The vulnerability of Christ's coming

Barbara Sampson considers the deeper meaning of the Advent season.

I need to start with a confession: I don’t do Christmas. I apologise to all you Christmas-tree fanatics, but there’s no easier way to say this. I dislike Christmas with a passion—but I do love Advent. Okay, so I have become a Grinch, a grouch, a Grandma Grumpy, a Christmas wet blanket.

It seems to me Christmas is such an unthinking, unreflective time. There is so much to do, finish, accomplish, list, tick off, prepare, cook, clean, buy, wrap, tie, tag, post, pay off, eat, worry about, collapse from …

Every year I determine to do Christmas in a different way. Not get caught up in the rush. Not get enticed by the ads on TV. Stay out of the shopping malls. But it is like swimming upstream against a very strong current. Is this what a salmon feels like? I wonder. Once again, this year I’m determined to say:

No to overeating—at the risk of being a health nut.
No to overspending—at the risk of being stingy.
No to all those extra Christmas break-ups—at the risk of being a
party-pooper.
No to commercialism—at the risk of being out of step.
No to triviality—at the risk of being a snob.
No to exhaustion on Christmas Day—at the risk of being boring.

This year I’m striking out again, but trying to be a bit more proactive in my protest. I’m lighting a candle for Advent: Christ’s coming. How sweet that sounds: Jesus came, he comes, he will come again. The flicker from the candle I have lit has shed light on three aspects of his coming that I pray will transform, or at least touch in a deep way the true meaning of this season:

The vulnerability of his coming
The value of his coming
The vitality of his coming

Think of all the circumstances of Jesus’ birth that were vulnerable.

Politically it was a vulnerable time. Palestine was under the rule of the Roman Empire, with pagan emperor Caesar Augustus in charge. Considered by many to be a god, Augustus stands at the head of this story as a symbol of military might and power, in stark contrast to a helpless new-born baby.

Practically it was a vulnerable time. Joseph and Mary lived in Nazareth yet had to travel 70 miles to Bethlehem, a three-day journey away, for the Roman census and payment of taxes.

Personally it was a vulnerable time. For Joseph, the news of Mary’s pregnancy sent shock waves through his ordered world. A righteous man, zealous in keeping the law, he resolved to sign the necessary legal papers to cancel his betrothal with Mary, but to do so in such a way as to protect her from the condemnation of the community.

It was only through the intervention of angels and a series of strategically timed dreams that Joseph found the courage to continue with the betrothal and to stand alongside Mary during this testing time.

For Mary herself, just a teenager in today’s terms, the news that catapulted her onto centre stage was earth-shaking, incomprehensible, inconvenient. ‘But how …?’ she stammered.

If that angel had tried to make an appointment
She might have said
Sorry, I’m busy
Out of town
Diary’s full
Call me back some other time
But he didn’t so she couldn’t.
If that angel had phoned to talk over what was on his mind
She might have said
You’re having me on
You can’t be serious
Pick someone else
Try the girl next door
But angels don’t make appointments
They don’t phone to talk over what’s on their mind.
He came silent as gossamer wings
Soft as a daydream
Straight from the heart of God
Caught her in a moment of weakness and vulnerability
Or was it strength?
And she said yes
Yes!

Think of all the things around the birth that could have gone wrong, from miscarriage of the baby to exhaustion of the mother from the journey to Bethlehem. Had the manger been scrubbed, the straw sterilised? With no midwife in attendance, who cut the umbilical cord—carpenter Joseph, more used to cutting wood?

Every aspect of this God-staged drama was fragile, vulnerable—from the conception to the birth and then to the family’s early years as refugees, on the move, led on by angelic prompting through dreams.
No wonder Mary pondered. Hers, in fact, would be a lifetime of pondering. During the Nazareth years (Luke 2:51). At a wedding in Cana (John 2:5). Standing near the cross (John 19:25).

This is my call, our call this Christmas, to ponder the ponderous, the heavy, vulnerable things of the Saviour’s coming, just as Mary did.

