puts it: When other helpers fail,and comforts flee,Help of the helpless,O abide with me.4
On the wall of the museum of the concentration camp at Dachau is a moving photograph of a mother and her little girl being taken to a gas chamber at Auschwitz. The girl, who is walking in front of her mother, does not know where she is going. The mother, who walks behind, does know, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing, the mother can do to stop this tragedy. In her helplessness, she performs the only act of love left to her. She places her hand over her little girl's eyes so, at least, she will not have to see the horror which faces her. When people see this picture in the museum, they do not move quickly or easily to the next one. You can feel their emotion, almost hear their cries, "O God, don't let that be all there is. Somewhere, somehow, set things right."
Luke's word to us this day is that God hears those prayers, and that it is into just such situations of hopelessness and helplessness that the power of God is born. It is there that God entrusts the treasure, lifting up the lowly and filling the hungry with good things -- setting things right.
On a dark night in a feed stall in Bethlehem, the treasure which was entrusted to Mary became the treasure for us all. All the Herods and all the priests and all the powers-that-be gathered around to do their worst. But on Easter morning, just as Mary said, "God stretched out his mighty arm ...."
1. From Thomas G. Long, "Foreword," Journal for Preachers, Vol. I, No. 1 (Advent, 1981), p. 3.
2. Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk (New York: Harper and Row Publishers, 1982), p. 40.
3. Tennessee Williams, "A Streetcar Named Desire," as quoted in Sharon Blessum Sawatzky, "Sometimes There's God So Quickly," Spinning a Sacred Yarn (New York: Pilgrim Press, 1981), p. 188.
4. Henry F. Lyte, "Abide With Me: Fast Falls the Eventide." Words in the public domain.