Christmas Eve 2008 Hungry Love

Christmas Eve 2008
Hungry Love

There’s a Russian icon, a portrait of Mary and Jesus—maybe you’ve seen it. It’s called “The Virgin of Loving Kindness.”
Mary is holding Jesus in her arms. He is pressed against her shoulder. Her hands hold him firmly. Mary’s cheek rests on his cheek. Her face is—indescribable. Glowing, tender, amazed—all these.
One morning, passing by the icon, I saw something I’d never noticed before:
In this image, little Jesus is not passive. His little hands are gripping Mary’s robe tight and he is pushing his cheek hard against hers.

What a picture of God this gives us!
We tend to think of God as far removed from the turmoil and simple joys of ordinary human life. God’s just out there somewhere.
If we dare at all to come closer to the Divine Presence we can find ourselves overwhelmed by what a professor of mine called “the size gap.” God is so big and we are so small. God is so—out there, and we’re so—here. God is so perfect and we are so often such a mess. What sort of communication can exist between God and us?
Often we just give up. Why bother?
But Christmas tells us a completely different story. God came to us as a baby. A regular baby who grew in Mary’s womb for nine months. A regular baby delivered by Mary and Joseph alone, or maybe by a couple of midwives a frantic Joseph was able to scare up at the last minute in a strange town. A regular baby lying not in a crib but a food trough for animals, tucked into sweet-smelling hay.
A baby whom Mary could not resist picking up, a baby who gripped her clothes, stared into her eyes in that uncanny way of newborns, and pressed hard into her.

This is a God hungry to love us. Not a distant God, but one who presses into us with exuberant, unembarrassed yearning.
Yikes! This is maybe too much! Maybe the size gap between me and God is fine. This “God leaning into us” feels too close, too messy, yes—too intimate.
There are times when we definitely don’t want to be interrupted by a God longing to be close to us.
But that’s the God we’re shown tonight, Christmas night. A God of hungry love.

The idea of God yearning for us is a shining if slender cord through the Jewish and Christian tradition:
Jewish mysticism has a lovely image of the divine glory or presence, the Shekkinah, wandering the earth as a homeless beggar, searching for souls who will recognize her.
Jesus when he grows up will tell stories about God’s yearning for us:
Remember the story about the shepherd who leaves ninety-nine good sheep behind to go out in the wilderness to search for the one sheep who has strayed?
Or the story of a housewife who loses a coin and turns her house topsy turvy until she finds it—and then spends the coin on a party to celebrate finding it!
And of course the story of the Prodigal Son, whose father lingers at the window for months, years, longing longing for his wayward son to come to his senses and come home.
The Victorian poet Francis Thompson wrote a poem about God’s yearning for us, “The Hound of Heaven.” It begins:

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him . . . .

But at the end of the poem the one who has spent years running away from his pursuer hears these words:
“Rise, clasp My hand, and come!”
The poet asks: “Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?”
And God’s voice replies: “Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!”
God’s longing has pursued and won.

Hmm—these are some pretty undignified images of God!
An irresponsible shepherd, an improvident housewife, a father obsessed with his wayward son, a bloodhound—and most of all, a baby snuggling in his mother’s arms. But God doesn’t seem to care about dignity!.
Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, has said it well: “God . . does not care in the least if his love makes him look as if he is dependent on us, as if he needs us: that is our problem, not his.”

The only problem is that God’s longing for us, God’s “hungry love” for each one of us, will not leave us untouched.
Like any new baby this Baby Jesus Christ will turn our lives upside down.
God in the person of Christ will press into us and point, point us to things and people we may well not want to see. “Look, look,” his point will say, “Over there—those people living in cars on freezing winter nights. Over there, neighbors who can’t afford oil to heat their house. Over there—victims of warfare and terror.” And he’ll then stay right there with us as we begin to change our lives.

Here then is the Christmas message: Let God love you. Let God’s loving presence lean into you. Let God’s compassionate presence turn you in love toward others. Let God’s intimate presence assure you that you will never be alone.