Jeremiah
31:7-14
John
1:1-18
Christmas
2
January
4, 2014
For thus says
the Lord: Sing aloud with gladness
for Jacob, and raise shouts for the chief of the nations; proclaim, give
praise, and say, “Save, O Lord, your people,
the remnant of Israel.” See, I am going
to bring them from the land of the north, and gather them from the farthest
parts of the earth, among them the blind and the lame, those with child and
those in labor, together; a great company, they shall return here. With weeping they shall come, and with consolations I
will lead them back, I will let them walk by brooks of water, in a straight
path in which they shall not stumble; for I have become a father to Israel, and
Ephraim is my firstborn.
The
book of Jeremiah is a very complex book. It is a collection of the prophet's speeches,
some of them written by a scribe, others of them remembered by Israel. The book
doesn’t always read in a straight line. Scholars bicker with one another
regarding the dating of this passage or that. Our text is one of those
passages. We don’t know if it comes from the beginning of his ministry, the
middle, or the end. And it probably doesn’t matter anyway, because he is
speaking something we know. He's talking about going home.
We
have just endured a season of snowmen and red-nosed reindeer. We deck the
halls, offer tidings of comfort and joy, and sing about angels. These are
festive songs, and rightfully so, at such a bleak time of year. But the tunes
that cause us to sniff and wipe away a tear are the songs about the experience
we know so well. "I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on
me." "Oh, there's no place
like home for the holidays.” That's the experience that Jeremiah talks about:
going home. All of us know how it feels.
I
remember the Christmas week when we buried my father's mother. Margaret Carter,
my younger daughter’s namesake. She lived to the abundant age of 92. Grandma
Carter was a prolific woman: she had eleven children, 29 grandchildren, 57
great-grandchildren, and seven great-great grandchildren. According to the
family legend, she never lived more than ten miles away from the house where
she was born. She grew up there, fell in love with a farm boy named Norris,
raised their children there. It was her home.
Home
is the place we remember. It is the one place where we are anchored. Regardless
of where we roam, where is it for you? Where are you from? My grandmother would
have said, "Dempseytown, Pennsylvania." And curiously enough, even
though I was born in Angola, Indiana, and have now lived in this town longer
than I have lived anywhere else, my quickest answer would be, "Owego, New
York." That’s where I am from.
If
we remember a home, it’s the place where we felt like we belonged. It stirs up
all kinds of feelings and affiliations. Sometimes for better and sometimes for
worse, you recall the voices and the events that anchor that place within your
heart.
But
home can be a slippery memory. A couple of weeks ago I spent a night with my
parents and took my younger daughter along. After getting my folks settled, we
went out for a late-night ice cream, really an excuse for escaping for a bit and
driving around the old haunts. Soon I was boring her with legends, and abruptly
she said, “You really grew up in the sticks. It’s so different from the city where
I now live.” Then she paused and said, “You don’t think you could ever actually
move back here?”
It
was a loaded question. I’m not sure I could, and neither do I think she will. Sometimes
the place we remember is not the place we left behind.
A
friend named Laura wrote about going home for the holidays. Her family met her
at the airport with broad smiles and chatter. Her parent's house was bigger
than she remembered, especially after the squalor of her little place. They
exchanged Christmas gifts that night, and Laura kept trying to convince
everyone that she hadn't spent much money. Then they had a banquet of wine and
rich food.
Laura
writes,
When I got up next morning, craving soda
water, as I always do after a long night's sleep, I realized with dismay that
my parents' refrigerator had never encountered such a thing. There were no
croissants, and the only jam was full of sugar. The coffee was in the cupboard,
not the refrigerator, and it was decaffeinated. With a sigh, I set about making
some tea.
My mother walked in as I was singing
along to a pop song on the radio. She looked surprised. "You used to
listen to such nice music," she said, mildly enough. We curled up with the
paper in the living room. We laughed and told stories, catching up with one
another after months of absence. I let slip that I had been out to eat the
Sunday before, in a restaurant. There was no comment, but the banter stopped
for a moment. I watched the lips compress.
When I again flew home two days later,
this time going the other way, I wondered: what did the prodigal son feel like
the morning after the party? What would I feel like after years of freedom,
having to move back home? Was that place even home to me anymore?
