cracker

 

Monday 6th January will be for many the day they go back to school or work after the Christmas break. Even if you are retired, and have nothing in particular to go back to, it may still feel like a gearshift. The Christmas decorations are back in the loft, and we turn our faces into the cold wind of a calendar month that seems to last a full three-hundred-and sixty-five days. But the 6th of January is also the Feast of the Epiphany. How might we keep the feast, wherever we find ourselves?

An epiphany is a revelation, and like a Christmas cracker, a revelation has two ends: at one end, the one who is revealing something, and at the other end, the one who therefore sees or hears something they did not know until now. At the Feast of the Epiphany, God is holding one end of the cracker, and we are holding the other. Here are three ways God might hold out an epiphany for us to grasp, taken from Matthew 2.1-12.

Firstly, God might speak to us through the wonder of the world around us, including the night sky, and the stunning dawns we often get at this time of year. Perhaps you might choose to get up early and get outside and look up. To take a deep breath and feel the cold air wake your lungs to life. Perhaps there will be a hard frost, that, during the night, spread fractals of ice across the windscreen of your car. The beauty of creation, as vast as stars and as tiny as ice crystals, can take our breath away. And open our eyes to the truth that we are not the centre of the universe, we are very small, and yet we are held by the love that holds everything there is together, which is a very secure place to be. And when we respond in overflowing gratitude for the sheer gift of life, we take hold of our end of the cracker and pull.

Secondly, God might speak to us through the wisdom and – crucially – the hope of others. The beauty of the Christian tradition and the resources of our scriptures, history and practices, is that they spring from many different generations and cultures. None of us has the full picture. God can speak to the young among us through the elderly and speak to those who are older through the children. In particular, I think that the older we get the more we need children to speak life to the hope within us. My observation is that many of us lose our sense of hope as we get older, and I think that is because the Baby Boomers became the most affluent generation the world had seen, and affluence is a hope-killer. My advice to those who are older is, stop consuming news, because human love and faithfulness is not newsworthy, and the news will bombard you with exceptional sorrow and despair. You do not need to be abreast of situations you can do nothing about to pray that the world might know peace. My advice to those who are younger is, restrict your consumption of social media, for it too holds out a distorted reflection of the world that makes everything appear closer than it is, such that we can think we are sitting in the same room as other people when in fact we are miles away. But when we are present to one another – to whoever is right in front of us – we take hold of our end of the cracker and pull.

Thirdly, God might speak to us through our dreams. We take in a lot of information, more than we need, so much that it becomes overwhelming. It is as if your wardrobe is full of clothes on hangers, but you have many more clothes, piled on a chair and strewn all over the floor. And you can’t find the thing you need. You are sure you saw it somewhere, but where? And when we sleep, our subconscious acts like a responsible adult, picking the clothes up, sniffing them, neatly folding those that might be worn another day and dropping the ones that are a bit whiffy in the laundry basket. Seeking to draw harmony out of chaos, which is how we most deeply participate in the divine nature. At times, our subconscious is so hand-in-hand with God, it is hard – and perhaps unnecessary – to tell them apart. But when we quieten our souls enough to sleep deeply enough to dream, we take hold of our end of the cracker and pull.

So here are three ways God might hold out an epiphany for us to grasp: through the wonder of the world around us; through the wisdom and – crucially – the hope of others; and through our dreams. But any Christmas cracker worth its salt contains a paper crown, a gift, and a riddle.

The paper crown reminds us that we, like the three kings, are drawn into God’s epiphany.

The gift is that when we gaze upon the face of Jesus, we see God – whom we could not see – made visible. Jesus is the revelation of God, of what God is like. What we see in Jesus, we can say of God – and what we do not see in Jesus is not of God. There is no violence in Jesus – no harm or oppression – and so any violence attributed to God (by admirers and critics alike) is misattribution. Jesus walks away from a fight, literally – evading those who sought to kill him – and metaphorically – keeping silent under hostile questioning. Jesus attends to the person directly in front of him, with compassion – even when he himself is crucified. He absorbs suffering and returns love. He is the emptying of power to be an infant dependent on others to show him the way he should go, and the adult who hangs from the gallows. He is foolishness in the eyes of the world. He sleeps soundly in the madness of a storm at sea. He thirsts. He is love.

The riddle is that we become God’s epiphany to the world: the bearers of the greatest gift, from which every other gift flows and to whom every gift returns: Jesus. This bleak midwinter Monday, may you be a star in the darkness, a treasure-chest on the journey, a child who sparks joy. May you be whatever God might choose to make his Son known in the world. Amen.

 

to grow in wisdom

The Great Feast of Christmas (24 December to 5 January) is followed by the Feast of the Epiphany (6 January) when the Church remembers the visit of the magi recorded by the biographer Matthew (Matthew 2.1-12).

I will assume that Matthew is as reliable a record as any other ancient text, which is not to claim that the text is without bias or agenda, but to accept it as a primary source for historical claims.

Matthew records that a caravan of strangers arrived in Judea.

They are there because they have observed something in the night sky that, according to a significant body of learning with which they are well-versed, they have interpreted to announce the birth of a great leader of the Jews.

They present themselves at the court of Herod the Great in Jerusalem, where their arrival is taken seriously as potentially giving rise to a messianic uprising that could threaten Herodian dynastic ambition.

Consulting their own library of knowledge, the royal courtiers identify Bethlehem as the potential epicentre of any such possible revolt, and the strangers are sent there to establish the lie of the land and report back.

