The Birth of the Hope of Israel

Even the most superficial reading of the Christmas story speaks of hope.  It is the story of a newly-united couple and the birth of their first child. A man and a woman begin a life together and a child takes his first breath; all three begin a journey of endless possibilities. For believers, this idea of new-life is, in some ways, the principle message of Christianity: Christ came so that we might “be born again” and “walk in newness of life.” And that rebirth is not limited to the baptismal ordinance, but it is repeated as often as necessary—God promises us that whenever we really want to, we can begin again (Mosiah 26:30). But even without that doctrinal significance of birth and new life, the story of Mary, Joseph and Jesus represents the hope of every life and new beginnings.

For believers, the birth of Christ exemplifies another aspect of hope. Since the days of Adam, believers awaited the coming of the Messiah. Most never saw their hope realized; as Paul says, “These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off…” (Heb. 11:13). Many people forgot what they waited for and many lost their hope. Christina Rossetti described the dreary and seemingly hopeless conditions into which Christ was born:

In the bleak midwinter

Frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

Snow on snow,

In the bleak midwinter,

Long ago.

Into that metaphoric midwinter, Christ was born. This is another reason why Christmas is a holiday of hope—it represents the fulfillment of the long-awaited and hoped-for coming of the Messiah; the end of bleak winter. It is a celebration of the moment that the ancient saints saw “afar off” and a validation of their faithful lives. The hope with which they had both lived and died was realized that day.  Christmas says, “Hopes can come true,” and it assures us that winter will end.

The end of winter is also the beginning of spring, and Christmas is a celebration not only of the fulfillment of hope, but of its birth. In “Oh Holy Night,” we sing the words “A thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.” The hope of salvation and deliverance was born with the baby Jesus, and at Christmas we celebrate the break of dawn. Today, we naturally look at Christmas through the lens of Easter, but at His birth, there was only a lens of hope—Mary, Joseph and the shepherds looked at that newborn child and could only imagine and hope for what He would eventually do and become. Christmas then is a celebration not only of what Christ did, but the hope for what He would do—it is a celebration of the hope for Easter and for the fulfillment of all good hopes. At Christmastime we, like Abraham and Sarah and Anna and Simeon, celebrate that hope for what God will yet do. We still hope for deliverance, salvation and a day when there will be “peace on Earth, goodwill to men” in our own lives and in the whole world.

At Christmas, we celebrate the innate hope of each life and the fulfillment of our hopes. We are reassured that our own life is hopeful and that the good things we hope for will eventually come true. The British poet Charles McKay wrote about the hope of Christmas in his poem “Under the Holly Bough:”

Ye who have nourished sadness,
Estranged from hope and gladness
In this fast-fading year;
Ye with o'erburdened mind,
Made aliens from your kind,
Come gather here.
Let not the useless sorrow
Pursue you night and morrow,
If e'er you hoped, hope now.
Take heart,--uncloud your faces,
And join in our embraces
Under the Holly-Bough.

pendulums

On Sunday I went to two church services--the first to be supportive of a friend who was speaking and the second was my actual church that I attend. I went with a couple friends, and in between the services we grabbed coffee at a caribou near where my community gathers. I sat at a table watching others reading their papers, scribbling away on laptops and sipping lattes that cost far too much. We talked about our weekends, and then it turned into something like a little confessional for me. The best, most awkward part, was that the guy in our group of three has only hung out with me once or twice before this. But Ingrid was asking questions and I just didn't feel like holding back any more about my struggles. So Grahm would just have to deal with it, judge me or get over it. Because I'm human, and I'm not perfect, and I'm done hiding. I don't remember what Ingrid said that drew out the realization in me that I have had a hard time not living a reactionary life. See, for those of you who don't know, my parents have been in some kind of christian ministry their entire lives. I have grown up in the church, I've grown up being a theology nerd, a goody-too-shoes, the perfect child with her life in order and the Jesus thing in the bag.

And then I went to college. In Seattle. And I've come back and I don't fit with my family as well anymore, and I don't want the things of my parents in quite the same way. And I have this bizarre thing about being radical--usually in the sense of giving away my stuff or always being available to absolutely everyone, even at 2am and i have work the next day. Some of that comes from genuinely wanting to help people. But some of it comes from a rather different motivation. Grahm, who I thought was entirely ignoring most of the conversation, finally looked across the table at me with those bright eyes behind his oval glasses and explained me to myself: "well, you grew up all conservative, like me. And then you move away, and you see a whole different side of life: one that you weren't exposed to except to see the problems in it. And when you see some good in it, you swing towards it and away from your upbringing." He gestured with the hand not holding the vanilla latte, "so I was really conservative and I went really far to the left, and now I'm coming back, to settle in the middle." He smirked and took a sip of his drink before looking away to observe the other customers, aloof like he had been the rest of hte conversation. But just before he removed from our conversation, he said out of the side of his mouth, with that infuriatingly knowing smirk: "don't worry. you'll come back too."

Which is true. I mean, I'm much more middle of the road than when I first returned to colorado from Seattle. I won't ever be entirely the same, but I'm more centered than I used to be. But what of those who aren't like Grahm and I? What of those who don't come back from the left (and I dont' mean politically). I knew plenty of kids in college who went off the deep end with their first taste of freedom. How do we create a place where children can grow and learn and not be so consumed by curiosity that they lose themselves in the world the moment they leave the confines of home? Protecting and sheltering them only works until they aren't living in the bedroom they've shared with a sibling for 18 years, or eating at the table with mom and dad. Coddling them just enables them to obsessively follow danger when released--without the knowledge of how to come home, say no, and remember who they are or to fight for who they want to become. I want to know if there's a way, once you're in the world, to skip the pendulum ride from right to left and back to center. Because so far, I haven't seen one. And that has been a struggle for me to watch so many friends flounder in who they are, because we never got to know ourselves outside the protection of our parents and the confines of the church and who they told us to be. How do we create a community where it's safe to learn, to explore and yet keep those essential beliefs and practices intact?

does that series of questions even make sense?