John 1:1-18
In my first half of divinity school I’ve spent a lot of time pouring over scriptures, considering the divinity of Christ and muddling through the intricacies of the trinity, spoiler alert: it doesn’t really ever entirely make sense. But as I’ve had time to consider the specifics of Christ I find myself continually reminded of the carnate-ness of our savior. The body. The fleshiness.
His preference for a nice wine over water at the wedding in Cana. His unwillingness to preach on an empty stomach or to a crowd with empty stomachs. His enjoyment of the smell of perfume and the intimacy of a foot massage. His physical rage against capitalists in the temple. His bodily exhaustion along the way. His healing touch along the way. And the beginnings of this journey as a baby.
A baby was born a few days ago. A crying squirming pooping eating spitting cooing sleeping baby. The word became flesh.
A child was born. A curious babbling teetering screaming singing slurping cuddling child. The word became flesh.
A son was born. A wandering anxiety-provoking inquisitive talkative son. The word became flesh.
And lived among us
And we have seen his glory
It might be difficult to see that glory these days. Christmas this year has been unusual, to say the least. I remember Easter, shortly after the pandemic started, feeling out of place. I struggled to find the Alleluias. Similarly, I wonder about this Christmas, what does it mean to celebrate a birth, to celebrate a divine incarnate when we are all separated from one another, bodies relegated to our isolated rectangles. As life giving as our Christmas service was, and as warm as Christmas day with my mom felt, I found yesterday hard. I returned to the news, the ever increasing death toll, the reality of another semester online, and writing a sermon for another church service on zoom, where I know some names only by their greetings on the facebook stream. Where is the incarnation in this? Where is the divine fleshiness in this?
There is, in some sense, an end in sight. Just as Advent ends, so will this long difficult time end. There are vaccines, there are people telling us just a little longer, and there are hopes of hugging again, of singing together again. But we are not there yet…
and still the baby is born, even as we struggle to continue, let alone celebrate, the word became flesh. And lived among us.
This is what I return to. God could’ve just avoided the whole human thing, but they didn’t. They sent a son to dwell among us to take on the fleshiness of humanity. God sent a son to be born. To cry to eat. God sent a son to wander to love to hunger to desire to be exhausted. The incarnation is not merely a sleeping baby, but a hysteric toddler a loud adolescent an intimate companion a weeping bleeding sweating human. God was so committed to us humans they wanted a part of that fleshy existence, the smells of a birth and animals, the taste of good wine on the tongue the feel of oiled hair caressing the feet and the sting of vinegar against parched lips. A Word made flesh.
Perhaps celebrating the incarnation means embracing these physical parts of life, tasting, smelling, enjoying, feeling the aches and desires of our fleshy humanity.
Through this lens, observing Christmas this year means feeling the sting of physical isolation, it means acknowledging the fears of material bodies during a deadly pandemic. It means screaming and crying but also laughing. It means accepting these new grey hairs. It means tending to exhaustion.
And, celebrating the birth of Christ means continuing to long for the presence of those we miss, for the presence of one another.
It means continuing to hunger for that physically shared communion meal we will return to one day, it means continuing to yearn for that moment when we will gather again around a table and drink from the same cup and eat from the same bread, when we will share the blood and body of Christ.
It is hard. Being bodies prone to hunger and aches and mortality is difficult, especially in a time like this. But, it is also glorious, to eat and taste and be full, it is glorious to move and dance and touch, it is glorious to be born and to live.
The desire we feel now for one another’s presence speaks to the glory we experience when together.
The ache we feel witnessing bodies torn with sickness speaks to the delight we feel witnessing bodies coming together.
The hunger we experience now for a shared meal speaks to the glory of a full table.
A baby was born and so were we.
The word became flesh
And lived among us
I pray we see his glory even in and especially in the fleshy ache of this Christmas.
Amen