On finding the family of Joseph, they present gifts summarised as gold, frankincense and myrrh, gifts that are reminiscent of the idealised wedding procession of King Solomon the Son of David through the wilderness towards Jerusalem in the erotic poetry of The Song of Solomon, and also of a prophecy attributed to Isaiah of the wealth of the surrounding nations flowing to the royal court in Jerusalem.

One or more of the strangers has a dream which they interpret as being a divine warning not to return to Herod, and so they disappear into their own country by another road, or another way of being.

How might we reflect on this account?

Firstly, we note that the travellers at the heart of this account are strangers. They are the other, and the other is always a source of fear for humans. God is the ultimate other, and as such the other is often an envoy of God. We do not know the size of the caravan, but, extrapolating from three named gifts, tradition has given us three kings, and this is reminiscent of the three divine visitors received by Abraham. We do not know where these strangers come from or return to. But in seeking to deceive the stranger, we seek to deceive God, and in welcoming the stranger, we welcome God.

Secondly, we note that humans are meaning-making animals, even when the world cannot beat the weight of the meaning we construct (for example, the arbitrary value we have given gold, or land). The ancients sought to navigate world events according to the map of the night sky. We, too, endlessly, find patterns, and attribute significance. The age of scientific enquiry is no different from those ages that came before.

Thirdly, and entirely related to the above, we note that the ancient world was highly connected, through the exchange of ideas and philosophies as well as trade. We strive not only to make sense of the world but to do so, at least in part, by overcoming the fear of the other. Only together will we overcome our fear of the unknown. The stranger and the familiar each have a piece of the code we are trying to interpret.

Fourthly, we note that our present is understood in the light of the past, and the actions of the other, in as much as they have a bearing on us, are understood through the lens of our own history. We do not so much judge a book by its cover, as judge the cover of the other by the content of our book. This is less than fair, but there we are. Those of us whose shared history has trod heavily on others should tread with extreme caution.

Fifthly, we note that dreams are a way in which our subconscious attempts to bring order to the chaos of information our conscious mind observes in the world. This is another level of meaning-making. At some level, something about Herod registers as false, and yet it is in the time of sleep that God is able to bring clarity, to bring us from a place of harm to a place of harmony.

Sixthly, we note that the way ahead is a way that leads us to disappear from the view of the watching world, and that it can never be the same way by which we have appeared in the world. Our lives begin with the struggle to come together, to construct not only meaning but also allies, partnerships, purpose. There comes a point when the mission changes, when the goal is to give our lives away. When maturity is marked by giving away our lives to others. The gifts given by the magi are, within the frame of reference of the account Matthew gives us, the first gift offered, the first unburdening of the self. This is followed by the gift of not trying to retrace their earlier steps but embracing a new and unknown way forward. An event not told by lights in the night sky, but conducted entirely in the dark, so to speak. There comes a further point where the mission changes again, and we are called to give our death away to others, to model dying well, which in fact begins long before we die. The magi disappear entirely from the story, but not from our imaginations.

In 2025, how might we welcome the stranger, lighten the load of the meaning we construct, embrace the limitations of our understanding, redeem the past through gratitude for what was and is in all its imperfection, meet chaos with empathy as the birthing of harmony, and give more of ourselves away to others becoming less than they may become more?

Where's Jesus?

 

Back when I was at theological college, Susie and Noah were in primary school and Elijah was a baby. Once, when Jo was away, I put Elijah in the pushchair and went to collect the other two from school, along with two of their friends, whose dad was also at the college. By the time we got home, it had started to rain. The house we rented had a covered car port that sheltered the side door, so we went in that way. I sorted out drinks for the kids. They disappeared upstairs to play. Some time later, I realised that I didn’t know where Elijah was. I searched the house, every room, without finding him. I went through the house again, even looking in places that, logically, I knew it was impossible that he would be. I asked the others if they knew where Elijah was, and they said “No.” Frustrated, I said, sarcastically, “Well, thanks a lot for helping me look for him.” It was later reported back to the other college family that Susie’s dad had thanked them all for helping look, but that they didn’t think I really meant it. After I had searched the house from top to bottom three times over, I heard a sound from outside the door to the car port. And there I found Elijah, still strapped in the pushchair, exactly where I had left him.

The biographer Luke records a story of Jesus accompanying his parents, Mary and Joseph, on pilgrimage from Nazareth to Jerusalem to take part in the festival of the Passover at the temple, when he was twelve years old. It is a journey that might take three days, possibly more, followed by the seven days of the festival itself. Then everyone sets off for home. At the end of the first day walking home, Mary and Joseph can’t find Jesus. They ask among their relatives, who have made the pilgrimage with them, but no one has seen him: “No, sorry, I thought he was with you.” They ask among the wider group of pilgrims. No one has seen him. No one can recall seeing him all day. By now, mum and dad are more than a little anxious.

There is probably nothing they can do until morning – which doesn’t help – but then they head back to Jerusalem. And then, for three more days they search the city, high and low. They do not find Jesus anywhere. By now, they are besides themselves with worry.

They say the thing you are looking for is always in the last place you look. At one level, that is obvious: once you have found the thing, you stop looking. But there is a sense in which the thing is found in the one place you are most anxious about looking, the place you do not want to go. This is especially true for a missing person.

Eventually, Mary and Joseph find Jesus. He is in the temple. He has been there all along. And Luke tells us:

‘When his parents saw him they were astonished; and his mother said to him, “Child, why have you treated us like this? Look, your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.” He said to them, “Why were you searching for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” But they did not understand what he said to them.’

