Peace on Earth?

 

Peace on Earth?

Isaiah 9:2-7 and Luke 2:1-14

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom he favours!”

 

The readings for Christmas night take us from the great political movements (impending invasion of Judah, Isaiah; imperial oppression, Luke) to the intimacy of childbirth (‘Emmanuel’ to a maiden, Isaiah; ‘Saviour/Jesus’ to a virgin, Luke). 

St Luke’s rendering of the birth of Jesus is a story of never-ending wonder, simply told. A new-born sleeping in a manger; startled shepherds and choirs of angels; good news and songs of joy, and declarations of peace.

·        Isaiah brings the word of God to ‘people who live in darkness’. 

We find ourselves in darkness, the problems of the world seeming to overwhelm. Conflict in Ukraine, Sudan, and places forgotten by the news, all overtaken by the daily destruction in Gaza; economic turmoil and crisis of the cost of living; environmental apocalypse foretold; the perils to democracy; crime and drugs and epidemic mental health illness. Where, after thousands of years of the promises, is peace?

·        What comfort can be found in the brief, compact, and familiar account of Jesus’ birth in Luke? 

I was reminded of the simplicity of the account this week when preparing for a talk I was invited to give at an Islamic college in London, for which I was comparing early Christian and Muslim expansions of the story of Jesus’ birth; they imaginatively fill in some of the details we all wish Luke or Matthew had provided. The Qur’anic account movingly portrays the consequences of pregnancy outside of marriage—the shame before the whole community. But, in Luke we are given snapshots: the occupying superpower calls a census for taxation purposes; Joseph must travel the 90 miles to register, and he brings a very pregnant Mary with him; while there, she gives birth.

The reference to the world-wide grip of Roman power that reaches down into the daily lives of ordinary people in a village tucked away in the hills of Galilee signals the poverty and powerlessness of people on the margins of a society on the edge of empire. 

Joseph travels with Mary (was he concerned for her if he was not there to protect her from the shame her pregnancy brought on family and neighbours; or, is this another harsh consequence of government bureaucracy, not taking into account how decrees affect ordinary people, by requiring whole families to attend?). 

The risks of childbirth under the best of conditions were great in that world; the 34-hour journey by foot/donkey (not counting stops) increased the risks to her pregnancy. And she will not be with parents or experienced midwives around her. Did they travel the straight road—down from Nazareth to the Jezreel plain, and then uphill along the ridge of the central hills of Samaria and Judah? Or, avoiding Samaria (as seems to be the case in Jesus’ later life)—travelling along the Jordan Valley, climbing up the 3,800 feet elevation from Jericho to Bethlehem, adding 10 more miles to the journey? Did they travel alone, or with a group? The story does not tell us, as it does later in the chapter when Jesus is twelve years old.

We never hear them speak. They seem to be observers of what happens to themselves. There is a strong sense of delicate vulnerability between them. The economic pressures, the political legal expectations, the cloud of shame, unable to find a place to stay in the lodging place, and having to use the stable for a birth. Is it a ‘Silent Night’? Or, an intensely ordinary story of its time?

This was not for lack of hospitality, as our children’s nativity plays portray with the holy family going from inn to inn looking for a room, and facing indifferent rejection. This is not how hospitality worked then, nor how it works now in that part of the world we call the Global South (I have been recipient of such, even when knowing it was more than the host could afford). But, it was the best that could be offered; the census caused strain on the households of Bethlehem, too. So many trials and dangers; so little help, it seems.

·        At the Shepherds’ Field 

It is in just this setting that a heavenly army visits local shepherds, with the good news of the birth of a Saviour, and Messiah. I sometimes envision this part of the story as the angels watching the birth of Jesus in the celestial maternity waiting room, as it were, and when the child is born they just have to go tell someone, anyone. And the first people they see are the shepherds, who are startled out of their late-night drowsiness when all heaven breaks loose. 

My first visit to Bethlehem was during the first Intifada, seeking to escape the turmoil of Friday Prayers in Jerusalem only to arrive amidst the tension in Nativity Square, and so walking out to Beth Sahour, and the Shepherd’s Field (and realizing no one knew where I was…). Then, the second Intifada, watching the ‘security’ wall draw a barrier around Bethlehem as suicide bombers targeted busses and cafes. This year? No Christmas in Bethlehem.

·        2,000 years later there is no peace in Bethlehem.

