Christ, the Word

Families and children around the world have grown to love a special retelling of the biblical storyline from The Jesus Storybook Bible written by Sally Lloyd-Jones. In her introduction to the big story of the Bible, Jones writes:

There are lots of stories in the Bible, but all the stories are telling one Big Story. The Story of how God loves his children and comes to rescue them. It takes the whole Bible to tell this Story. And at the center of the Story there is a baby. Every story in the Bible whispers his name. He is like the missing piece in a puzzle—the piece that makes all the other pieces fit together, and suddenly, you can see a beautiful picture.

Do you remember the famous story about the six blind men and the elephant? One blind man touches the belly of the animal and thinks it's a wall. Another grabs the elephant's ear and thinks he's touching a fan. A third blind man touches the tail and thinks he's holding a rope. On they go, each grabbing a part of the elephant without any one of them knowing what it is they really feel.

What's the point of the story? We are all blind men when it comes to God. We know part of him, but we don't know really know who he is, we are all just grasping in the dark, thinking we know more than we do.

But there are two major problems with this analogy. First, the whole story is told from the vantage point of someone who clearly knows that the elephant is an elephant. For the story to make its point, the narrator has to have clear and accurate knowledge of the elephant. The second flaw with this story is even more serious. The story is a perfectly good description of human inability to know God by our own devices. But the story never considers this paradigm-shattering question: What if the elephant talks? What if he tells the blind men: "That wall-like structure is my side. That fan is really my ear. And that's not a rope; it's a tail." If the elephant were to say all this, would the six blind me be considered humble for ignoring his word?

Possible Preaching Angles: This story can illustrate the truth of the Bible as God's revelation to us or the truth of Christ as the Word of God. In both cases, God (the elephant in this story) has chosen to speak to us, to reveal himself to us, so we don't have to act like the blind men.

My friend Jacqueline tells the story of how UNICEF spent a fortune creating posters to promote the idea of child vaccination to the mothers of Rwanda. "The posters were gorgeous—photographs with women and children with simple messages written in Kinyarwandan (the local language), about the importance of vaccinating every child. They were perfect, except for the fact with a female illiteracy rate exceeding 70 percent, words written in perfect Kinyarwandan made little difference."

Jacqueline noticed that the way messages spread in Rwanda was by song. One group of women would sing a song for other women, both as a way of spreading ideas and as a gift. No song, no message. Your tribe communicates. They probably don't do it the way you would; they don't do it as efficiently as you might like, but they communicate. The challenge for the leader is to help your tribe sing, whatever form that song takes.

Possible Preaching Angles: (1) Relationships—Your "tribe" could be your church family, a child, a spouse, your workplace, your students, your clients, and so on. The question to ask is, "How do I use the right words to communicate with this tribe's heart? (2) Jesus Christ, the Word; Christmas—God has communicated to his "tribe" (the human race) in a way that we can understand. Christmas is God's "song" to us.

In The Gospel of Matthew: God With Us, Matt Woodley writes:

A number of years ago, when I was playing in a friendly men's softball game, the umpire made a call that incensed our coach. My coach didn't agree with the ump's interpretation of a specific league rule. The game stopped, and a heated discussion ensued. Finally, the ump sighed as he pulled a rulebook from his back pocket and proceeded to read page 27, paragraph 3b, section 1.

"As you can clearly see," he concluded, "this rule means that my call must stand." Unconvinced, my coach yelled, "But you're not interpreting that rule correctly." To which the ump replied, "Uh, excuse me, I think I should know: I wrote the rulebook." After an awkward silence, my coach walked back to the bench, shaking his head and pointing to the ref as he told us, "Get ahold of that guy. He wrote the rulebook!"

Throughout his ministry, Jesus didn't just affirm and endorse the words of Scripture; he talked and acted like he had authored the Scriptures. He lived with the authority of the One who wrote the "rulebook."