But here is the thing. The Greek text does not say “in my Father’s house.” The word ‘house’ is not there. The Greek says, ‘in the of the Father of me.’ Duplicating the ‘the’ is how they highlight something – we might use bold or italics or underline – and the thing being highlighted is determined by the context. The translators have decided that the context is where Jesus is – the temple – and have given us “my Father’s house.” Because “my Father’s house” is what Jesus calls the temple.

Except that this is a very odd choice. The phrase “my father’s house” is found many times in what we call the Old Testament, and a couple of times in the Apocrypha, and it always means ‘my immediate family or relatives’ and/or what we would call ‘my family tree.’ That is what the phrase means. It would be very strange for Jesus to use it in an entirely different way. In John’s account of the life of Jesus, Jesus is recorded using the phrase on two occasions. Once, he says, “in my Father’s house there are many mansions.” Now, whatever he is speaking of – whether the life to come, or the family of God – he certainly isn’t speaking about the temple here. The other occasion is when he says, “Stop making my Father’s house [or family] a house [or family] of commerce.” This could possibly be the one place where “my Father’s house” could refer to the temple; but even here Jesus could be referring to his family tree, the people of God, and how they were supposed to relate to one another and the surrounding nations.

In any case, ‘house’ is an odd choice to supply as context. There is another word that makes more sense, in context. Mary has just told Jesus, “your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.” That is the context. Surely Jesus’ response should be read, “Why were you searching for me? Did you not know that I must be in my father’s anxiety?” In the anxiety of my father. Or, in other words, didn’t you realise that I would be found in the place where my father was most anxious about finding me?

I don’t know why the temple was the place where Joseph was most anxious about finding Jesus. Perhaps he was worried that he would lose his son, that the apprentice builder of Nazareth would follow a different calling. Perhaps he was worried about where that might lead, where it might end up. Perhaps he was right to worry. Perhaps he couldn’t help it – after all, isn’t that what parents do, even after their children have grown up?

What I do know is that Jesus is to be found in the place where we are most anxious. Wherever that place might be. Whatever those circumstances may be. That is where Jesus is, already, waiting for us to face the fear. For in that place, he is a non-anxious presence. In that place he is listening attentively and asking pertinent questions, desiring to know peace and to draw others into that peace.

So, what are you most anxious about today, right now, in this threshold between 2024 and 2025? Be honest with yourself, as honest as you dare. For that is where Jesus is to be found. In the last place you are prepared to look.

 

Christmas

 

I will not wish you all a Merry Christmas. For some of you, this Christmas is already full of joy, of diamonds and champagne and promise, of Christmasses to come, of new traditions waiting to be birthed. For others here, this Christmas is as bitter and unpalatable as the baked camembert Jo served up tonight. Though even such full-bodied notes as these, having recoiled, may come to be appreciated by the mature palate. An after-taste, a counterpoint to sweetness.

Instead, my wish is this. That, with the babe, this Jesus, wrapped tight in strips of cloth, and hidden in the manger, you may find whatever grace you need this night. Whatever you need.

 

No room in the inn

 

kai eteken ton huion autēs ton prōtokon kai esparganōsen auton kai aneklinen auton en phatnē dioto ouk ēn autois topos en tō katalymati.

And she brought forth the son of her, the firstborn, and wrapped in swaddling cloths him, and laid him in a manger, because not there was for them a place in the inn.

Luke 2:7

When Mary brought forth her firstborn son, she wrapped him and laid him in a manger, because there was no topos for them in the katalymati.

A topos is a place, a region or terrain, from which we get the word topography, the recording of the forms and features of place. But there is more to the meaning. The topos is the place assigned by God to any given creature to inhabit: the oceans, with their mountains and canyons, where the great creatures of the deep migrate; the sky for the birds (though we do not chart this topos in quite the same way); the land in all its diversity, the polar caps for bears or flightless birds, the great plains for herds of cattle beyond number, the forests for the tiger, the mountain gorilla, the smaller elephants. In Genesis 1, we see God create a topos for all life, and bring forth the firstborn of every kind.

The katalymati was (not a commercial inn, but) the place set aside for the stranger passing through on their journey and in need of hospitality for the night. In the place where Jesus was born, families lived in one shared common room, with a place set aside for such travellers. It could be a small room beyond the main space, or even a curtain at one end, providing some privacy. It could be a room, or even a canopy, on the flat roof, accessed by steps on the outside of the house (the upper room where Jesus would celebrate the Passover with his disciples on the night he was betrayed was a katalymati).

When Mary brought forth her firstborn son, she wrapped him and laid him in a manger, because there was no topos for them in the katalymati. There was no place assigned to them by God within the provision for those who were only passing through. Instead, Jesus is laid in a manger. In the main room, shared by the whole family, and, at night, by their peasant animals—perhaps a small cow, perhaps a donkey, perhaps a family of goats, the body heat of the animals providing warmth for the humans. There is no manger out on the hills where shepherds watch over larger flocks of sheep. There is certainly no manger in the stable of a commercial inn.

There was no place assigned to them by God within the provision for those who were only passing through. The topos God assigns to the young mother and her firstborn son is in the heart of the family who are descended from David.

There will come a time, soon enough, when they will need to flee the hot anger of Herod. They won’t need a lodging for the night because they will travel by night, the better to slip away unnoticed. But they shall return, to claim the topos assigned by God, a kingdom that shall endure for ever.

 

On the twelfth day of Christmas

 

When is Christmas?