We look for a Saviour with strength—but we find one who spoke of surrender, self-denial, sacrifice.
We look for one who will conquer the evil in men’s hearts—but we find one who captures our hearts and calls us to be his agents of grace in the world.
We look for one who will wage warfare against sin—but we find a wounded healer who calls us to lay down our own agenda and follow his.
We search for fullness of life and in the most unexpected places we find One who has taken on our fragility, our frailties, our failings. One who walks through the forest of our fears and frenzies, bringing healing, wholeness, restoration. This is why Jesus came and this is why I am saying:

Yes to Advent
Yes to his coming
Yes to his purpose
Yes to Christ being born in me
Yes yes yes!

One Sunday before Advent just a few years ago, I was on welcome duty at church as people began to arrive for the service.

Young mum Rachael hurried in with her two daughters and her son Pete. Although five years old, Pete was the size of a three-year-old. He had multiple health problems and had recently had major surgery on his only kidney. He was a quiet little boy with a slightly lop-sided look, but as cute as they come.

John was there with his two little boys, Brad and Jeremy. Their baby sister, born weeks too early, was still in hospital, struggling to gain weight. Once she got to four kilos, she would have corrective surgery on her tiny heart and that would help, but in the meantime every day was a struggle.

Carer Treena arrived with her two usual charges, one on each arm. They were simple, uncoordinated men who loved coming to the service. Bill introduced himself to me, pointing with pride to his colourful tie and his flash waistcoat. Barry shook my hand and beamed a toothless smile.

The service had just started when Jenny and her mum arrived. Mum was puffing, but that was as much about keeping up with Jenny as anything else.

On the platform, a rough stable was in place with hay bales for seats, and costumes hanging over benches to one side. As the Christmas story was read, people from the congregation were invited to come up and take the part of a particular character, and to dress accordingly. Before long, there was a prophet parading around the hall, holding aloft a placard announcing that light was coming into the darkness. A grandmother as Mary sat on a hay bale in the centre of the platform, her two granddaughters dressed as angels by her side, each holding a baby doll. I didn’t realise Mary had twins!

When shepherds were called for, Bill and Barry were on their feet at once, pulling Treena to come with them. All three dressed up in shepherd’s cloaks then stood at the back of the stage and swayed together as carols were sung.

Brad wanted to be a shepherd too, but found himself in an angel costume, complete with halo. He sat by the manger and scarcely took his eyes off the doll in the manger who would have been about the same size as his tiny baby sister in her hospital incubator.

When other angels were invited to join the scene, Pete and his Mum and sisters all responded. Jenny ran up, her Mum in tow. Dressed in a gown and halo, Jenny sat on a hay bale by the manger and didn’t move. ‘Now that’s another Christmas miracle!’ I thought to myself.

By the end of the story, the stage was full. A host of angels, a train of wise men, a flock of shepherds, and Mary guarded by a couple of Josephs. As I looked at the group, I was touched by the fragile nature of each person. Everyone had a story of vulnerability to tell, but they were all there, gathered around the cradle, vulnerability meeting vulnerability.
And Mary sang:

Who is this in cattle stall
Child so beautiful, so small?
He’s my son, O wondrous story
Holy One, the King of glory
At his feet, I too shall fall
Crown him, crown him Lord of all

So he comes again this Advent: the Vulnerable One to all the vulnerable ones—the Petes, the Brads, the Bills and Barrys of this world. And to you and me as well in our vulnerability, our weakness, our fragility.

Preparing for Christmas is far more than ‘waiting for gifts’ or even ‘waiting for the baby Jesus’. This is the season of Advent, the celebration of the incarnation of God in Christ, who came among us, pitched his tent of ‘flesh and blood and moved into the neighbourhood’ (John 1:14, The Message). It is far more than giving, getting, gaining, gorging, grumping. Underneath the tinsel there’s a treasure to be found. Beyond the commercialism that bombards, blinds and blackmails us, there is a story to be told, a song to be sung, a life-saving, world-changing event to celebrate once again.

I started with a confession. Now I sign off with a plea:

Don’t water down Christmas
Don’t overdo it, sell it short
Don’t flash around your credit card
or spend more than you ought
Advent is here and now
his coming sets us free
God’s Treasured One is to be found
beyond the Christmas tree

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by Barbara Sampson (c) 'War Cry' magazine, 14 November 2015, pp 20-21.
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