‘When Israel was a child, I loved him, and I called my son out of Egypt. But the more I called to him, the farther he moved from me, offering sacrifices to the images of Baal and burning incense to idols. I myself taught Israel how to walk, leading him along by the hand. But he didn’t know or even care that it was I who took care of him. I led Israel along with my ropes of kindness and love. I lifted the yoke from his neck, and I myself stooped to feed him’ – Hosea 11:1-4 (New Living Translation)
Back in the 1970s, The Animals had a hit song that included the line, ‘I’m just a soul whose intentions are good, O Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.’ I sometimes think it’s a line God could sing to himself. There are some who adhere to the theology of Homer Simpson, who once prayed, ‘O smiteful One, tell me who to smite and they shall be smoten!’ God, to many, is violent, vengeful, and vindictive.
It doesn’t help that professing Christian promote this idea. Some time ago, a group of ‘Christian’ protestors gathered just a block from the church where I serve bearing signs that proclaimed God’s hatred for the LGBT community, feminists, liberals, and a host of others. And while that’s an extreme example, there are others who, while seeming more respectable, nonetheless, say things that render God unapproachable. It’s a long and inglorious tradition. At the time of Jesus’ birth, some religious leaders peddled a God who could only be approached with extreme trepidation. Indeed, if you were sick, poor, or beset with problems, they said, it was almost certainly your fault, and you needed to clean up your act before God would have anything to do with you. Far from the image of God depicted by Hosea, who led his child by the hand despite his failures, these religious leaders made God out to be the bogeyman.
You can understand how this view came to be. Israel’s history was ripe for misinterpretation. Prophets repeatedly called Israel to faithfulness, warning of the consequences of turning from Yahweh, and again and again, when Israel broke faith, trouble ensued. When she did, it was easy to interpret events to mean that God had brought wrath and violence upon his people. In fact, God did no such thing; the people, by rejecting God’s lifegiving ways, had brought wrath and violence upon themselves. But even as Israel faced the consequences of her foolishness, God never turned from her. Through the same prophets who issued words of warning, God also spoke words of consolation, of his longing for his people to return to him that he might, as Hosea said a bit later in his book of prophecy, ‘love them freely’ (Hosea 14:4). Yes, even when Israel turned, God remained faithful. His love remained unconditional. Somehow though, the religious leaders in the days before (and after) Jesus’ birth missed that. They felt you had to earn God’s love, and if you didn’t, it would probably be best for you to stay away. And so, the image of a vindictive God got all the press, and the image of the God whose sole desire was to comfort his children as a mother comforts hers, was, by and large, lost.
But God had a plan to fix that. Michael W. Smith has a great Christmas Song, The Final Word, wherein he sings, ‘in the space of the beginning, was the living Word of light, when that word was clearly spoken all that came to be was right. All creation had a language, words to say what must be said, all day long the heavens whispered, signing words in scarlet red. Some had failed to understand it, so God spoke the Final Word, on a silent night in Judah’s hills, a baby’s cry was heard.’ Christmas, folks, is God’s answer to our misconceptions about him.
At Christmas, God, who had, as the writer of Hebrews tells us, spoken previously through the prophets, now spoke through the Son, who is no one less than God with us. God became one of us, descending from the infinite reaches of eternity into the womb of a virgin, born as a helpless infant and laid in a feeding trough. He became first a craftsman who understood the labor of men and then the gentle, compassionate teacher who healed the sick, lifted the despondent, shared companionship with notorious sinners, and never, not once, turned anyone away, no matter who they were, where they had been, or what they had done. In the Incarnation, in the person of Jesus, we behold the true image of God. An image that defies the misconceptions that have survived from the first century to our own. Dick Westley put it this way: ‘the old image of a vindictive, mean and jealous God gives way in Jesus to the God of faith who cherishes people, all people, and has made his abode with them. Jesus presented a God who does not demand but gives; does not oppress but raises up; does not wound but heals. A God who forgives instead of condemning and liberates instead of punishing.’
This was the purpose of the Incarnation. To, as Brennan Manning put it, ‘convince us of the faithful love of God.’
Some years ago, I caught a glimpse of this wonderful truth while reading one of my favorite books, To Kill a Mockingbird. Harper Lee’s story is cherished for many reasons. It is a story of racial injustice, of a black man, Tom Robinson, on trial in the south for a crime he didn’t commit. It’s the story of Atticus Finch, a man of integrity who fights for justice in an unjust world (forget the version from that other book!). It’s the coming-of-age story of Atticus’ two children, Scout, his 6-year-old tomboy daughter, and her older brother Jem. But it’s also the story of the enigmatic Arthur Radley, known to all as Boo.
