students of jesus

When really important people come to town, everyone one knows it. NBA stadiums sell out months before LeBron or Kobe show up for game time. When Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson do a personal appearance, hundreds of screaming fans will show up hours ahead of time. When the President visits your city, you can be sure the mayor will meet him at the airport and school children will be there to give the first lady flowers.

But the Christmas story shows us God does things differently. You might even call his way sneaky. The most important person in the history of the world snuck into town late one night and definitely did not stay in a five-star hotel. Jesus was smuggled into Bethlehem through the womb of a teenage girl, who gave birth in a barn. That’s different.

We all know the story of Christmas: the baby, the barn, the shepherds and magi. Hidden inside that familiar story is the surprising revelation that God’s way is to ignore the bigshots and use nobodies instead. Just count the nobodies:

Mary was a teenage girl from a small town. In Bible times women were not important people, and teenagers were even lower on the scale. Mix in her pre-martial pregnancy, and you’ve got a real nobody on your hands. But Mary was God’s choice. She conceived the baby Jesus through the power of the Holy Spirit. God considered her somebody important and gave her a pretty tough assignment!

Joseph was a nobody, too. He was just a working man across town from Mary’s family. He was faced with a choice between trusting God or protecting his small-town reputation. But reputations belong to important people, and most of the important people were in Jerusalem. Joseph said “yes” to shame, yes to love, and yes to God, so God chose Joseph to act as a foster-father to the Savior of the world.

Shepherds are not important people. Just the opposite: second-shift schmucks who work outdoors. Back in that day watching sheep was not exactly a rock-star kind of gig. Yet they were the first guests invited to the celebration.

The Magi? Nothing more than rich pagan astrologers. It didn’t matter if they had money, they were foreigners. Foreigners have the wrong religion, the wrong clothes, and the wrong sacred books. Elizabeth &

Zechariah & Elizabeth: a kindly old couple engaged in harmless religious activity. They are the kind of people society ignores—unless they are driving too slow on a the highway. Anna & Simeon: Alone and elderly, they were two people almost completely invisible to everyone. Everyone except the Holy Spirit.

One and all, God used people on the outside of society.

The secret message inside the Christmas story? God invites the nobodies. And when God invites you to the table, he provides everything you need. The powerful people, the beautiful people, and the cool kids might not make it to the celebration. They’re welcome, but they might be too busy building their own kingdoms. Meanwhile God’s kingdom is filling up with the people no one notices.

This season, if you are a nobody—rejoice! You are not far from the Kingdom of God.

This is the introduction from my Christmas devotional, 25 Days of Christmas. It's probably a little late for this year, but mark it down for next: 25 one-minute devotions to prepare you for Christmas.

Some time back--never mind how long ago--I said casually to a young woman, “the surest description of God is that of Father.” She recoiled in horror. Fear and grief passed across her face. Later I learned her father had been a man filled with violence and abuse toward to his daughters. Father meant betrayal, brutality, and perversion. Her experience and definition kept her from knowing the True Father: his tender care, his understanding, and deep love. Yet who could blame her?

Another occasion I watched a boy imitate the father he loved. A poor imitation it was. Filled with blustering pride the man-child bossed and ordered others about. He thought he was doing what fathers did--commanding, directing, and leading. To him, Father meant authority and power to lead. He was a child playing the back-yard version of war, brimming over with glory and bluster.

What if our definitions keep us from seeing the truth? What if our twisted experience has taught us the opposite of the deep meanings whispered by the Spirit? Deliver us from the things we think we know, because certainty is the enemy of discovery. We could embrace a deception, or in fear we could run away from the truth. God save us from the words we think we know. What if they keep us from the truth? Since those encounters I’ve wondered time and again how many words I have misunderstood, simply because I have one meaning planted firmly in my head, rooted in my heart.

Since those experiences I have kept a list of Bible words--words filled with promise, joy, deliverance, and hope--yet also capable of frightening me to the core, or leading me completely astray. My list of wonderful-yet-dangerous words? Here is but a sample of the words I think I know:
Family
Sister
Brother
Love
Church
Community
Mission
Calling

I’ve determined never to reject these words, because the Spirit has spoken them. I will not run from them. I’ve also determined to hold them loosely in order that I might return to them again and again, and be instructed by their multi-faceted wisdom.

The revealed wisdom of God sends us this sure warning: we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears . . . For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

Hope, promise, and expectation live in the most unlikely places. The birth narrative in Luke’s gospel is peopled with unknowns—unknowns who possessed a rich history with God and whose stories are preserved for our instruction. A guy named Simeon, for example. He was an individual on the margins, unnoticed in his day but preserved for us in the scripture as an example of how to walk with God.

Just after the birth of their child, Mary and Joseph took Jesus to the Temple in Jerusalem. The Temple was a massive complex of buildings, a religious marketplace at the center of Jewish life. The young couple expected anonymity in the crush of humanity flowing in and out of the Temple, but instead they encountered a man who had patiently waited to see the promise of God fulfilled before he died:

Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord's Christ. Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying:
"Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel. (Luke 2: 25–32)

Simeon’s actions and words are recorded for us not as a matter of historical curiosity, but rather to demonstrate how we can enter into God’s purpose in our day as well. Simeon had a dynamic relationship with the Holy Spirit. In just three verses the work of the Spirit is highlighted three times, and each mention points to a distinct aspect of the Spirit’s work in Simeon’s life:

• First the scripture says simply, “the Holy Spirit was upon him.” (v25) Simeon’s life was characterized by the presence of the Spirit in an abiding way: to know Simeon, to talk with him, was to taste something of the Holy Spirit. Perhaps you have met people like him. Their lives are permeated with the presence of the Holy Spirit. They radiate the attributes of Godly character, like the list of His fruit in Galatians 5: 22-23. In Simeon’s case other people may not have been able to define the source of his distinctive character, but they undoubtedly sensed the difference.

• Second, the Holy Spirit had spoken to Simeon personally that “he would not die until he had seen the Lord’s Christ.” (v26) This is significant because no amount of study in the Old Testament could lead anyone to such a promise. It was personal. That means Simeon had trained not only his intellect but also his spirit to receive from God. Simeon combined both the ability to hear and the faith to hold on to what he heard. Can you imagine the raised eyebrows he would have encountered if he chose to share such a personal promise from God? Yet the promise was true because the scriptures assure us so.

• Third, Simeon followed the leading of the Holy Spirit in practical ways. He was “moved by the Holy Spirit” on a particular day to be at a particular place at a particular time (v27). Perhaps Simeon was consciously aware of the Spirit’s direction, or perhaps it was something less defined. But whatever level of awareness Simeon possessed it was sufficient to put him in the right place at the right time. Dallas Willard observed that God’s leading isn’t always some explicit command. In fact, we may not be able to separate our thoughts from his—until after the fact, when we realize God was leading and guiding toward a particular moment.

Although we do not know Simeon’s age at the time of the encounter with Jesus, the text leads us to believe he was a man advanced in years. His interaction with the Holy Spirit that day was not some robotic control. It was the result of years of heartfelt seeking and cooperation with the still small voice so characteristic of God’s ways.

Simeon’s relationship with the Holy Spirit placed him before the baby Jesus. Simeon’s response to the moment is instructive as well. He knew his moment had come. When Simeon declares, “dismiss your servant in peace,” (v29) he is not waxing poetic. He welcomes death because he has experienced the faithfulness of God. He has witnessed the promise of God to Abraham, to Israel, and to himself. He has seen the hope of Israel.

Simeon saw what others did not. He declared, “My eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people” (vs 30-31) It was business as usual at the Temple that day. Priests, rabbis, and religious sorts of all kinds walked right past the King of Glory. Simeon saw a baby and witnessed the consolation of Israel. Here’s a difficult question: will I be held accountable for what the Father tried to show me, but I was unable to see?

Finally, Simeon understood that God’s purposes stretch beyond Israel to the entire world. There, in the shadow of the Temple, Simeon bore witness to the hope of the Gentiles. Most of the Temple was off-limits to women and pagans. But standing before Mary, and attracting the attention of a widow named Anna, Simeon declared that the court of the Gentiles now housed the presence of God. The God of Abraham had fulfilled a promise to bless the entire world. In our day, even among believers, we are tempted to think that God is at work on behalf of the few, when in fact his purposes include the many.

There is so much to celebrate in the Christmas story, but for followers of Jesus there is even more to learn.

From daylight to night it was, all of it, an eternal grey for Bartimaeus.

Only the sounds changed. The days were filled with the noise and activity of men, those who had sight, those who could see to walk, to work, to do. The night carried sounds deep and brooding. Through the stillness and quiet the smallest sound traveled a mile . . . two? Who knows how far?

The rhythm between day-sound and still-night was the only constant he knew. That, plus standing at the same dirty street corner day after day. Begging for coins enough to buy food. Hearing the steps of people who saw him no more than they saw the landscape beyond the city. Fighting off sighted boys with nothing better to do than torment a blind man. For so he was treated. Boys threw stones, people laughed--if they noticed at all. His deformity was proof he was clearly a man under the wrath of God. Why else had he been so afflicted?

Then he began to overhear the talk. People on their way to Jerusalem, pausing to tell stories of a miracle-working rabbi who lived far to the north, in Capernaum, by Galilee. Bartimaeus knew that healing stories traveled quickly and doubled in size for every mile they traveled, yet from his constant grey street corner he marveled to hear of demons flowing from a madman into swine. He tried to imagine a catch of fish so large it took two boats to drag the haul to shore. When he heard that a synagogue leader gambled his reputation by asking this scandalous rabbi to heal his daughter--and then received his child back from the dead--Bartimaeus took note that bold risk could be rewarded beyond all expectation.

The days had melted into awful sameness years ago. His place in Jericho was defined: a wretched man on a wretched street, differing from the dogs only because he begged for money while they begged for food scraps. Worse than a foreigner, he was a deformed and cursed Jew, but a stranger to the promise.

Out of the grey sameness came first the rumors. The miracle rabbi had turned his face toward Jerusalem. He would have to pass through Jericho. Hours later came the sounds a crowd. Dogs barking. Children's voices raised in excitement, and finally the sound of a great many people. If this rabbi existed, he would be in the center of this human storm.

On this day, a day unlike the sad march of all the days, Bartimaeus knew he must take the same risk as the ruler of that far away synagogue. He must be willing to risk the possibility that the stories might have a speck of truth, or risk the ridicule of others. But what is ridicule to a man already cast off by his own people? He must suffer the risk of a beating or being pushed aside and losing his way.

He turned his head to the direction of the sound. He asked no one, and everyone, "What is happening?"

Whether someone answered him or was merely calling out to another, Bartimaeus heard the words, "Jesus of Nazareth is passing by."

He lifted his face and bellowed toward the sky, "Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy on me!"

Nothing. No one noticed, the crowd was still moving.

Again. "Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy on me!"

"Shut up, fool!" said someone. Then a shove. Bartimaeus nearly fell. "Shut up!"

Again. "Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy on me!" He had not rehearsed the words. He had never given them thought. Still he cried the words again. And Again.

Then confusion. More shoving. And again more pushing. He was being pushed intentionally. Rudely, to be sure, but he was being pushed again and again. Guided.

He knew he was among the great crowd, but everyone had stopped. There was an unnatural stillness. Then a hand on his shoulder.

Bartimaeus heard a voice. The man asked question he had never imagined, nor even dared to hope for. Until then, mercy was his only hope. It was a question, but the blind man heard in the question what others had never been trained to hear. He heard from the voice an invitation to speak his most foolish hope. His risk had been rewarded, and the voice was asking him to risk even more. He heard, quite simply,

"What do you want me to do for you?"

All language falls short of reality, but when we try to describe the mystery of the Incarnation, words fails utterly. It is a mystery so great angels still long to look into it, yet throughout history the wise and learned have poured forth a profusion of words, trying to explain it. Good luck with that.

The Incarnation. It’s such a strange word, tinged with stained glass and solemn intonation. We inherited the word from Latin, when that beautiful language tried to express, “to be made flesh.” So strange. To be made flesh. Not to be made of flesh, but rather rendered into flesh. Someone--God--was changed into flesh. No wonder the angels were curious.

Theologians raise objections: God cannot “become” anything because God cannot change. I’m not smart enough to be a theologian. I can only point to the witness of the Holy Spirit: “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14) Although the words of men have failed to explain it, still the Word became flesh. God describes himself as “the Word.” What is that Word? It is, simply, Jesus. The Word spoken was an entire life, and that life was the light of men. In that one Word/Life, we discover the glory of God, the grace of God, and the truth of God.

In Jesus, God pitched his tent among us and showed us how to live. God wasn’t “slumming,” like some Hollywood star sleeping on the streets for one night. He left the most exclusive gated community in all creation and became a little lower than the angels. He lived among us--as one of us--without the benefits of his heavenly position. The Christmas story comes to us filled with drama and pathos, but in our celebration of the Christ Child, the faith of his parents, the wonder of the Magi, and worship from the shepherds it’s easy to miss the point: it’s the beginning of the gospel story, not the whole story. His life had just begun. He would live it to the full, as our example.

What does it look like for God to live as a man? It starts with humility, danger, and promise--not so different from each human life that comes from God. It starts with desperation and need but it continues day after day, month after month, year after year--until God’s purposes are fulfilled. Jesus the baby became Jesus the child. And in the same succession of days we all experience, Jesus the child became Jesus the man. He showed us how it’s done. He took no shortcuts, he did not cheat on the exam of life. He was “tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin” (Hebrew 4:15). Most people I know simply cannot comprehend that Jesus faced life in the very same way we face life. Surely he must’ve had some advantage, we think.

For the past two hundred years the divinity of Jesus has been under attack, and the church has rushed to defend from those attacks. Rightly so: he is the Son of God. However, decades of emphasis on his divine nature have come at the expense of an understanding of his humanity. Jesus lived his daily life in communion with the Father using the same means open to each one of us: prayer, openness to the Spirit, the witness of scripture, a listening ear, and the life of a disciple. The child Jesus “grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men” (Luke 2:52). It was no charade: Jesus was a man. If we grasp his humanity we can encounter the hope of Christlikeness for ourselves. The Incarnation is not only a theological teaching, it is a picture of what is possible for followers of Jesus.

An overemphasis on his divinity creates a picture of a saving God who is beyond our reach. An overemphasis on his humanity reduces Jesus to a beloved character who was simply a good man. It took the early church two centuries to come to an acceptable statement of the mystery—Jesus is at once 100% God and 100% man. The mystery is also the stuff of which Christmas is made.