Christmas Day

Readings: Is 52:7-10; Heb 1:1-6; Jn 1:1-18

VIDEO

The four Gospel-writers are traditionally associated 
with the four creatures seen in a vision 
by the prophet Ezekiel:
a man, associated with Matthew,
a lion, associated with Mark,
an ox, associated with Luke, 
and an eagle, associated with John.
In folklore, eagles were reputed to have
not only exceptionally keen vision 
for seeking out prey,
but also the ability to stare 
directly into the sun.
St. Augustine observes that John,
in comparison with the other evangelists, 
“flies like an eagle above the clouds of human weakness, 
and looks at the light of unchangeable truth 
with the sharpest and firmest eyes of the heart” (Cons. ev. 1.6.9).
John gazes upon the stories of Jesus’ human life
and sees the dazzling mystery of God shining through.

This is perhaps nowhere more striking
than in the prologue to John’s Gospel,
which is our Gospel reading this morning.
Luke’s familiar nativity story,
which we read on Christmas Eve,
offers us Mary, Joseph, and the newborn Jesus,
the crowded inn and the manger,
the shepherds and the angels,
the “good news of great joy 
that will be for all the people” (Lk 2:10).
And all of this strikes us as quite beautiful
and even miraculous.

But John looks upon these events with his eagle eye
and sees even greater beauty, an even greater miracle.
He stares into the blinding sun of infinite love 
and sees that the story of the birth of Jesus
is a story rooted in eternity,
a story that stretches back 
before any creature ever was,
before Mary or Joseph,
before the shepherds or even the angels.

St. Augustine writes that John is one
“who has passed beyond the cloud
in which the whole earth is wrapped, 
and who has reached the liquid heaven 
from which, with clearest and steadiest mental eye, 
he is able to look upon God the Word, 
who was in the beginning with God, 
and by whom all things were made” (Cons. ev. 1.4.7).
In the beginning, before anything came to be, 
was the Word by which everything came to be,
the Word that spoke into the void,
saying, “Let there be light,”
and the world miraculously came to be.
This Word is God the Son
who is, as the letter to the Hebrews puts it,
“the refulgence of [God’s] glory,
the very imprint of his being…
who sustains all things 
by his mighty word.”

But the eagle eye of John,
that stares undazzled into the light of God,
sees also the darkness of the void
that resists the light,
the nothingness of evil
that refuses God’s gift of being.
Still, “the light shines in the darkness, 
the darkness has not overcome it.”
God speaks his creating Word 
into the world again and again, 
through various prophets and sages 
who announce peace and bear good news,
who tell God’s people 
that God reigns over the darkness.
And now, in these last days,
God speaks into the darkness again—
not in the varied and partial ways 
of the prophetic past,
but in the Word who is made flesh
to dwell among us 
in the fullness of grace and truth.

The eagle eye of John sees God speaking
in the speechless infant born of Mary.
John sees the power of the Word
that called light from darkness
and existence from the void
in the powerless child of Bethlehem,
the child who will give to us who believe 
“power to become children of God,”
so that each of us might become 
by the miracle of grace
what the Word is by nature:
the “heir of all things” 
and God’s own offspring.
John sees that the eternal Word, 
born “from the womb of the Father…
born from the father’s own being” 

(Council of Toledo AD 675),
has become what we are 
so that we might become children 
“born not by natural generation 
nor by human choice…but of God,”
drawn forth from the womb
of the waters of baptism,
freed from sin to live a new life,
given the eyes of eagles 
so that we too might see 
infinite light.

To stare with the eagle’s eye 
into God’s eternal Word
is beautiful and miraculous,
but it is also somewhat terrifying,
for we also see the night 
that still haunts the world, 
hating the light and seeking to overcome it.
The calm poetic beauty with which John recounts
the coming of the Word in human flesh
is the prelude to that same flesh being killed
by the forces of darkness that would reject it;
and we who have been brought to life in him
may well face similar rejection.
For each week we take into ourselves
his flesh and blood, his soul and divinity,
so that we might have his life in us.
But in doing so we take in as well
the call to be light in the darkness,
like fragments of mirror 
that reflect infinite light.
And it is only our faith that shows us
that we shall not be overcome
by uncomprehending darkness.

