The stars bow down
From Wellington Cathedral of St Paul
The stars bow down: 25 December 2010: am: The Very Revd Frank Nelson
- Isaiah 9: 2 - 7
- Titus 3: 4 - 7
- Luke 2: 1 - 14
On a windless night, such as we occasionally revel in, one of Wellington’s great experiences is to take a night walk along Oriental Bay. The cars swish past, but it is the gentle lapping of water and the twinkling lights across the harbour that make it special. It was something of a shock then to be confronted earlier this week by two young women dressed in hot-pants and sweat-shirts encouraging us to clap our hands loudly and turn the lights on! It was the latest gimmick trading on the Christmas theme – a brash and crass publicity stunt for a chocolate company. Young children risked their lives to cross the road in front of drivers dazzled by flashing lights and stars on the garishly decorated house. It seemed a world away from another night walk taken earlier this year.
On a cold winter’s night, well wrapped against the cold, Christine and I walked along a deserted Australian Outback road gazing into the night sky. Such was the clarity of the air and the brightness of the stars, it seemed as if, simply by reaching out a hand, we could touch Orion’s belt. It was surely that sort of experience, rather than the in-your-face commercial approach, that St Luke had in mind when he penned his account of the birth of Jesus. The metaphor of a glorious night sky invites us into the mystery of the Incarnation – to begin a conversation that will continue throughout our lives.
How does one talk about God who becomes human – which is what ‘incarnation’ means? Can God really become a baby? Can God have a mother and father, go to school, learn how to use a plane and a lathe? Can God feel emotion, friendship, love, hunger, pain? Can God die? On a cross? We are into deep mystery.
St Luke invites us into a world of two travelers, a census and ‘no vacancy’ signs; it is populated with shepherds and angels and, if we read on in his Gospel, an old man who recognizes in the baby Jesus something no one else does. For Luke, this baby, whose birth we celebrate today, is the saviour of the world.
Another Gospel writer, Matthew, has a different world. His is one of politics and intrigue, suspicion and treachery. No shining stars and singing angels, but mysterious visitors coming from the east, a wily puppet king, and terrible slaughter of innocent children. Yet he too, has us look at this baby with many names. Among them Emmanuel – which means, God is with us.
St Mark, the most concise of the story tellers about Jesus, dispenses altogether with the beginning, launching instead straight into his adult life, and the startling announcement by the soldier overseeing his execution, that Jesus is indeed the Son of God.
But it is left to John, in the fourth of the Gospels, to be up front about the mystery. In the language of his day he invites the reader into the metaphor of light shining in the darkness. A light which, despite the terrible events which come later in all four Gospels, and appear to culminate in a death on a cross, has never been put out.
Those garish lights on Orientel Parade will be taken down, the cross on the summit of Mt Victoria will be turned off until Easter, the turkey will be demolished, the wine bottles tossed out with the crumpled wrapping paper – but the light will continue to shine in the darkness. And we will, I hope, continue to ponder, to wonder, to stand in awe, before the one whose birth we celebrate today; before whom the stars bow down; whose death on a cross was not the end, but the beginning.
Happy Christmas.