No one really knows Boo. Scout describes his house down the street as a home ‘inhabited by an unknown entity the mere description of whom was enough to make us behave for days on end.’ In truth, this ‘malevolent phantom’ is a 33-year-old man with special needs, but no one knows that. The stories about him are whoppers. Jem insists he’s ‘six feet tall, judging from his tracks,’ and ‘dines on raw squirrels and any cats he can catch.’ The rumor is that he peeps through windows at night, has bloodstained hands, a jagged scar on his face, and yellow teeth. Everyone knows to stay away from the Radley place. No one ever climbs the steps to say ‘hey’ on a Sunday afternoon, no one dares to pick pecans from the tree in the Radley yard. If a baseball was hit into it, ‘it was a lost ball, no questions asked.’
During the course of the story, Scout and Jem become curious about Boo and begin to play games designed to make ‘Boo Radley come out’ so they can get a look at him. They don’t really get anywhere. But along the way, strange things happen that are not in keeping with the stories they’ve heard. Once, while playing in a tire that accidentally rolls all the way up the Radley sidewalk onto the steps, Scout hears someone laughing inside. Another time, after running from a failed attempt to sneak up on Boo’s back porch at night, Jem got his pants caught on barbed wire and had to run home in his underwear. The next morning, when he went back to get them, they were mended and neatly rolled up as if they expected him. And then there were the presents. Scout and Jem would find them in the knothole of a tree in Boo’s yard. Two soap dolls, a boy and girl: images of themselves. A watch and chain. Good luck pennies. A ball of twine. Chewing gum. An old spelling bee medal. An aluminum knife. It should have been obvious who they came from, but with all their misconceptions, Scout and Jem never suspected that Boo was their source.
The year progresses and Atticus tries in vain to defend Tom Robinson. The racist jury convicts him, and the hearts of the children break. Scout thoughts increasingly tend in Boo’s direction. Then one night walking home from a school pageant, Scout and Jem are attacked by the racist Bob Ewell, who is out for revenge against Atticus for making him look like a fool at the trial. He’s out for blood, but suddenly from out of the woods comes the unknown hero who has been listening and watching all along. He saves the children and carries an injured Jem home. As folks gather at the Finch’s to figure out what happened, the hero, who is of course the misunderstood Boo Radley, huddles in the corner out of sight, as if waiting for someone to invite him in. Scout sees he’s nothing like what people have said. She watches as a timid smile breaks across his face. ‘Hey Boo,’ she says. Her father makes the introduction: ‘Jean Louise [Scout’s true name], this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I believe he already knows you.’ Smiling, he whispers to Scout, ‘Will you take me home?’ Scout does, leading Boo by the hand to his front porch. Scout turns and looks at her town, suddenly seeing what the past year must have looked like from Boo’s perspective. And this is what she sees:
‘It was summertime, and two children scampered down the sidewalk toward a man approaching in the distance…still summertime, and the children came closer… Fall, and his children fought on the sidewalk…Fall, and the children trotted to and fro around the corner, the day’s woes and triumphs on their faces. They stopped at an oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive. Winter, and the children shivered on the front gate…Summer again, and he watched his children’s heart’s break. Autumn again, and Boo’s children needed him. One time, Atticus said you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on the Radley porch was enough.’
This Christmas season, as I stand on Boo’s porch with Scout, I see what it must be like for God to be misunderstood, even feared. Maybe you, reader, are someone who has misunderstood and feared him. Maybe you have been taught to stay away from him just as Jem and Scout were taught to keep away from the Radley place. Maybe you would never ordinarily dare to drop by his house on a Sunday to say ‘hey.’ If so, I want you to know something. He isn’t who you’ve been led to believe. Get the old images out of your head. Imagine instead, a manger. A baby. Can you see him? Let me introduce you. This is Jesus. This is God. I believe he already knows you. He has watched and smiled and laughed while you have played. He has lavished all sorts of gifts upon you. He has hurt when you hurt. And right now, the thing he wants more than anything, is for you to invite him in. He isn’t angry with you. He loves you and wants to be part of your life. This Christmas, I pray you let him in.
Under Christ’s Mercy,
Brent