That’s not as daft a question as it may sound. Obviously, Christmas Day is 25th December. But for many people in our impatient society, Christmas Day is the culmination of Christmas, or at least the summit before a rapid downhill through Boxing Day and the relief of taking down the decorations and collapsing in a heap.

In the Church of England the season of Christmas runs, essentially, from sunset on Christmas Eve until sunset on 5th January, with the season of Epiphany (the Feast of the Epiphany is 6th January) taking up the baton. The Christmas cycle then carries on until Candlemas, on 2nd February. Many churches will take down most of their decorations now, with the crib remaining until Candlemas. I think, though I am not certain, that in the Roman Catholic church the season of Christmas runs until this coming Sunday, the Baptism of Christ, with the Christmas cycle also lasting a little longer into the Sundays before Lent. But small variations aside, what both share in common is that Christmas Day is not the end of the matter but the dawn.

Does it matter, when and how we celebrate Christmas? Well, yes and no. I really don’t think that it matters in terms of when we take down decorations, and even friendly arguments about whether that should be 5th January or 2nd February tend to miss the point.

But I do think that it matters that we, collectively, can’t bear to live in the moment. That we rush to bring the trappings of Christmas into Advent, because it is too stark; that we rush to put away Christmas, because it is too much; that we look for ways to transform our dark and dismal January lives with New Year’s Resolutions because we (think that we) need a New Me. It bothers me that we are, collectively, in such a rush.

It is still Christmas. Joy and peace be with you this day.

 

Holy family

 

Despite all the textual and historical evidence that Jesus was born in the heart of a first-century Judaean family home, and not a stable at the back of an inn (which is a western cultural misunderstanding) a lot of people seem to want to argue that Mary and Joseph would be forced to seek marginal lodging because both sides of the family would ostracise an unmarried couple expecting a child.

There are cultures where shame trumps familial ties, and cultures where familial ties trump potential shame. There are cultures where both possibilities entwine. The argument that Mary and Joseph would be ostracised makes choices that may not be right.

It also assumes that God was able to prepare both Mary and Joseph, but did not prepare—by whatever means, including the relationship between Mary and her family and Joseph and his family—their wider families. This in turn is shaped by a very western, individualistic understanding of our actions and agency.

Along the same lines, it also assumes that Mary was godly, and Joseph a righteous man, but that in neither case did the families they were raised in have any significant part in the formation of their lives and character.

It is, in short, a conclusion that is shaped by our cultural values and not theirs.

This is a story in which, again and again, as we anticipate first the birth of John and then the birth of Jesus, these children are welcomed into the heart of an expectant, if bewildered, family.

 

Christmas story

 

Long, but seasonal.

It may be too early for some, but Christmas is coming, and I have already seen cartoons circulating poking fun at poor Joseph getting a frosty reception from Mary for having forgotten to book a room in the inn.

It is a tired old image, used to justify the widely-held (by men and women alike) cultural idea of men as incompetent fathers or last-minute Christmas shoppers, unable to plan, yet somehow always managing to get away with it, at least in their own eyes.

But British cultural Joseph couldn’t be further from the truth. Here is a man hand-chosen by God, just as much as Mary was, in a careful plan, generations in the making.

Joseph is a descendent of king David. David’s line has long since had the throne stripped from them as a consequence of their unfaithfulness towards God, but the hope of restoration remains, no more so than in David’s hometown of Bethlehem. David is the one who wanted to build a house for the Lord, but was not permitted to do so, on account of having blood on his hands, the blood of Uriah husband of Bathsheba. Instead, the Lord permits David’s son by Bathsheba, Solomon, to build a temple David plans and prepares for.

That in itself is a redemption story. But David’s faithful descendant Joseph is—listen to this—a builder of houses—and the one entrusted with guiding Jesus through the transformation from God-with-us in a tent (which is how the Prologue to John’s Gospel describes the coming of Jesus) to the one who will build God’s house, the Church.

Joseph is from Bethlehem, but he has travelled to Nazareth to be betrothed to Mary. In that culture, bridegrooms would then return to their parental home, and build a new extension in which they would begin a new life before returning to fetch their bride. Extended family generations sometimes created a compound of (essentially) one-roomed dwellings, around one or more courtyards. Things go somewhat differently for Joseph.

First, he discovers that the girl he is betrothed to is pregnant, and he is not the father. This is clearly a cause of distress to him, but his response is that of a righteous man. After prayer and reflection, he resolves to break off the betrothal quietly, in such a way as to protect Mary from scandal and, potentially, from death threats. But then an angel, a messenger from God, comes to him in a dream and convinces him to take Mary as his wife and to raise the child, for this is God’s plan.

In the meantime, Mary has travelled to her relative Elizabeth, nearer to Bethlehem. Elizabeth is also unexpectedly pregnant. They may each help shield the other from unwanted attention.

Further complicating matters, a periodic Roman census is called (the most famous of these, though almost certainly not this one, occurred under Quirinius, Governor of Syria) and Joseph heads to his home in Bethlehem—to register where he lived—taking Mary with him. (No census called for a return to your place-of-origin; empires want to know who lives where, not where they originate from.)

In all these circumstances, there may not have been time for Joseph to build a new home for his bride. And so they lodge with family, most likely Joseph’s immediate family although any family in Bethlehem would have welcomed a son of David. Families lived all together in a single room, with animals such as a small cow and goats kept at a lower level at one end (providing warmth at night, as well as protection for the animals) and a guest room either at the other end from the animals or on the flat roof. This is the room were Mary and Joseph were staying. Not an inn where travellers paid to sleep on a shared floor, but the guest room of a family home.