I struggle at this point. I am now 71 years-old (I know, I don’t look a day over 69), and through the decades the darkness of warfare and violence has been a constant. I was born in the midst of the Korean War, which had followed on so soon after the joyful celebrations of peace at the end of WWII; my earliest memories have as their background the Cold War, and school drills in case of nuclear attack; my youth the shadow of fear of military draft for the unpopular war in Viet Nam; the one era of hope as barriers between East and West fell, and weapons were destroyed, brutally cut short by the 9/11 attack and the ‘war on terror’. 

Each year, at the time of Advent, the longing for the promised peace, and the heartache of the cruel hatred of men (almost always men) of power and the harsh oppression of the powerless (almost always women and children), clash in a dissonance that has not yet been resolved. 

How long, O Lord? Isaiah did not see the promised Prince of Peace, ‘whose reign of peace will have no end’; Jesus’ mother saw his death, her own heart pierced as with a sword. How long?

 ·        The Angels and the shepherds, and a birth.

The angels arrive in glory and terror—amidst great light and words of peace. The shepherds are told ‘Do not be afraid’, because they are heralds of good news. The hosts of heaven, as in martial array, announce the Word of salvation with singing. 

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom he favours!”

The Saviour of the world is born. In a feeding trough in a town on the edge of nowhere.

This song has its parallel in Luke 19:38, king Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey to acclamation and praise—this time from the voices of his followers: 

‘Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!’

We call this Jesus’ ‘Triumphal Entry’ into Jerusalem, a fulfilment of the victorious procession of the Davidic king in Psalm 118, the voices shouting ‘This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad!’ 

But this grand display is not the climax of the story of Jesus. Jesus looks over the city and cries, ‘If only you had recognized today the things that made for peace’. Almost we hear him echo our lamenting cry, ‘How long, O People? How long?’ This was ‘the day’ the Lord had made; but the day passed, the moment was lost.

This story is the heart of the gospel, the good news first told to shepherds in a field in a backwater of the empire: God’s purposes in salvation are peace, and that salvation begins on the margins of human power. 

We respond to the oppressor with military power; salvation comes in a stable. In the counsels of palace and party force is met with force, violence with violence; but the Peace begins in a humble birth, and in a feeding trough.

In the strategy of the kingdom of God, peace comes like yeast in dough; it grows like a mustard seed into a tree. The signs of this peace are found amongst stony rubble, entwined amongst thorns. It is does not come through bombs, but through shepherds; through a carpenter and his betrothed; and through people like us, who welcome with gladness the good news that God so loved the world he sent his beloved Son.

And we may echo the early Christian benediction: Come quickly, Lord Jesus!

Face-to-face with Satan

I dreamed I was face-to-face with Satan. It was not a frightening meeting, I felt no sense of evil. It seemed he was simply a man of ordinary features. The extraordinary thing is that I was telling him that I loved him for Jesus’ sake. As I dreamed, my mind/subconscious/nondream-self thought, ‘This is amazing! Who has ever imagined offering the love of God to Satan?

[Robert De Niro in 'Angel Heart', 1987]

In a later point in the dream I was attacked by his body-guard thugs, and tried to fight them off. The dream ended when Kathy told to me to stop, and I awoke to find myself grasping her leg in my hands.

The dream has stayed with me, goading me with the question, just ‘how far can “love your enemies” go?’. 

I don’t suggest that I am the only one who has ever contemplated offering the love of Christ to the Devil. And I admit my subconscious/nondream-self was a bit proud for saying it. But the question niggles: could anyone actually love the Accuser/Slanderer/Evil One? Can he (assuming the masculine form of the name refers to a ‘he’) be moved by love? 

Can love save Satan?

Let me be clear, I am whole-heartedly committed to the central command of the gospel, ‘love your neighbour’, which Jesus clarified to include ‘love your enemy’. I have probably preached dozens of sermons on the point. And I know I am only one of a host of followers of Jesus over the centuries for whom the call to love has been taken seriously. Having said this, even as I hear myself affirm it, I ask myself, ‘What does this sort of love look like? How do I live out such love?’

I am not likely to be tested personally by the Satan on this point. But his minions, local incarnate versions of their Master, are a problem. The second part of the dream is cautionary. The decision to love with the love of Christ does not mean the Evil One will act any differently. Such love does not promise immunity from getting beat up.

 

Here I want to speak to followers of Jesus of all persuasions. We talk a lot about love, but seldom talk about how to love. 

