John 1:1 - 18
I’ve held a lot of little babies in my life. Six children, nineteen grandchildren, and about a hundred children I’ve baptized. One of the things you notice about very young babies is that they are creatures made up largely of instinct. They have a limited vocabulary -- their first expression is to cry when something makes them uncomfortable. Gas pains can make them cry, but a dirty diaper is usually well tolerated. And you, the parent, never know what the crying is about, so you go through a checklist until your child gets tired of crying or is relieved of the discomfort. A very young baby is unlike any other very young mammal, fish, bird, or insect in that those other creatures are given instincts that kick in to help them cope with the world; a few minutes after a baby horse is born, he’s up on his feet nursing. And a baby shark right after it’s born is off looking for food and trying to avoid being eaten.
But think about a baby human. Think about Mary and baby Jesus. He was, after all, like us in all things but sin. He was a tiny helpless creature largely made of instincts. What happened? His mother happened, that’s what.
Some people talk about the miracle of birth. To me, that’s not the miracle; it looks quite uncomfortable and messy, and I was always grateful that I didn’t have to go through that. But the real miracle is what happens afterward. The baby is given to his mother, and she begins to talk to him. And that’s the first few months -- talking, holding, gazing, more talking; and one day the baby focuses her eyes on her mother’s eyes; and another day the baby smiles back at his mother’s smile. And then one day in response to her voice, she makes a conscious sound, not a cry, but a deliberate answer to mother’s voice. And slowly, gradually, lovingly, the baby is drawn out of herself to engage with the rest of the world, by the mother’s voice, the mother’s words, the mother’s gaze, her touch. And if you are a father, you have seen the miracle of how the person is sculpted from the unformed clay. And we know that when a baby is deprived of this interaction, this voice, this mother’s word, he will never be successfully drawn out of himself.
I was told that a local Imam said to his Catholic friend, “if we Muslims believed that God was truly present in our Mosque like you think he is present in your churches we would fall on our faces and never look up. That’s why I don’t think you really believe what you say you believe.” At first I thought the Imam had a point. But then It seemed to me that his idea of God was very different from my own. My God became human, told us that we were no longer servants, but friends; called himself the bread of life; the Son of Man, the Way, the Truth and the Life; and he was always telling those around him to believe in him, to have faith.
And Saint John calls Him the Word, the Word made flesh.
The Church gives us four gospel readings for Christmas. The vigil mass tells us about the angel telling Joseph to take Mary for his wife; Midnight Mass has the classic story about the manger, the shepherds and the angels; the Mass at Dawn is about the shepherds visiting the Christ child. All very appropriate for Christmas. But the last reading, for the Mass during the Day, is the beginning of the Gospel of John, about the Word that was with God from the beginning, that became flesh, that made his dwelling place with us.
When human beings think about God, we think like the Muslims, like the writers of parts of the Old Testament, like most people who have by their own reason concluded that there is one God and he is all holy, all powerful, all knowing -- and all we can do is fall down and tremble; he is everything; we are nothing.
But when we hear that the Word was with God, the word was God, the Word became Flesh to make his dwelling with us, we think maybe God is more like that mother of a tiny baby, caring less about being worshipped, being feared and more and more about drawing us out of ourselves, looking at us until we turn our gaze upon him; holding us until we are aware that we are loved; and speaking to us until we speak back. God through his Son, the Word, engages us all through our lives, forms us, shapes us, takes a creature who is always hungry for pleasure, for power, for wealth, for popularity, and turning him towards that which will truly satisfy his hunger -- God himself, who shows what he desires by giving himself as bread and wine and asking us to consume him, so that we can become what we have eaten. .
A mother looking at her infant dreams about what he will become when he grows older. God looks at you and I and dreams about what he wants for us -- to be in heaven with him for all eternity. Our God is like a mother speaking his word to us until we respond and love Him back. Our God wants nothing from us except that we allow him to give himself to us. That’s what Christmas is about. Look into his eyes, he is gazing at you; listen to his voice, he is speaking his word to you.