In July 2009, Parade magazine ran an article entitled, "The Race for the Secret of the Universe." It focused on Fermilab, a four-mile-round particle accelerator that resides west of Chicago. The scientists gathered there are searching for the ever-elusive Higgs boson, also known as "the God particle."

The article explains more: "Physicists believe that this special subatomic particle allows all of the other particles in the universe to have mass and come together to form, well, basically everything that is around us. [According to one Fermilab theorist], without so-called God particles …. 'atoms would have no integrity, so there would be no chemical bonding, no stable structures—no liquids or solids—and, of course, no physicists and no reporters.'"

While it's certainly possible that God built such a tiny particle into the deepest part of his creation, it isn't the God particle. The God particle that holds all things together—actually, the God person—is Jesus Christ. Consider what Paul writes in Ephesians 1:10: "[Christ] bring[s] unity to all things in heaven and on earth." Consider also Colossians 1:16: "for in [Christ] all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him."

During China's Cultural Revolution, Christians were often sentenced to hard labor in prison camps. Maintaining their faith was hard, and expressing it was harder. But for one man, Christmas was not complete without Communion. The significance of Jesus' birth and death made celebrating the Lord's Supper on a cold Christmas Day worth the risk.

Christmas 1961 found the prisoners working on earthen walls around rice paddies in zero temperatures. Wind howled over the frozen ground.

One prisoner approached his supervisor. Could he have some time off from work since it was Christmas? The guard gave him permission, warning him to beware the warden. The old man walked into a gully, out of sight, out of the wind. He built a small fire and began to celebrate Christmas.

A few minutes later the friendly guard saw the warden headed straight for them. He hurried over to warn the old prisoner, just in time to see him sipping something from a chipped cup, eating a bite of bread.

When the warden arrived, all he saw were a prisoner and a guard huddled by a small fire. But the prisoner had completed his Christmas celebration, not with a banquet or with sweets, but with a cold cup and a cold crust—with Communion. His celebration of Christmas demanded Communion.

The birth of God's Son would leave us cold, if not for the death of Jesus, enfolding us in the warm glow of his mercy. Our celebration of his birth needs to be wrapped in the swaddling clothes of God's grace. Our awe at Advent is not [just] that he came at all, but that he came to be crucified.

Used by permission of author.

How did Christmas day feel to God? Imagine for a moment becoming a baby again: giving up language and muscle coordination, and the ability to eat solid food and control your bladder. God as a fetus! Or imagine yourself becoming a sea slug—that analogy is probably closer. On that day in Bethlehem, the Maker of All That Is took form as a helpless, dependant newborn.

In a short devotional for Christmas, writer Paul Williams reflects on why he still remembers one particular Christmas pageant from 1981. It all starts with a strep-stricken son. He writes:

The dull eyes tipped me off before he could open his mouth. Jonathan had strep throat. It seemed the children in our family picked up strep two or three times a year, and someone always had it during the holidays.

Jonathan had been excited about the nursery school Christmas play for a couple of weeks. He would be Joseph. Mary would be played by a Jewish girl from down the block. Yes, her parents had given permission for her to be in the Christmas pageant.

With neck glands swollen and his voice a nasally whine, Jonathan begged to go to the festivities. Against our better judgment, we acquiesced. Bundling our son in his warmest coat, we drove the five short miles to the Central Islip Church of Christ. By the time all the parents had squeezed into the small auditorium, Jonathan was as white as the pillowcase he was wearing as a head covering. He looked fragile and diminutive.

Cathy and I sat on the front row. Jonathan came down the aisle hand in hand with Mary, and the two sat down on the second step below the manger, recently retrieved from its usual home in the boiler room. Jonathan was looking paler still, all the light out of his big blue eyes. He looked at us and managed a weak smile.

As soon as the play was over we hauled Jonathan off to the doctor's office. Since our family doctor was a friend, we sneaked in and out in no time. Filled with penicillin, our son was feeling better the next morning. I do not remember much about the rest of that Christmas season, though I am sure it was utterly delightful, as all Christmas celebrations are.