Yet on this Christmas we rejoice,
for we do see with the eyes of eagles.
Like John and the prophets of old,
we shout for joy, for in the Word made flesh
we see directly, before our eyes,
the Lord restoring Zion,
the world created anew,
eternity invading time,
light dispelling darkness,
life conquering death.
We pray even while it is still night,
for that day when “all the ends of the earth 
will behold the salvation of our God.”
And we pray that God, in his mercy,
might have mercy on us all.

Christmas Day

Readings: Isaiah 52:7-10; Hebrews 1:1-6; John 1:1-5, 9-14

Perhaps it is simply a matter
of the particular feet I have known—
my own and others—
but I generally don’t think
of feet as beautiful.
St. Thomas Aquinas says that beautiful things
have three qualities—
wholeness, harmony, and brightness—
and that beauty can be defined
as what is pleasing to us when we see it.
While most of our feet are whole,
in the sense that they are not missing parts,
they are rarely harmonious or bright,
and at least mine 
are not very pleasing when seen.
People can spend a lot on pedicures,
trying to make their feet beautiful,
but I suspect it’s a losing battle;
feet are simply too battered by the work 
of taking us from place to place,
too calloused and prone to bunions,
for it to ever be a gratifying experience 
to gaze upon them.
Maybe like me you got socks for Christmas,
which is probably the best chance we have
for making our feet beautiful.

Yet the prophet Isaiah proclaims this morning:
“How beautiful upon the mountains
are the feet of him who brings glad tidings.”
How beautiful the feet of those
who announce peace, 
bear good news,
proclaim salvation to those 
whose world lies in ruins. 
How beautiful the feet 
that walk the path that leads 
from heaven to earth and back again,
bearing tidings that rejoice our hearts.

And what are those glad tidings?
“The Word became flesh
and made his dwelling among us, 
and we saw his glory,
the glory as of the Father’s only Son,
full of grace and truth.”
The Word of whom St. John speaks
is the agent of divine artistry,
the source within the life of God 
of the wholeness, harmony, and brightness
that belongs by right to God’s creation,
this world that so pleased God 
when God saw its goodness.
But this world’s wholeness 
had been shattered by human sin,
its harmony had gone out of tune,
its brightness had faded.

The glad tidings of the Word made flesh
is that the creation grown
fragmented, discordant, and shabby
has been invaded by the beauty of its creator
and made whole, harmonious, and bright
once again.
For though past messengers 
spoke in partial and various ways,
in these last days the Word of God himself—
the refulgence of the Father’s glory,
bearing the very imprint of God’s being,
the source of creation’s primordial 
wholeness, harmony, and brightness—
restores our ruined nature in himself,
retunes our hearts to the music of the spheres,
brings his brightness to our darkness.
The artist who first created the universe
has come to us to restore his great work of art. 

The glad tidings of Christmas
are the glad tidings of beauty recovered.
In recent weeks, many of us marveled 
at images of the beauty of the restored 
cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris;
that a structure so tragically damaged
could be made whole again.
But as glorious as such restoration is, 
it is only a dim reflection
of what God has done for the world
in Jesus Christ,
if we but have the eyes to see it.
For the eyes of faith,
what is broken will be made whole,
what is twisted will be made straight,
what is dimmed will be made bright.
For the eyes of faith, light shines 
in the uncomprehending darkness
and the world even now bears the image 
of divine beauty, ever-ancient, ever-new.

These glad tidings are given to us
to be given to others.
Though the world is restored in Christ,
we still must journey toward his final victory
through times that are troubled, 
and on our pilgrimage through time
our hearts, like our feet,
can grow calloused and battered;
the light that shines in the world’s darkness
can seem to grow dim as we grow weary;
the sound of glad tiding can become
a fading echo in our ears.

