My back is KILLING ME! How many of you know EXACTLY what I am talking about? Remember last week when I said how much I love the snow? Well, I’m reconsidering! When I was living out in Los Angeles my old roommate, George, and I would get into this argument constantly. The weather out there was always perfect—too perfect! Take the most delightful spring day out here, multiply it times 365 days, and you have L.A. weather, or perhaps I should say L.A. lack of weather. It gets on your nerves after a while. I’d always say to George, “Don’t you miss living on the east coast at all?” He’d say, “Nope!” “You’re telling me you don’t miss the seasons?” “Not at all!” “Not even the snow?” And he’d say, “Are you kidding me?”
Then I would say, “I don’t know about you, George, but to me there is nothing more exhilarating after a long, hard, brutal winter than finally being able to walk outside again in my shorts and t-shirt, to feel the warm sun against my bare skin, to see those crocuses peeking through the greening grass and feel the dirt getting soft again under my feet. I love that there is finally enough light to be able to do things outside, that I can hear the birds singing and smell the sweet smells of life back in the air.” George would just look at me as though I was nuts and say, “Dave, it sounds like you enjoy winter for the same reason masochists enjoy banging their head against a brick wall—because it feels so good to stop.”
I guess I never thought of it quite like that before, but it did get me thinking—what is it about winter that I like so much? It can’t be my aching back or my soaking wet, waterlogged feet. It’s certainly not these morbidly short days, the rock-hard ground or donning layer after layer and steeling myself every time I prepare to step outside. What is it about winter that I find so appealing?
I know this is going to sound really weird, but I think what I like about winter is the warmth. Does that seem too bizarre? What I am trying to say is that it may not be winter at all that I like so much about winter but the glimpses of warmth that I keep finding despite winter that seem so much warmer because of the winter that surrounds them. Does that make any sense whatsoever? What I think I love is the contrast—the warmth of being curled up inside with family in front of a roaring fire, or under a snuggly duvet, when it is miserable and frozen outside; the wonderful juxtaposition of having most of my body toasty warm under a down parka, fur-lined gloves and a fleece scarf while my exposed nose and cheeks are burning from the bitter, icy cold wind. That’s what I love about winter. It’s the contrast—the contrast and the promise. There is something about the constant reminder of winter outside that makes those glimpses of warmth and life inside that much richer than they could ever be in the summertime… than they could ever be in Southern California. What’s more, there is something about those glimpses of warmth that reminds us in the most powerful way of the promise that what’s going on out there is not all there is. It may be winter on the outside and we may live in a frozen, hardened, cold world, but spring is always on the way. The seeds are already in the ground and they are just waiting for the thaw.
That is exactly the picture that our friend C.S. Lewis was trying to paint with our four little wardrobe hoppers, Lucy, Edmund, Peter and Susan, when they stumble from the spare room into the magical land of Narnia. Advent means waiting and that is what the people of Narnia are doing. Narnia is gripped in a season of eternal winter. Do you remember that perfect description of how snowy, dark, cold and sad it is? And do you remember the first animal that Lucy meets out by the lamp post?—that small, half-man, half-fawn creature named Mr. Tumnus who keeps calling Lucy daughter of Eve? Mr. Tumnus takes Lucy back to his little cave and explains that the reason it is so cold and snowy is because the White Witch has cast a spell over the entire Kingdom.
“The White Witch?” Lucy asks, “Who is she?” “Why it is she that has got all Narnia under her thumb,” Mr. Tumnus says. “It’s she that makes it always winter. Always winter and never Christmas; think of that!”
I took his advice and I did think about it—all week, this past week. What would winter be like if there was no Christmas? How long would I put up with the ice and the snow if there was no hope and no promise of spring? What I realized is that it is Christmas that makes winter bearable. It’s this contrast between a cold, frozen world and the glimpses of warmth that we experience in the midst of it. It’s the promise and the hope that goes beyond the winter we see outside. What a compelling image for Lewis to use here. What a perfect metaphor for a world that has been dulled by the evil one, a broken world that is frozen and hardened by sin—always winter, never Christmas. It is a great analogy for a world that, as Paul put it, is groaning as in the pangs of childbirth.
But Lewis doesn’t leave us there. No sooner are we plunged into the frozen spellbound state of Narnia than we start hearing of a rumor—a rumor of hope. Do you remember what it is? “Aslan is on the move.” It’s more than just a statement. It is a promise. And it is more than just an objective promise. It is deeply personal to every person who hears it. “When Aslan comes,” says Mrs. Beaver talking about Narnia’s Christ figure, “Everything that is wrong will be made right, injustice will be addressed and sorrows will be no more. When Aslan shakes his mane,” she says, “We will have spring again.” It may be a promise for the future but no sooner is the promise made than they begin to see glimpses of it right there in the midst of the Witch’s rule. They see it everywhere they look. From that moment on, until they meet Aslan, signs of his coming are everywhere. Frozen streams begin to melt, chatter, murmur and bubble. The snow begins to turn to slush, and patches of green grass and budding trees begin to appear. Flowers start to bloom and the birds begin their long silenced songs. It is these glimpses that embolden those faithful to Aslan and terrify the Witch. They may only be glimpses and may only speak to the promise that Aslan is drawing near, but each one is made that much more powerful and that much more delicious, because of its context, because of the stark contrast between the warmth and the ice and between the warmth and life and the frozen world in which they appear.