However, this room was too small for Mary to give birth, attended to by the women and girls of the home and the women who served the community as midwives, and so Jesus was born in the main room at the heart of his extended family at the heart of a community eagerly anticipating a descendant of David to whom God would restore the throne.

That night, the whole town rejoiced. And there, the young family lived, for a couple of years, Joseph building a home, to which in time a caravan of astrologers from royal courts to the east came to honour the birth of a new king of the Jews. This greatly disturbed the king on the throne, a paranoid vassal of Rome, who (we are told) ordered that every infant in and around Bethlehem be massacred. That is when the hopes and dreams of David’s community bled out.

(This is why the Prologue of John’s Gospel speaks of all those who recognised Jesus’ coming to his people, as well as those who did not recognise, or acknowledge, him.)

But once again, Joseph is visited by night by an angel, and, so warned, gathers up his little family and flees as a refugee to the Jewish diaspora community in Egypt. Here is a man who knows when it is wisest to run away. And there they live until after Herod the Great dies, when they—perhaps by now already joined by the next of Jesus’ brothers and sisters—set out for Bethlehem; though on discovering that Herod’s most unstable heir is ruling there, they continue north and build a life in Nazareth, close to Mary’s side of the family.

Joseph is a remarkable man; a remarkable husband and father; a remarkable friend and trusted covenant partner to God. He has been on my mind today.

 

Lionesses of Judah

Lectionary readings for Holy Communion today: Genesis 49:2, 8-10 and Matthew 1:1-17.

The Old Testament reading is an extract from the patriarch Jacob blessing his sons, or reflecting on their character, so as to train them. He compares Judah to a lion and like a lioness. If you’ve ever watched a natural history documentary, you’ll know that big cat mothers are determined, fierce, and resourceful when it comes to the survival of their young.

Matthew begins his Gospel with a family tree, to show that what God has done in and through Jesus is the culmination of a plan that has been in patient motion since the call of Abraham; but also, that, as God has given real freedom to humans and lions and all creation, this determined plan has often genuinely hung in the balance. And in his list of fathers and sons, Matthew includes a pride of lionesses, each facing an obstacle.

The first obstacle is the failure, and indeed refusal, of Judah’s own sons to carry on the family line. It was the custom for brothers-in-law to take responsibility for widows, but Tamar is left hanging until she takes the matter in hand—not only for her own future, but that of the family line, and the plan it carries—posing as a prostitute the now-himself-widowed Judah goes to for comfort, and so securing an heir.

The second obstacle is an army outpost, the Jericho garrison, blocking the way of the descendants of Jacob into the land of Canaan. And here we meet our second lioness, Rahab, the civilian barkeeper who welcomes spies, hides them from the guards who come looking for them, and chooses God’s people over her own, to the extent that she not only secures the survival of her own household but a place in our family line.

The third obstacle is an environmental crisis, a time (not for the first time) of extended harvest failure. Our family finds themselves economic migrants, refugees in a neighbouring land. And there, disaster on disaster, the men die. When things improve back home and widowed Naomi sets out to return, her foreign daughter-in-law Ruth goes with her. She will carry the family line on through Boaz, having put herself in that position by her resourcefulness and cunning: when the harvest is gathered in, and Boaz, having celebrated hard, falls into a drunken sleep in the field, she uncovers him so that when the cold awakens him, he finds himself naked in a field, lying there with a beautiful woman, and wondering about his options. A comedy worthy of Shakespeare.

The fourth obstacle is the unfaithfulness of the king in Judah, David. At a time of war, he does not lead his armies out, but stays at home, where he decides to force himself on his best friend’s wife. Bathsheba isn’t named, other than as ‘the wife of Uriah,’ emphasising that her husband was not the father of her son. When she falls pregnant, David attempts to cover his tracks, first summoning Uriah home from battle for one night, then sending him back to be murdered on the front line. Everyone will assume he is the father of his wife’s child. But when that child also dies, Bathsheba refuses to allow David to wash his hands of her. She will not be discarded, but claims her place as a royal wife. They have another son, and the line carries on.

And so we come to a fifth obstacle in this our family tree, and here the Lectionary brings the account to an end one verse too soon. For once again God’s plan hangs in the balance, as Joseph is about to find out that his wife is pregnant and he is not the father. What will Mary do, lioness to protect her son? And how will Joseph respond?

Tune in next time...

 

The women

On the night that he is born, Jesus is surrounded by women. The men have shut themselves away in the upper room, anxious, agitated, at a loose end. Though, just perhaps, the youngest of them is brave enough—is permitted—to stay with the women in the communal room they have made their own in this moment.

Mary is supported by the other women. By female relatives of her husband, and the women who served the community as midwives. When her son quite literally descends from her, they take him up and wash his body clean—of blood, and wax, and shit—and lay him on her breast; and all the while at least one holds her hand, feels her rough nails gouge into their wrist. May be one on either side, at each wracked arm.

At some point, they lift her son from her overwhelmed frame; bind him tightly in strips of linen, and lay him in a shallow groove scraped into a stone shelf. And there he will be found, by the menfolk, called by the women from their hiding place, not quite able to believe their eyes. And by shepherds summoned from the fields where they have been raising sacrificial lambs to gaze upon the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. And, having seen, shepherds are transformed into angels themselves, messengers running through David’s town, proclaiming news that an heir has been born to his line: that the days of their wait are numbered now.

