“For to us a child is born, to us a
son is given …” Isaiah 9:6
Many years ago there lived a young girl; she was probably sixteen
to eighteen and betrothed to a village handyman. Some traditions suggest he
might have been in his thirties or forties, and possibly a widower. However,
it’s more likely he was younger – perhaps eighteen to twenty-one years of age.
We don’t know, of course, as the evangelists did not provide those details.
Maybe age isn’t important for what followed, but I think it helps set the tone
for our understanding Christmas a little better.
In modern-day America, Christmas conjures up images of
reindeer, chubby elves, nativity sets, candy canes, and a saccharine yearning
for a world that never really was – snow falling at the perfect moment, or families
gathered Norman-Rockwell-like around a tree.
Consequently, Christmas can often be a let-down. For many
people it is a blue season; it’s a depressing time of year that fits in with
the long, cold, dark nights much better than the twinkling delights hung in
windows and along eaves troughs, or images of steam wafting gently into the
snow-chilled air from a cup of scalding hot chocolate,.
The first Christmas was definitely not a dazzling one for
that first couple lo those many years ago. For one thing, while Mary and Joseph
were betrothed and supposed to be looking forward to life shared together in matrimonial
harmony, she came down with a sudden case of the “preggers.” This did not bode
well on many levels, not the least of which was living in a town whose major
trade was likely in the field of gossip.
Secondly, since Joseph was not the father, humanly
speaking, Mary was seriously at risk of being accused of adultery and suffering
lethal consequences. Even if she were allowed to slip away quietly, everyone
would know she was “tainted goods” and she’d live out her days with a scarlet
letter hung invisibly about her neck. Happy days? I think not.
Still, we are told that Joseph was a “righteous” man. That
means he was trusted to act and judge wisely; his primary desire was to always do
what was pleasing to God.
He was told in a dream, “Don’t be afraid to take Mary for
your wife.” Therefore he did not condemn her, but chose instead to embrace the
dream, and through the dream, he embraced Mary, and in embracing Mary, he received
as his own the One whom she carried.
Mary herself was no shrinking violet. Although the arts
have often portrayed her as a quiet, mouse-like figure “pondering” the words of
the angel and puzzling out what they meant, she was not one to let life run her
over; she was a typical teenager.
“Hail, Mary, full of grace …”
“What sort of greeting is that?” asked Mary in return. She
wasn’t batting her baby blues, biting her lip, and acting demure (and please
note, her “baby blues” were no doubt the chocolaty brown of her Semitic
heritage). Having God drop into one’s life, whether directly or by angelic stunt-double,
never bodes well for the recipient; it means one’s life and plans are being
irretrievably changed.
As the old saying goes, God loves us the way we are, but
loves us too much to leave us that way.
Mary doesn’t just blithely accept the words of the angel.
She challenges the notion she will have a child when she hasn’t done anything
to make that happen (and hadn’t planned to until after the nuptials!). But the
angel assures her it won’t be her doing, but God’s, and while she has every
reason in the world to say, “Thanks, but no thanks,” she doesn’t. Instead, she
bows her head, and gives herself to God – who gives himself to her.
Christmas isn’t about the tree, the tinsel, the lights, or
the presents we exchange. As with Mary, it’s about God becoming vulnerable,
placing his life in our hands, entrusting his own well-being to our
questionable, human mercies, and saying, “I’ve got your back; will you have
mine?”
And if, like Mary, we’ve got any gumption at all, we’ll accept
the challenge, receive the child, and seek to bless the world – making a very
Merry Christmas that much more possible in this, our valley – for unto us, the
Son IS given.
