So we have good enough historical reasons for celebrating Christmas in the darkness of winter. But I believe we have even better theological reasons for doing so. What I want to argue today is that we need darkness in order to understand Christmas. I want to try to convince you that if we never experience darkness, we will never be able to see the one true light.
Shepherds are supposed to protect the sheep. So what do we do when shepherds say things that incite others to go after the sheep? The question of how to make our communities safe is being asked by city councils and school districts all over the country.
We finished the series on Paul last week, so on Sunday night, I went back to the lectionary and found two choices for the sermon today: this passage in Isaiah about the new creation or one in the Gospel of Luke about the end of the world. At the time, I wasn't sure which one would be most appropriate for a sermon after the election, and I'm still not sure, because a lot of us don't know what just happened or how we got here.
To preach on the politics of Paul, I could launch into a long discussion of the various schools of Christian political philosophy, but I think it will be more helpful if I just tell a story. This is the story of one Christian for whom the politics of Paul was no abstract theory; it was a lived reality. This is the story of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
From the beginning, Christ was the plan and the purpose for creation. Christ is the revelation of love and the destination of love. And Christ is what holds everything together until we get there. So Rohr says that we have to stop thinking of Christ as the "divine plumber" come to fix the mess we got ourselves in. [Rohr, "Love Is the Nature of Being," 10/25/16] When we make Jesus out to be a problem solver, we make him too small and our understanding of salvation becomes small, too. But salvation is not just the solution to the problem of human sin. It is much bigger than that. Salvation is God's purpose for everything.
I'm thinking that Paul, in his best moments, was able to write down truth that he had not yet lived. On rare occasions, like in his letter to the Galatians, he was able to glimpse a vision of a kingdom that had not yet come. The fact that he couldn't live there all the time only confirms what we already know about ourselves: that our vision is incomplete (we see as in a mirror dimly, I Corinthians 13); that our spiritual connection to God is intermittent at best; and that our culture usually has more influence on us than Christ does. So just because Paul couldn't grasp the full implications of the gospel and its radical vision of freedom and inclusion is no reason for us to dismiss him. Whether he knew it or not, Paul planted the seeds for that vision. Buried deep in his words was a Word about dignity and equality that has taken many centuries to begin to grow.
This transformation—from false self to true self—is made possible by the mystery of faith that we proclaim in the sacrament of communion: Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again. This is the mystery we have to participate in if we want to be made alive in Christ, the mystery that says that something in us has to die before we can really live, something in us has to break down before we can be raised up. That's why Paul is always boasting about his weakness, why he always seems to be savoring his suffering. It's not because he's a masochist, but because he's participating in the mystery, he is imitating the Messiah.
"I am what I am." These words had a different meaning for Paul and for God. For Paul, it was an expression of honesty: "I have been an S.O.B." For God, it was "Yes, but you are also an S.O.G., a son of God. And I'm going to give you the grace to believe it and the strength to live it." That doesn't mean that grace made him perfect or changed his personality. Paul was still there, flaws and all. But grace made him able to live with himself and less prone to project his problems on to somebody else. And when he accepted the fact that he was accepted as he was, he could become what God had always known him to be. And so he tells the Corinthians, "By the grace of God, I am what I am, and his grace toward me has not been in vain."
God's love has no good reason. But Paul fell for it anyway. To a people who wanted power, he preached death on a cross. To a people who valued reason, he preached the mystery of the resurrection. No wonder Paul got himself thrown into prison! All because the world doesn't know what to do with a paradox when it stumbles on one.
The danger here is that the beauty of your words can distract us from the power of your message: out of all the good things in life, the greatest thing is love. In fact, when all is said and done, the only thing that matters is love. You said it and I believe it. But that poses a problem for me and for many other people. A lot of us would rather read the Gospels, because when we read your letters, Paul, we wonder, "Where's the love?" After all, you tell slaves not to seek their freedom [I Cor 7:21] and women to keep their heads covered and their mouths shut in church [I Cor 11:1-16; 14:34]. You also tell folk to submit to authorities because all their authority comes directly from God. [Rom 13:1-7] Is that true of Hitler? Mussolini? Idi Amin? Don't get me wrong, but love is not the first thing I think of when I read these passages.