On the night that he is born, Jesus is surrounded by women, getting on with what needs to be done, going about the most earthy, holy of tasks. Preparing the way for the men to follow. They will always be there throughout his life, whether in the foreground or the background, named in the story and not. But on the night he is born, the women point us to the day on which he dies. For life and death, and new life, and laying down your life for others, are inseparable. Or so they say—so they embody—passing wisdom from generation to generation.

 

Comfort and Joy

 

2020 has been a hard year. The Church of England’s theme for this Christmas is Comfort and Joy, recognising that this year Christmas will be, for many, a strange mix of the numbness of loss and the longing for that celebration of love that strengthens our bones in midwinter. Jo and I would like to share some Comfort and Joy by giving every home in our parish a bespoke bauble, to create a community-wide Christmas tree, in our homes and also hopefully curated online. As we look to bless our neighbours, we have asked a local business to make the 7,000 baubles for us, and they look great.

Here’s how you can help.

[1] Could you donate to our Just Giving page, to help us cover the cost? The link is https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/comfort-and-joy

There will be some additional costs (printing of an explanatory flyer; possibly ribbon) but our target of £1,750 relates to 7,000 laser-cut baubles at 25p each.

[2] Do you have any ribbon you don’t need and could give to the project? It needs to be 15-20cm lengths, between 3mm-(max.)10mm wide.

We know that many of you might have some ribbon saved for a project you’ve never got around to, or even the hanging loops from a dress or top. Here is another way to get involved. We need 7,000 strips in all, but every contribution helps, however small. Any colour will do, especially if Christmassy. If you are further afield, you could post them to us—message me for our postal address on andrew [at] dowsetts [dot] net if you need it—and if you are local, you might even be willing to thread some of the baubles for us?

[3] Local friends, would you be able to help deliver baubles door to door, later in the year? Let us know!

 

Merry Christmas!

Christmas. It is all about the Bride, bearing the fruit of the Holy Spirit, being brought by her Bridegroom to his Father’s house.

Not the beginning of the Gospel (John, at least, places that before the creation of the world, and therefore also before the ‘Fall’ of humanity) but the entirety of the Gospel from inception to completion. In a nutshell, or, at least, a manger.

An enacted parable of Jesus and the Church.

Happy Christmas!

Mary and Joseph

Let’s be absolutely clear, this Christmas, that there is no scandal around Mary being an unmarried mother. Mary and Joseph were betrothed. And in first-century Palestine, that means that they were legally married, with the rights and responsibilities that come with it. Betrothal was the legal agreement between two families, from which point a couple were married but lived in the home of the father of the bride (in this case, in Nazareth). The wedding came at a later date, at which point the groom brought his bride to his parents’ home (in this case, Bethlehem). They then lived in a small room in the home of the groom’s parents. In a patriarchal society, betrothals often happened as a girl was on the edge of becoming a woman, biologically, moving from one family to another.

Joseph and Mary are betrothed, and, when they came to Bethlehem, they are married. It does not matter that we do not read about their wedding at any point in the gospels — it is assumed — nor does it matter that a Roman census had any impact on the timing of the two parts of the process — though it does matter to the story, for reasons of fulfilling prophecy, that Jesus be born in Bethlehem.

While they were staying there — in a small room (mistranslated ‘inn’ by the King James Version, and descendant translations) in the home of Joseph’s parents, as opposed to later when they lived as refugees in Egypt, or later still when they returned to Mary’s town of Nazareth because it was safer than Joseph’s town — Mary gave birth to her son, Jesus.

Because their room was too small for her to give birth, attended by the village midwives and Joseph’s female relatives, she gave birth in the main room of the house; and her son was placed in the hollowed-out trough from which the domesticated farm animals ate at night.

If Joseph was not the biological father of Mary’s son, no-one knew that other than Mary and Joseph. No-one knew, because it was naturally assumed that Joseph was the father, of a son born in wedlock; and because Joseph was a righteous man who had not wished to bring Mary into disgrace. As such, on discovering from her that she was with child, he had decided to divorce her quietly, before being instructed by an angelic messenger not to be afraid to remain married to Mary and to raise her son as his own. That knowledge in no way changed his righteous intent not to expose Mary to disgrace; therefore, no-one would see her as an unfaithful wife, any more than they would see her as an unmarried mother.

If we see her as an unmarried mother, and assume that the couple were shunned for this, we betray our ignorance of the family customs and expectations of the time and place.

The ostracised people brought into God’s story of redemption at the nativity are not a young married couple, but the shepherds. Shepherds were as welcome in many homes then as ex-offenders, or the homeless, might be in many homes in my culture today. But they are welcomed in, with the reassuring sign that a baby who brings hope to the world might lie in an animal feeding-bowl just as much as the lambs the shepherds might feel more at home with.

This is a story of family ties, however flawed they may seem through our eyes, and of the relationship between the centre and the margin of community. This Christmas, may we see the nativity and our own homes and community through fresh eyes, and a new heart.

Happy Christmas!

Leap for joy

“For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leapt for joy.” Elizabeth, to Mary (Luke 1:44)

Luke introduces his account of the birth of Jesus with the account of the angelic announcement and miraculous conception/gestation/birth of John (the Baptist). This is just one of the many ways in which God meticulously plans the birth of his Son. John is sent into the world to go before Jesus and prepare the way for him.

John will do this in many ways: an uncompromising call to repentance, wrestling with his own doubts, in the face of sorrow and tragedy. But the very first way in which John prepares the way for Jesus’ coming, while both are still in their mothers’ wombs, is by leaping for joy.