I have often pondered why that is my only remembrance of that Christmas, in December of 1981. Of all the memories of all our family Christmas experiences, what makes that one event stand out?

I know the reason.

Christmas is truly about frail vulnerability, freely chosen. With heart in throat God watched his infant Son cry and squirm in the cold manger, where there was no penicillin.

I know how I felt watching my son with his head resting in those small hands, wanting to be brave, but weak and unsteady. I can only imagine what my heavenly Father thought, seeing his infant Son in the hands of a frightened young girl.

In Luke 10:38-42, Jesus decides to visit the home of a woman named Martha. When he arrives, he finds Martha distracted by all the tasks that come with being the host. Despite her harried efforts, it is the posture of her sister, Mary, that Jesus praises. With little concern for a successful social event, Mary chooses to sit at the feet of Jesus as he teaches those who have gathered for the meal. As the story comes to a close, Jesus says it is Mary who "has chosen what is better."

Though at first glance this doesn't appear to be a story we should look at during the Advent and Christmas seasons, writer Mayo Mathers thinks otherwise. In an article for Kyria.com, an on-line resource for Christian women, she confesses that hosting parties, cooking up delicious buffets, and shopping for gifts brings out the "Martha" in her. She had never given this much thought until she attended her church's annual Christmas pageant. She writes of her breakthrough moment:

As I sat in the candlelit sanctuary absentmindedly listening to the peaceful strains of "Silent Night," I wrestled mentally with a list of things to be done. When the congregation stood to sing carols, my lips moved unconsciously to the words while my brain mulled over various menus for our annual Christmas Eve buffet.

As in every Christmas pageant, the usual parade of bathrobe-draped children marched down the center aisle. A pseudo-weary Mary and Joseph shook their heads in dismay as the innkeeper turned them away. Having watched so many similar renditions of the Christmas story, it had become commonplace to me.

Realizing this, I felt a stab of guilt and bowed my head. Father, I prayed, let me see the story through your eyes tonight.

The young girl portraying Mary began to sing a lullaby to the child in her arms. Her voice was so pure, so full of love and awe, that I stared at her, transfixed, my distracted musings forgotten. Suddenly, it was as if the congregation had disappearedas if I had been transported back in time to the actual stable in Bethlehem.

As I listened to her song, wonder and immense gratitude settled upon me. Into my heart God whispered, If ever there was a time to worship me, it's now! This season is about me only, but each year you crowd me out with the inconsequential!

Mathers closes her article with these words: "Beautiful, delicious dinners are nice. 'Just right' gifts are delightful. But I'm learning that only one thing really matters: while I tend to be more like Martha, at Christmas, 'tis the season to be 'Mary!'"

According to Yale University law professor Anthony Kronman, students who begin their college careers today suffer from one glaring omission in their studies. Nowhere will they study the meaning of life. American colleges have so embraced a research-driven model of scholarship that metaphysical interests, once the subject matter of the humanities, have been all but eliminated from higher education. Because students are unable to wrestle with critical questions in the university setting, the issues are left "in the hands of those motivated by religious convictions," a prospect Kronman considers "disturbing and dangerous."

What Kronman finds encouraging is that students are exhibiting a "growing hunger" to explore "questions of spiritual urgency." What incoming students want are "courses that address the big questions of life, in all their sprawling grandeur, without reticence or embarrassment." What they will find, however, is that educators have "ceased to think of themselves as shapers of souls."

Dr. Kronman proposes that universities provide a new approach to the question of human purpose that "speaks to the subject in a conversation broader than any church alone can conduct…without pretending to answer in a doctrinaire way." Kronman declares, "Our culture may be spiritually impoverished, but what it needs is not more religion. What it needs is an alternative to religion, for universities to become again the places they once were—spiritually serious but non-dogmatic, concerned with the soul, but agnostic about God."

Advances in technology have allowed scientists to come closer than ever to the physical origins of life. But they are as far away as ever from defining life.