Then
she says,
Home is attractive for many of us
precisely because it is irretrievable. If we, like Dorothy, were given a magic
pair of ruby slippers to transport us back home at the click of our heels, how
many of us would go?[1]
The
older I get, the more I think she's right: "Home is attractive, because it
is irretrievable." We remember how home used to be, yet when we return, it
never quite fits the familiar picture.
I
recall a scene in a novel where there is a homecoming. A man has been away for
some weeks. His young son gets some friends together and paints a sign that
reads WELCOME HONE; it should have been spelled H-O-M-E, but the last leg of
the M is missing, so it becomes an N. "It seemed oddly fitting," the
man reflects. "It was good to get home, but it was home with something
missing or out of whack about it. It wasn't much . . . just some minor stroke .
. . but even a minor stroke can make a major difference."[2]
I
wonder if Jeremiah got it right. In chapter 31, he proclaims the promise of the
Lord: the faithful remnant of Israel will be gathered from the ends of the
earth, and they'll return to a hometown called Zion. There will be singing and
laughter. There will be dancing and abundance. Most of all, there will be comfort
and consolation. "Everybody will be glad to go home," says Jeremiah.
But
do you suppose he got it right? If Jeremiah is talking about life after the
exile, then some seventy years have passed since those people have been home. A
whole generation has come and gone. Any memories of the way it used to be must
be tempered by the way it really is. Just imagine traveling back to that same
address, and the whole town is different. And even if that homecoming gives you
some consolation, a little child may pipe up and say, "Daddy, can't we
stay in Babylon? This place has become my home."
Frederick
Buechner makes a helpful distinction. When we talk about home, says Buechner,
we mean one of two different things. The first is the home we remember,
and the second is the home we hope for. All of us can remember a home
where the hallways are familiar and the voices are known. When we make homes of
our own, much of what we make is rooted in the memories of the homes which were
provided for us. We use the same recipes. We talk the same dialects. We treat
our children the way we were treated. And yet, try as we might, when we return
to our homes, they are probably not everything we remember them to be.
But
then there is the home for which we hope. And that's what Jeremiah is
singing about. He remembers his hometown, but he hopes for a renewed Zion. He
remembers the people who walked the familiar streets, but he hopes their
spirits will be lifted and their lives will be given a surprising abundance. He
remembers the familiar voices, and all the whining that people have taken on as
a habit; but he hopes for a new song that shall cause all people to dance.
"I
will turn their mourning into joy, I will comfort them, and give them gladness
for sorrow." That, my friends, is our dream home. The good news of
Christmas is that a home like this is not only possible; it's available. In the
midst of all our comings and goings, God comes to make a home with us.
The
Gospel of John explains the mystery of Christmas this way: that the Word of God
became flesh and dwelt among us -- that the eternal wisdom in which all things
were created came down here and made a home among us. In Greek, it says quite
literally that the Word became flesh and pitched its tent in our midst. Imagine
that: the Eternal God whose Spirit blows as fierce as the winter wind took upon
our flesh, put up a canvas tarp, and drove some stakes into the ground to live
among us. Wherever we wander, Christ camps with us.
This
is really the Christmas mystery. God has come down here. It’s the answer to the
home that Jeremiah dreams of returning to. In the middle of our recurring homesickness,
in the thick of dashed expectations of what home ought to feel like, God comes
to us in the person of Jesus. Our everyday business is sanctified because he is
among us. Our lingering disappointments can be filled with his presence.
This
is indeed a holy mystery. We don’t have to wait for some far-off time in the
future before we can flourish and rejoice. It can happen today. Right here. All
we need to do is to stop running long enough to discover that he has never left
us. And the emptiness we felt is actually the manger to welcome the radiance
of the goodness of God. We remember that. We hope for that. And we are met this
day by Jesus Christ, who comes to us in bread and cup and spoken word. He is
the One who left his eternal home so that the life of God’s eternity would make
its home in us.
There
is a Christmas carol that says it well:
O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us
we pray.
Cast out our sin and enter in, be born
in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels the great
glad tidings tell.
O come to us, abide with us, our Lord
Emmanuel.
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