Let that sink in.

In the Lectionary readings for Holy Communion today, this reading follows Zephaniah 3:14-18, in which God is portrayed as leaping (and, indeed, singing) with joy over his people. So juxtaposed, we are invited to see John’s response as a human participation in that of, and initiated by, God.

Joy is not our only experience. It wasn’t John’s. It isn’t God’s. But it is there, and not as something incidental but as amazing participation in mystery. My prayer for you, and for myself, is that, in the midst of everything else we may be going through, we might experience at least moments of joy this Christmas-time.

Why we need a new (old) story

First posted on Facebook, 11 December 2017:

The other day, I wrote that Jesus was born in the house Joseph and Mary were living in at the time, and not in a stable at the back of an over-full inn as our traditional English nativity plays present it.

But why does it matter? Why do I care so much about how the story is told? Well, here are three reasons:

Firstly, the traditional Nativity presents Joseph as incompetent. And as Matthew shows us that the righteous man Joseph is hand-picked by God to raise his Son, this traditional depiction presents God as incompetent in his choosing. Whereas the Gospels, taken together, present a long and careful planning.

Secondly, the traditional Nativity presents Mary as helpless. Whereas Luke presents her as a feisty theologian who sings a song—often called the Magnificat—so revolutionary that it has been banned in many countries around the world. Read it for yourself. It tends not to be sung at Nativities.

Thirdly, the traditional Nativity presents Jewish people as inhospitable, failing to provide (anything more than the most) basic care for a woman at her most vulnerable. This perpetuates anti-Semitism. It is true that as an adult Jesus’ teaching divided the community, but as a child he was welcomed by the people of Bethlehem—welcomed as the son of a descendant of king David in the small and fiercely proud community from where David had come.

Fourthly (yes, consider this a freebie), the stories we are told as children are the stories we hold on to. Hence the cultural resistance to hearing and telling the story of Jesus’ birth in any way that confronts our nostalgia.

Is that enough to be going on with?

Home birth

First posted on Facebook, 09 December 2017:

Looking for a story from the life of Jesus that features a donkey, inn, and innkeeper? You want the parable Jesus told commonly known as the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke chapter 10), not the account of his birth (Luke chapter 2).

There is no mention of a donkey or an innkeeper in the account of Jesus’ birth. In several English translations, there is an inn—but this is a mis-translation of the word for the guest room. Jesus was born in a family home, most probably (it is implied but we aren’t explicitly told) the home of Joseph’s parents. Most probably a home with one main room, and a smaller room in which Joseph and Mary were living at the time (and for a couple of years after, before fleeing to Egypt). And no, they didn’t arrive on the night she gave birth. But, we are told, that room had no room (space) for Mary to give birth, attended, as she would have been, by Joseph’s female relatives and in all likelihood the women who fulfilled the role of midwives in the community. So Jesus was born in the living room. A room shared, at one end, by the peasants’ animals at night, their body heat providing warmth for their owners. The manger was a bowl hollowed out of the stone floor, a contained space filled with clean and insulating hay—the ideal place for a new born to sleep.

This is not a story of haphazard lack of planning, or (at this point) battling against the odds, or of a lack of welcome. It is the very opposite: a story of a community functioning as community. A story of God and his people very carefully planning and loving and witnessing something simultaneously ordinary and extraordinary together.

Christmas Eve

Luke 2:1-20

This Christmas will likely be a difficult one in parts of Cumbria, in the aftermath of the floods, and we remember those communities before God. But in Iceland, tonight is marked by a very different kind of flood, the jólabókaflóð, or ‘Christmas Book Flood’. There, between eighty and ninety percent of books are published for Christmas, with almost everyone being given a new book on Christmas Eve and staying up through the night to read it. A heart-warming, cosy tradition.

Christmas is a time for stories, including all those Christmas films that are repeated year after year on tv. We have favourite stories we can read or watch or listen to again and again, never tiring of them.

My wife and I have a tradition of watching the film Love, Actually. It is a film about love; but it is really a film about choices: good choices, poor choices, habitual choices, painful choices, risky choices, life-changing choices.

In one scene, a young girl is bursting to tell her mother which role she has been given in the school nativity. She proudly announces that she will play the part of the Lobster – indeed, First Lobster. Her mother doesn’t quite know how to respond, and somehow manages to form the question, ‘There was more than one lobster present at the birth of Jesus?’ – to which her daughter responds, ‘Duh!’ [lit. of course; everybody knows that!]

The humour lies in our knowing that there were no lobsters at the nativity alongside the shepherds and wise men, the angels and star, the cattle and sheep and donkey, Mary and Joseph and the innkeeper.

Except there was no innkeeper, and no over-full inn. You see, the phrase on which every traditional nativity play hangs, there being no room in the inn, is simply a very poor translation. In Luke’s Gospel, an inn and innkeeper appear in the parable of the Good Samaritan, but not in the account of Jesus’ birth. The word translated ‘inn’ in Luke chapter 2 is in fact ‘guest room’ – the same term Luke uses to describe the room in a house in Jerusalem where Jesus and his disciples ate the Passover meal we know as the Last Supper. But that was a sizeable guest room in a home in the capital city. At the time of Jesus’ birth, Joseph and Mary were guests in a home in Bethlehem. They were welcome and honoured guests – after all, Joseph could trace his ancestry to none other than Bethlehem’s most famous son, King David – but nonetheless they were guests in a smaller, provincial home, where the guest room was too small for Mary to give birth in, attended by the village midwives and the women of the household. So Mary gave birth to her son in the main room that served as bedroom to the family and shelter to their animals at night, and living room by day. Afterwards, Jesus was washed and wrapped in linen strips and laid to rest in one of the mangers, a confined and warm space, an ideal crib. And there the shepherds will find him, and all just as it ought to be.

