“That we may be for the world the Body of Christ redeemed by his blood.” -United Methodist Hymnal, Great Thanksgiving Liturgy
“I didn’t think you would come,” M— said, ushering us into his duplex. It was clean and cozy, and we carolers vigorously wiped our feet on the front mat before we stepped into his living room. It was pouring outside, and though we were under a tornado watch, we braved the storm to go caroling for those in the church who needed Christmas cheer. We followed M— into his living room, where his wife D— hugged each of us with more gusto than expected from her tiny 90-pound frame. Her advanced dementia ensured she did not know a single name nor understand why we were circled up in her living room, but she squeezed M—’s hand and smiled at us as if she’d been expecting us for days.
“Any requests?”
“Jingle Bells!” This came from the children.
M— held up a finger. “Wait right there,” he said and dashed off as quickly as an 80-something-year-old can. He returned momentarily with a set of cascading jingle bells that he handed to the youngest child.
“I’ve been saving this since you were here last year,” he said with a wink.
And I’m sure he meant it. We visit his house every year, and each time M— and D— sing along with us and send us off with big hugs and sweet treats.
Incarnation is the theological word used to describe the miracle of Christmas, the mind-bending moment when the God of eternity curled up into a tiny, helpless baby, born to an obscure working-class family and into an oppressive and unstable political environment. “The Word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood,” as Eugene Peterson put it in the Message’s translation of John 1. Each Christmas we ponder this holy mystery that Jesus, the eternal Son of God, moved into the neighborhood of human existence. On purpose. To be with us, to bless us, to redeem us.
The theological implication of the incarnation for the Church is equally profound. Jesus chooses to be manifested in and through the Church, the Body of Christ redeemed by his blood. Because of this, incarnation is an ongoing miracle. Through us, Jesus is moving into our neighborhoods, blessing our streets, walking our sidewalks, visiting our homes, and inviting our neighbors to know the good news of great joy for all people: God is with us, God is for us.
“Dashing through the snow…” we began singing and the kids shook their jingle bells with no discernible rhythm. But the joy rang loud and clear, a glorious tumble of sounds. D—, despite her inability to remember what she had for lunch, sang along to every word, dancing around the living room, wild as the jingle bells, laughing at the joy she found in singing and dancing and cherishing the smiling faces of her church family, who knew and loved her when she couldn’t remember them.
God was incarnate in that living room through our off-key, off-rhythm, jubilant choir, singing into existence connection and love and comfort and hope. It was the Church at its best, a tangible embodiment of Jesus, Emmanuel. We were being the Body of Christ so Jesus materialized through our smiles and songs, offering his presence and grace and redemption, not just to M— and D— but to all of us. The good news of great joy is for all people, after all.
You see, with all its failures, scandals, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.
Thank you, Reverend Laura, for this uplifting piece.