It is the same thing that makes our scripture passage this morning so powerful. When Isaiah wrote his famous prophecy, Israel was going through a tough time. Although King Cyrus of Persia had issued a decree allowing the Jews, who had been scattered all over the Middle East during the Diaspora, to return to Jerusalem and rebuild the Temple, not many had come back and those who did were feeling more than a little lost. They felt like strangers in their own home. There were all kinds of idolatry going on—allegiances in their lives that were competing for God’s attention. The people were worried about their future, not as confident as they had been in the past and still nursing hurts and pain from 70 more years of wandering as a homeless nation. This was supposed to be the best time of their lives. This return was what everyone had been waiting for. But things couldn’t have been more of a mess. I don’t know how else to put it—it’s a great image—they were trudging through a wintertime of their soul.
Through the first half of the book, Isaiah does what prophets seem to do best—he rants and raves at the mess that people have made of things. He really lets them have it. He lets everyone have it. He tells off Israel and then turns around and yells at Judah. He sounds off against Babylon and Assyria, then the Philistines and Moab. He rails against Damascus and Cush, Egypt and Edom and, then, goes back to yelling at Babylon and Jerusalem some more. He doesn’t mince words, but in the middle of his book, he does the most amazing thing. Just as it seems that things couldn’t be worse, he turns everything on its ear and completely changes his tack. One minute he is talking terror, destruction, weeping and revenge, and the next, he begins talking about salvation, justice, forgiveness and redemption. He begins talking about God’s promise, and even pulled out of context, on its own, it’s still a spectacular prophecy, an incredible vision of hope. But when you place these words of hop e in the context of what the Israelites are going through, when you look at it in contrast to what Isaiah was just saying in the opening chapters of this book, this promise takes on a whole new level of meaning. It becomes powerful beyond imagination.
It is this same contrast that brings its power to Christmas—the contrast and the promise. I believe that Madison Avenue with their Christmases of perpetual joy and constant cheer has it all wrong. The real wonder of Christmas was never meant to be experienced apart from the pain and the disappointment of this broken, hard, frozen-over world. It makes me so sad when I see people put on their best game-face because they have been told over and over again that Christmas is a time when everyone has to be happy and everything has to be perfect. Jesus Christ came to this world not just to show us how to really celebrate but how to really mourn. Christmas is not a time set exclusively aside for joy but a time to experience all of the intricacies of life in a deeper, transformed way. For many people Christmas is a poignant reminder that not everything is right in this world, and that is okay. We lose people we love. We get into fights and sometimes don’t even talk to the people we care about the most. Christmas can be a stark reminder of the financial burdens we bear, the frustrations with life that we carry around, unanswered questions, health issues that keep us from entering into the celebrations, and the war, poverty and hunger that is rampant across our globe.
Christmas was never intended to be divorced from the sorrows and struggles of life. It’s all about the contrast. The birds singing, the water babbling and the patches of green in Narnia can only be so beautiful because of the frozen icy world in which they appear. Isaiah’s description of the coming Messiah finds its power in the painful context in which it was written. And while talking about contrast, what about the manger scene? In and of itself, there is nothing beautiful about it—a young, poor, ostracized couple who are cold, afraid and desperate; a young woman forced to give birth to her first child in a dirty, sloppy feeding trough out in a barn because no one was willing to take them in. The lesson here cannot be found in the manger of hallmark cards or Christmas specials. What is so remarkable about the way that Jesus Christ was born is that he was able to break into this cold, barren, desolate, broken and hurting world of ours and bring a new perspective—a glimpse of warmth that begins to melt everything it touches; and a peace, tranquility and hope even to a place as miserable as a freezing trough.
Aslan is on the move. The Christ child is making his way. And though we live in a world that is often frozen over with pain, death, disappointment and sorrow, there is no stopping the promise. The glow of His warmth and new life are breaking through all around us even as we speak. The glimpses of His spring are showing up everywhere, even in the places we least expect. And they are that much more beautiful not despite but because of their contrast to the world in which they find themselves. That is what Christmas is all about. It is not trying to pretend for one month a year that winter is not winter, that our world is not our world or that our lives are not a confusing mix of joy and sorrow; but it is allowing God to be God, allowing Him to simply show up and turn our slop troughs into beautiful, glowing mangers; and then stepping back to be amazed by the promise and the contrast of it all.
AMEN |
“Always Winter, Never Christmas”