I tell you this not to take away the wonder of Christmas, not to pour cold water on memories of childhood and children and grandchildren, not to throw out the carols, but because it is the stories we tell over and over that shape us.

We have told the story of Jesus’ birth as a story of rejection, of God coming into the world and being largely ignored at best. And the more we tell that story, the more it shapes us to expect of other people and of ourselves that they, that we, will reject or ignore God. It becomes something of a self-fulfilling prophecy, if you like.

But Luke tells us a story of welcome, a story of God’s long-awaited coming to his people, of God dwelling in the midst of his people, at the heart of ordinary lives. And when we start to tell this story, and to tell it again and again, the story shapes us for welcoming - welcoming one another, welcoming God – and for wonder, shared between us, at God’s sheer goodness.

So tonight let us stay up telling stories, as the shepherds did, of good news for all people. Stories of a God who has not abandoned us but who came to us, and who comes to us today; who is here in our midst, in the bread and the wine of this holy night, and in the gift-giving of the morning, and the gathering around the table for Christmas dinner and then falling asleep in front of the telly later on. God with us.

That is a story I never tire of hearing, or telling; of sharing with family and friends; of shouting from the rooftops. Happy Christmas! May it be filled with welcome and wonder, more and more, year upon year. And may it shape our rejoicing and our mourning, our treasured memories and our deepest pain; in joy and in peace, amen.

A Plea To Those Who Tell The Christmas Story

A plea to those who tell the Christmas story: when will we stop perpetuating nativity misconceptions and start proclaiming what the Gospels tell us concerning the birth of Jesus?

There was no inn, no innkeeper, no weary little donkey. Jesus was not born in a stable, but in a home. And the difference actually matters – to children and to adults.

The Gospel According to Luke tells us (chapter 2) that at some point in the second or third trimester of Mary’s pregnancy, she travelled to Bethlehem with her husband Joseph (nowhere is it suggested that they arrive on the night that she will give birth). Bethlehem is Joseph’s ancestral home. In that culture, where – and who – you came from mattered far more significantly than it does in my culture (which tells us that what matters is not your past, but your future, and you can be whatever and whoever you decide). That is what the biblical genealogies (such as the one in Luke 3) are all about. Even if Joseph no longer had immediate relatives in Bethlehem, simply by turning up and giving his genealogy – showing his ID – it is almost unthinkable that they would not find a welcome.

Moreover, Luke tells us that this – Bethlehem – is the city of David. That detail matters. Everyone anywhere knew that Jerusalem was the city of David – though Jerusalem has grown in the 3,000 years since, that part which king David established is known as such to this day. But Bethlehem was proud of its most famous son, and the locals laid claim to the title for themselves (in the same way that Sunderland lays claim to Alice in Wonderland, though elsewhere Alice is universally associated with Oxford). Given that Joseph’s genealogy ties him not only to Bethlehem but to David himself, it becomes almost inconceivable that they would not be welcomed into a home.

Why, then, the inn? Quite simply, this is an inconsistent and unjustified mistranslation. Luke knows the word for a commercial inn – it appears, along with a beast of burden and an innkeeper, in the parable of the surprising neighbour (or, good Samaritan, Luke 10) – but here in the birth narrative uses the word for the guest room of a home, the same word he later uses for the (larger, urban) guest room in which the Last Supper is held (Luke 22).

The typical peasant house had two rooms: a larger multipurpose room in which the family lived, and slept; and a smaller guest room. Jesus (like both of my sons, but not my daughter) was born in the family room, because there was no room in the guest room for Mary to give birth, supported by the women of the house and the women who functioned as midwives within the community. In all probability, Joseph waited in the smaller room, with any other men.

Why, then, is Jesus laid in a manger? In that context, every home kept a few animals, and the animals were brought into the house at night, both for protection against theft and in order that their body heat help keep the people warm at night (no central heating; hot days, cold nights). The animals were untied and led out from the house in the morning – every morning (including the Sabbath, as Jesus himself will point out when criticised for healing – untying – a woman on the Sabbath, Luke 13). The animals were kept at one end of the house, with the living room perhaps raised up a few feet; and mangers were bowl-shaped depressions in that end of the stone floor, at grazing height for the animals. As such a manger would provide a contained space, ideal for making a new-born baby feel secure. This is also why the shepherds, sent by the angels, praised God for all they had seen, as opposed to concluding that they had been sent to rescue this family from woeful abandonment.*

And that is why it matters, how we tell the story. Because the stories we tell shape us. We have told it as a story of obstruction and rejection. We confront people – however politely – with the expectation that they too will reject Jesus. But that is not good news. It is the very opposite of the good news that Luke presents us with. The good news is that in this carefully-planned event God is to be found dwelling in the midst of his people, having fulfilled his promise made long ago to David.

This is not a story of rejection, which allows us to take pride in being rejected, or make points about the marginalised, however convenient it might be if it were. This is a story of God being received with joy, of good news for all people, of Jesus at the very heart of everyday life with all its struggles and benefits and normality.

This is a story worth rediscovering, and shouting from the rooftops.

*If you are interested in more detail to this overview, see Kenneth E. Bailey’s Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes.