December 31, 2006
(First Sunday after Christmas Day)

The Word Made Flesh in our Very Neighborhood

By The Very Rev. Terry White, Dean

Isaiah 61:10-62:3  •  Psalm 147 or 147:13-21  •  Galatians 3:23-25;4:4-7  •  John 1:1-18
(From The Lectionary Page)

In these last couple of weeks the crèche in our home has come together. First the stable, then the empty manger, then the animals. Mary and Joseph started on a table in another and traveled closer. A week ago tonight, the figure of the Baby Jesus was placed in the manger. Three wise men are hoping to make it to the stable by January 6th. As they are on top of the china cabinet right now they will need some flying camels to make it to the manger.

This nativity set was crafted in Israel from olive wood. It is lovely and a family keepsake. But Linda Sue and I continue our search for crèche that shows the Blessed Virgin Mary not so much kneeling in adoring prayer at the side of the manger but reclining having just given birth, as she is often portrayed in eastern icons depicting the Nativity.

A bonus would be to find a figure of Joseph holding Mary closely as she collapses into the sleep of exhaustion. My guess is that such a crèche, while offending the sensibilities of some for various reasons, would be a rather popular set. For such a depiction would invite us, if not require us, to look anew at the awesome and tremendous mystery of the Incarnation. God’s love for us may be best experienced by identifying with the humanity found in this story.

Michael Johnston, priest and scholar, joined Ellen Goheen in leading two Advent evenings focusing on the various components of the story of the coming of the New Born King as depicted in art. Last year, I shared with you on Christmas Day a unique depiction of the Madonna, and given our Advent class, I will share it with you this morning.

In the rural Tuscan village of Monterchi, southeast of Florence, there is a very small museum devoted to a single work of art: Piero della Francesca’s Madonna del Parto (The Lady of the Birth). (View a larger version at The Web Gallery of Art.) Originally the fresco decorated the cemetery chapel of the village and may have been painted as a memorial to Piero’s mother, who died in 1459. Madonna del Parto has been recently and beautifully restored.

The first thing you notice about the fresco is that Piero’s Madonna is most obviously pregnant, an image which is quite rare. A number of details suggest a woman very close to term: the sway of her spine; the placement of her left forehand at the back of her hip; and, as a woman obstetrician pointed out, “She is growing out of her maternity clothes. I tell my patients,” said the doctor, “that when they can’t stand being pregnant one more minute, they’ve got two more weeks. That’s what I’d tell this Mary.”

There is nothing spiritualized about this rendering of the Incarnation; Madonna del Parto carries not only the logos of God, but a real, fully human child. She also bears the common features of a local Tuscan woman. You could spot her today, carrying her string bag full of groceries, in any one of the market squares in any village along the Piero Trail. She might even have a child in tow looking remarkably like one of the angels in the fresco. In other words, Piero della Francesca painted from what he saw around him, bringing earth and heaven together.

The other striking detail of Madonna del Parto is that Piero has located the figure of Mary within a flower-covered tent, in fact, a tent of the type that can still be seen occasionally, erected for special events on the lawns of the country houses of the region. The tent occupies almost all of the fresco space, and a pair of angels dramatically holds back its flaps to reveal the [pregnant] Virgin. She, in turn, opens the folds of her dress above the womb, as though to reveal the divinity which has chosen, for a time, to reside there in her swollen belly. For the viewer who comes to the painting with a biblical imagination, the tent is stunning.

The Gospel we have just heard proclaims: “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” But ‘dwelt’ is not the most accurate translation. By Piero’s day, the Greek New Testament had been recovered, and he knew that this verse in the original Greek reads: “And the Word was made flesh and tented among us.” In fact, it is not too far off the mark to translate the Greek even more specifically to read: “And the Word became flesh and tented in our very neighborhood.” The Incarnation is as immediate as our neighborhood, as close to us as our neighbors. (M. Johnston, unpublished manuscript.)

Christmas carols tend to extol the cosmic and eternal changes brought by this Holy Child. Peace on earth, goodwill to all people. Heaven and earth forever joined. The Alpha and Omega, He the Source – the ending He, the Word of God, has taken on human flesh. These mysteries rightly cause us to kneel in silence before the incomprehensible love of God. But there is more to the meaning of this birth.

In the very beginning of his Gospel, St. John would not have us miss the immediacy of the Incarnation. Because of Christmas Day, not only is humankind forever changed, but more specifically our neighborhoods, our street, our block are all changed. For the Son of God has sent up his tent right next door.

In Piero’s painting, the Madonna resembles a local Tuscan woman. Thus, the Holy Child would share some of her features as well. As Jesus sets up his tent among us, he takes into his life the features of our life: from the cosmic worries of war and danger in far away places, to the frustration and sadness of a horrific murder rate in Kansas City. To share our life means that Jesus sees the poor and marginalized, be they in the Sudan or lined up to eat at the Kansas City Community Kitchen here. By pitching his tent with us Jesus knows the anxiety of world leaders and the anxieties you and I have carried with us into this cathedral in the midst of our Christmas joy. The news of this birth is staggering: God cares and here is a tangible sign of proof. His Son. God is with us. God will never leave us. And just as Piero used his world to depict heaven and earth being joined, so God uses our neighborhood as the perfect intersection for his love and grace and healing to come rushing in through us.

St. Luke’s version of the Christmas story will always be preferred for Christmas Eve pageants. But if St. John’s story could intrude just a bit, perhaps next year the shepherds will find Jesus just as the angel said, wrapped in swaddling clothes, in a manger, that is housed in a tent.

And what a tent it is. Large. Roomy. Enormous. Forces continually seek to limit who can be in the tent, or which neighborhoods Christ will visit. Jesus has pitched a tent for us all. So we should reach out to all. Forgive all. Make peace with all. Show care and compassion for all. Love all.

The gift of the Christmas season is that for 12 days we engage in a journey not unlike the figures of the Nativity set. We begin Christmastide with great joy, frenzy, traditions of various kinds, gift exchanges, traveling, and usually some fatigue, family tension, and unexpected situations like illness. And while our feasting and celebration continues throughout this season, it can take other forms. Like this morning, worshipping God here, encountering that the Light from Light which no darkness can overcome. This Son of God who comes to us in this Eucharist.

This morning, here and now, let the immediacy of God’s coming astound us. In your neighborhood Christ has come to set up his tent. In that tent let us place our pain, sadness, anger, and bitterness. Our weariness, fear, and resentment. Our suspicion and self-righteousness. Our life and our heart.

As the people of God, let us be overwhelmed by Divine Love, that our neighborhoods might change. It is huge tent that has been set up. Come one and all – come everyone. Rejoice! For God has saved us and tented in our very neighborhood. Thanks be to God!