Forgiveness is the name of love practiced among people who love poorly. The hard truth is that all people love poorly. We need to forgive and be forgiven every day, every hour increasingly. That is the great work of love among the fellowship of the weak that is the human family.
—HENRI NOUWEN
The capitalist, corporate Christ was at the big-box retail store yesterday. I saw him there, a plump little Caucasian baby in a happy little inflatable crèche somewhere between the garden section and the ammo aisle. It seemed an ironic placement, the tableau of the holy birth there in the middle of both the peaceful and violent material wants of men.
I contemplated the words of Benedictine nun Sister Joan Chittister: “Christmas is really not the acme of the liturgical year. Christmas simply commemorates, not celebrates, the historical birth of Jesus, whenever that might have been. Because of Christmas, the life of Jesus was possible. Because of Christmas, the incarnation can be fulfilled at Easter. Because of Christmas, the humanity of Jesus is fact.”
The humanity of Jesus is fact, just as the inflatable crèche is fact. God became flesh and dwelt among us in our meager, misguided, poor, pallid, violent, vindictive, leprous lameness. He was born to bring us a better way than the poison we choose for ourselves, to bring us healing and health. Christmas was the genesis of Christ’s journey through the pain and into the reconciliatory work of Easter’s rescue.
The capitalist, corporate Christ was at the big-box retail store yesterday. Though maybe there is wisdom in that scene of absurdity. Maybe, somehow, Jesus hides in the middle of it all, waiting to be discovered by the men who are pushing their way, best they know how, from the garden aisle to the gun counter, from Eden to all the world’s violence. Maybe he waits for us to discover him there, to point to him in the crowds, and to say, “There is the better way.”
Maybe?
The glittered star atop our Christmas tree reflects the tiny white lights strung through the tree’s branches. It is the star of hope. It is Advent, and we’re coming closer and closer to the manger. I see the star, the ornament of the three ships sailing, coming. We’re coming closer and closer to the consummation of the season, the day when the world received the gift of “life to the full,” the day we received our path to recovery. I’m trying to set my mind on it.
Christmas.
It marks the implanting of God himself in the womb of woman, the process of his becoming created and growing into manhood, into full brotherhood with the created. It is about his choosing to share in our groanings, our joys too. It is about the beginning of the Christ journey through the pain and into forgiveness, through death and into reconciliation, through sanctification and into glorification.
Christmas marks the coming of Emmanuel, God with us, God our brother.
God our brother.
I see Jesus in a great room teaching a crowd when a congregant tells him, “Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to see you.” Jesus surveys the push of humanity and replies, “My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice” (Luke 8:21). And if he had only said the words, it might have been enough. He did not stop there, though. He was born to practice his own teachings; he was born to walk the road through the pain, to the cross, and into the ultimate act of forgiveness and reconciliation. His brothers follow his path.
Some of my accusers are easier to identify than others. There are some who hide in cave shadows, though, and as I bring light deeper into the reaches of the cave, I can hear their voices too. I’ll not journal about those voices here. I’m approaching ninety days of sobriety, and I think it is time to draw this journal to a close. There are acts of forgiveness that will, as sure as the rising Ozark morning, take another ninety days to unpack, and I think that’s for a different journal.
I’m pressing deeper into the work of forgiving all of these voices, though. And in that work, I’m finding unity with Emmanuel, the ever-abiding God with us. I’m finding a kindred connection with Jesus, my brother. I’m finding that the simple but difficult act of forgiveness is sucking the poison from my blood; it’s quenching my thirst for human salves.
This is an act of obedience, yes. It is also an act of drawing deeper into brotherhood with Christ. I consider this and whisper aloud, “Father, forgive the faith healer who stole my faith; reconcile him to you, wherever he may be.” I consider the slick-haired preacher. The memory that once conjured a sense of abandonment now brings a reminder of brotherhood. The man whose words once bore only anxiety now brings an opportunity to be brothers with Christ.
When we practice forgiveness, when we extend love to our accusers, we are choosing to allow our histories to be rewritten; we are choosing to allow those things that once brought only pain to bring us a sense of unity with Christ. When we practice forgiveness, we take on the mantle of Jesus’ kin. We allow him to claim us as brother. This is a grand opportunity. Perhaps, this is the greatest Christmas present.