But how beautiful upon the mountains
are the feet of those who brings glad tidings.
The faith that allows us to see and hear
the beauty Christ has restored to the world
grows in us as we share it with others
through words and actions
of wholeness, harmony, and brightness.
Not just our weary, journey-worn feet,
but even our weary, journey-worn souls,
are made beautiful by the tidings of beauty
that we bear to the world.

Let the joy of this day’s tidings ring out 
in wholeness, harmony, and brightness
for God has come to dwell among us,
full of grace and truth and mercy.
And may God, in his mercy,
have mercy on us all.

Christmas: Mass During the Day

The Web browser programs that we use
to navigate the World Wide Web on the internet
typically have an option under the "view" menu
that is called something like "source" or "page source."
If you click on this, it reveals to you
that the beautiful and elegant (or ugly and confusing)
web page that you are looking at
is actually made up of a series of codes
written in a language called HTML
(hypertext markup language)
that web designers use to tell your computer
where to insert pictures,
what text to bold or italicize,
where to break paragraphs, and so forth.
It doesn’t have the "user-friendliness"
of a well-designed web page,
it doesn’t have the attractive details
that catch the eye,
but there is something fascinating,
at least for those with a certain type of mind,
in getting a glimpse "behind the scenes,"
to see the web page from the perspective of its designer,
to get a sense of the complexity underlying
what presents itself so attractively on our computer screens.

Today’s Gospel is a bit like clicking
the "view page source" menu on the Christmas story.
According to the tradition of the Church,
on Christmas morning we do not read
Luke’s familiar account of the Christmas story,
but rather the prologue with which John’s Gospel opens:
"In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God."

John does not offer us the eye-catching, user-friendly details
that we find in Luke:
no inn without a vacancy,
no Christ child placed in the manger,
no angels,
no the shepherds.
Instead of Jesus, we are told of the Word:
the Word who is in the beginning with God
and who, at the same time,
in some mysterious manner,
is God.
We are told that the world
came into being through this Word,
and yet does not know him.
And, perhaps most bafflingly of all,
we are told that the Word has become flesh
and made his dwelling among us,
and has given power to become children of God
to those who believe in his name.

It can seem, at first, as baffling as HTML code.
But what John is offering us
is a glimpse "behind the scenes" of the Christmas story,
an opportunity to see from the perspective of its designer,
to get a sense of the deep mystery that underlies
what presents itself so attractively in Luke’s Gospel.

Most of us find our hearts moved
by the story of Joseph and the pregnant Mary,
homeless and unprotected.
We find attractive the simplicity of the image of Christ
born amidst the animals in the barn.
We thrill to the angels’ announcement to the shepherds:
"Glory to God in the highest
and peace to God’s people on earth!"

In comparison, John’s Gospel might seem cold and cerebral:
Luke gives us baby Jesus;
John gives us the eternal Word.

But we ought to realize
that they are both telling us the same story.
The child in the manger is the eternal Word,
who has taken on our flesh, our human nature,
so that we too might be God’s children.
John’s Gospel shows us the eternal source that lies behind
the moving, attractive, thrilling events in Bethlehem of Judea.

With a story as well known and pleasing
as Luke’s account of the nativity,
there is always the danger
that we might sentimentalize the entry of Christ into our world.
We can begin to think that Christmas is all about
babies with rosy cheeks
and shepherds with cute lambs
and angels that look like pretty ladies with wings and halos.
Our Gospel this morning reminds us
that Christmas is about God transacting
the serious and unsentimental business
of the world’s salvation.
Our glimpse behind the scenes in Bethlehem shows us
that Christmas is about God taking on our human nature
so that God,
through the bitter suffering of the cross
and the glory of the resurrection,
might bestow upon us a share in God’s own immortality.
As St. Athanasius of Alexandria put it:
God became human
so that human beings might become divine.

John’s Gospel reminds us that this is the real Christmas story.
And this glimpse behind the scenes
should lead us to marvel even more
that God would transact
such serious and unsentimental business
in the little town of Bethlehem,
by means of a young mother,
and some shepherds,
and a child.