Several research teams around the world are trying to create life out of chemicals, and they estimate they will have success in three to ten years. "We're all sort of thinking that the next origin of life will be in somebody's lab," say Dr. David Deamer. But the biochemistry professor from the University of California at Santa Cruz also says it is better to describe life, not define it.

One Christian scientist says it's going to be impossible to define life apart from God. Francis Collins, the director of the National Human Genome Research Institute, says, "It's an important but ultimately frustrating question if one expects to come up with a nice clean shiny answer; it ain't going to happen." Collins believes that those who "play God" in the laboratory usually don't believe in God.

But Mark Bedau, a professor with his feet in both disciplines, disagrees. Bedau is a philosophy professor and also works at a synthetic biology firm. His team is trying to make single-cell organisms from chemical components. "We are doing things which were thought to be the province, in some quarters, of God," said Bedau, "[things] like making new forms of life." Bedau is optimistic about future possibilities. "Life is very powerful," he explains, "and if we can get it to do what we want…there are all kinds of good things that can be done. Playing God is a good thing to do as long as you're doing it responsibly."

John Kass, a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, recently wrote about a waiter named Bouch who works at a tavern in Chicago. Bouch decided to write to the King of his homeland, Morocco. The King, Mohammed VI, is immensely popular because he often interacts with his subjects in public. He has freed political prisoners, and he helps the poor and disabled. When Bouch wrote to him from Chicago, King Mohammed VI, true to nature, wrote back.

"Look at the letters," said Bouch. "These are letters from the King. If I meet him, I'll be so happy."

John Kass, the columnist, muses, "How many guys hauling beer and burgers in a Chicago tavern have a correspondence going with a royal monarch?" The columnist talked to Morocco's deputy counsel general in Chicago and was told that it isn't unusual for the King to write personal letters to his subjects abroad. "It happens a lot," the official said. "He loves his subjects."

You think King Mohammed VI loves his subjects? You ought to meet Jesus, the King of Kings, and read his precious letters to you.

Many years ago, a doting groom penned a love letter to his bride. Stationed at a California military base thousands of miles away from his wife, James Bracy's link to the lovely woman waiting for him to come home were their love letters.

But this letter didn't get delivered. Somehow it was lost, lodged between two walls in Fort Ord's mailroom in San Francisco. The letter was lost in the shadows, with its romantic affections of a youthful marriage, sealed with a kiss.

A half century later, James and Sallie Bracy had just finished celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary and were relaxing in the living room when "Once in a While," their song, began to play on the radio. Sallie remembered affectionately the 1950s song and how she used to get calls and letters from the man who owned her heart. They joked together knowing there would be no letter or phone call this time because James was at her side.

Meanwhile, a construction crew was dismantling the old post office at Fort Ord, and they discovered a long-forgotten letter from a young army corporal. The crew turned the letter over to Bob Spadoni, the postmaster in nearby Monterey. Spadoni began the process of delivering that letter, tracking down the Bracys through post office records and phone books.

Just a few days after hearing their song, the letter, dated January 28, 1955, was delivered to Sallie Bracy. The letter sent her heart aflutter, tears welled, and she again became a love-struck 22-year-old. "It meant a lot to me then," said Sallie. "It means even more now."

Many years ago God wrote his love letter to us. It's waiting to be delivered, to be opened at just the right time. It meant a lot then, and it means even more now.

Reading ought to be an act of homage to the God of all truth. We open our hearts to words that reflect the reality he has created or the greater reality which he is…. Christ, the incarnate Word, is the Book of life in whom we read God.

Jesus was the audible, visible Word who expressed the heart of the inaudible, invisible God. Jesus Christ is God's great Visual Aid.

Origen, in the third century, had a great analogy. He told of a village with a huge statue—so immense you couldn’t see exactly what it was supposed to represent. Finally, someone miniaturized the statue so one could see the person it honored. Origen said, "That is what God did in his Son." Paul tells us Christ is the self-miniaturization of God, the visible icon or image of the invisible God (Colossians 1). In Christ we have God in a comprehensible way. In Christ we have God’s own personal and definitive visit to the planet.