I offer an illustration from the old classic TV programme MASH [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M*A*S*H_(TV_series)]. When it was running in the 70s it was clearly a liberal comment on the ongoing Viet Nam war, but in its perpetual re-run form has become a nostalgic favourite even of conservatives. But, it has become for me the paradigm of liberal/progressive love—Hawkeye and Pierce loved their enemy when that took the form of the North Korean or Chinese Communist patient under their care; but they were unable to love the hyper-patriotic fellow officer who lived in the same tent. That is to say, they could love all humankind in general, but not in the specific.

On the other hand, I think of the open-hearted and generous Christians of my denominational family. My father was a lovely example of this. He could be caustically dismissive of the cultural matters of the day—hippies, drug-takers, sexually permissive, etc—but when he met a person from any of those categories, he would see them only as someone to love. He was very good at love in the particular. That is to say, conservatives can love in the particular, but are not so good at humankind in general.

Here is my challenge to my brothers and sisters in Christ in these polarized and contentious days: To those on ‘the left’, how do you put your all-inclusive love into practice when those who you include do not include you? To those on ‘the right’, why is it that I don’t see calls to love from you, but much condemnation of the other even though you would give all you have to help your neighbour in need?

Love of enemies is not easy. The people I struggle with at the moment include Donald Trump and those who blindly support him. I fully believe his election as president would be a catastrophe for the US and the world. A Harris presidency might be an irritant, but not apocalyptic. For me, I have to figure out how Christ’s love in me can act in love for Trump.

 

So, this is how I plan to address issues of the coming American election. In the next weeks I will focus on ‘the Gospel’, the good news of the kingdom of God in Jesus Christ. I wish to address political issues by looking at whether they are gospel-friendly. The task is how to fulfil the royal command of love in what I write and say. And I invite you to join me in a conversation. Disagree with what I write, even vehemently—but as you do, show the love of Christ to me.

My expectation is that few will have read this far, and those who do will be those who know me and (possibly) love me already.

On reading the times: right-wing riots and ordinary people.

Last week a niece in the US described her recent road trip across America. I was taken by this part:

‘I love a good long road trip, especially in the midst of elections. It’s not nearly as polarized when you get in there. I mean, it’s not great and I know who I’m voting for, that’s easy. But mostly, people are kind. I believe most want to be nice, thoughtful and take care of each other. Gas station clerks especially-not just in Montana, but also Ohio, and on the dang Penn turnpike when my card thought I was fraud while 58 people waited in line- the guy said, “oh man, I see this all the time. It’s on us. All good.” and the sweet lady that calls everyone “honey” in Omaha, they should make all the decisions. 

This is why we take the trip every single year-it is a reset button and it never fails to do its job. People are good and we keep being kind.’

Today I went out to get pastries for our Sunday brunch, and decided to take the long-way round (it adds about a mile). I never know what and who I might meet. A few days ago I experienced another first for my life in London, being offered some weed by a young teenager on a BMX bicycle. The weather today continued a spell of sun and warmth, with people out walking their dogs; young parents with their children at the play-ground; young people at tennis, and cricket practice; street-side tables in front of coffee shops all full. Peaceful scenes, and accompanied by bird-song. Really, at one point I found myself standing between the two sides of a blackbird conversation. This doesn’t feel like civil war.

Go take a walk!

Turning one corner I nearly walked into two people—I assume the people were grandmother and grandson walking their d
og—in the midst of conversation. The South London gran was speaking, ‘People have got to be kind. What’s the point of life if you aren’t kind? You gotta reach out…’.

Just what my beloved niece said! People need to go outside and talk to people. It is not as dark out there as many would have us believe.

 

I am reminded of the story in The Lord of the Rings when Gandalf the White comes to the Golden Hall of King Théoden of Rohan. The king sits in shadows, the fire burning as though in Winter, ‘so bent with age he seemed almost a dwarf’. Learning news only through the filter of his chief adviser, called Wormtongue by all around him, he is prematurely aged by the evil tidings of death and doom that was all he heard of. And Wormtongue offers nothing but ‘twisted tales and crooked promptings’. Gandalf strikes the man down with a roll of thunder, and brings the king outside. A shaft of sun stabs through distant storm clouds. Seeing the light shimmering through showers and on the river, Théoden remarks, ‘It is not so dark here!’

For too long, too many have spent too much time in darkened rooms before flickering screens listening to the twisted tales and crooked promptings of online influencers who would tell us that everything is failing and doomed; that it is all because of people of other politics (or race and faith); and that the response must be anger and outrage.

Go take a walk!