My fascination with Celtic Christianity continues. I now know that in the Celtic calendar, advent has begun. It started on 15 November, allowing a whole 40-day run up to Christmas. So it’s longer than our usual practice of starting on 1 December with the first window of an advent calendar – but not as long as my local Morrison’s habit of bringing in Christmas stock straight after Halloween, sigh.
I’ve also learnt – from the daily readings in Celtic Advent by David Cole – that advent celebrates the coming of Jesus times three. Triple advent!
First is the obvious one, the coming ofJesus into the world as a baby.
Second is Christ’s coming *through us*. I haven’t got to that bit in the Celtic Advent book yet so no spoilers please.
Third is the dramatic one – Christ’s return at the end of the age. Which for some is a terrifying religious myth, but for me has become the most beautiful thought I’ve ever had. I’ll come to that in a later post.
For now, here are my thoughts on the coming of Jesus as a human baby.
Advent and Jesus’ birth
The obvious one. Except it’s not at all obvious when you think about the Cosmic Christ – who has always existed and through whom everything in the universe was made – becoming a zygote in a human womb. I feel there’s some material there for a pretty far out, psychedelic meditation, but I haven’t gone there yet.
What did come to mind, when I contemplated God becoming human, surprised me.
Sermons on this tend to focus on the incredible act of humility, the relinquishing of power and glory and immortality, like the king who leaves his palace to live like a beggar. This is of course a valid way of looking at it. But contemplating it the other morning, I suddenly felt that for God it was the most natural thing in the world, even something he relished doing. I felt that for him, putting on human flesh was like getting into a comfy pair of slippers or a favourite onesie. Why? I think I felt this for two reasons.
Godlike creatures
First, because humans are made ‘in God’s image’. I’ve only just begun to grasp – partly thanks to reading Desmond Tutu – what that means. I’ve started to realise the extraordinarily high value God places on human beings. Each and every one of us is a miracle, an object of inestimable worth, infinitely loved. He has identified himself with us, right at the start, and put his divine glory in us all.
If we are made in God’s image, if we are deliberately created to be godlike or in some way reflect who God is, then we’re basically *mind-blowingly awesome*. Yes yes I know, we’re bent out of shape by original sin, if you want to call it that, but wouldn’t a mind-blowingly awesome thing that’s been disfigured still retain its fundamental awesomeness…? I think so, and I think we forget this.
So in taking on human flesh I feel God wasn’t dressing in rags like a beggar – he was stepping into a form of godlike beauty that he had purposefully designed from the start to be fit for himself. The wonder is not that he condescended to inhabit a human body, but that any of us have ever had the same privilege.
I hate to use a car analogy, because I hate cars, but what springs to mind is a rich ruler who has a fleet of luxury cars purpose-built for the one day in twenty years’ time that he plans to go on an important journey. He ensures from the start that all of these vehicles (even though he’s only going to use the one) are built to the highest specification. And then he makes them all available to any of his citizens to run around in, for free. Mad. (When he does finally get into the car, he has to remove the litter from the leather upholstery, but he just smiles indulgently.)
Doesn’t this make you see people differently? I look again at people around me and consider that actually any of them could have been God incarnate, so willing is he to honour the human body and soul. Jesus’ body was not different to any of ours – he didn’t get an upgrade to a special premium version with extra fingers or two hearts (although an octopus has three, did you know?) or the capacity to go without food for longer than 40 days or to walk all day and not get tired – or survive, say, a Roman execution. His body could only do what any body could do.
Ditto his soul. He didn’t have special immunity there either. He didn’t have special powers not to feel grief when a family member died or a close friend betrayed him, or dread about impending torture and death. He didn’t have a special additional set of super-emotions that we don’t have, but made do with the usual provision of happiness, love, anger, frustration, heartbreak and anguish. He didn’t feel anything we’re not capable of feeling.
Yes, he performed miracles. But as he explained, it was the Spirit of God who gave him that power, and he fully expected the same Spirit to give the same power to his followers, which the book of Acts tells us is exactly what happened.
This means we can gaze at one another and see characteristics of the Godhead – not just the beauty of the human face and body, which is fearfully and wonderfully made (this applies to you by the way – yes you) but the beauty of the human soul too. No one lacks that spark of the divine, that underlying fundamental goodness, that willingness to be kind, that innate grasp of what’s fair, and above all that longing to love and be loved. We all have it. We should seek it out and admire it in others. You might have to scratch the surface of some people, but it’s never very deep.
Can’t stay away
The other reason why I felt God might slip so readily into his human onesie is that having identified himself with us right from the start, by creating us to be like him, he couldn’t keep his distance. He carried on closely identifying with us even after the whole human race had stuck up two fingers in his general direction and walked away. The Old Testament records how he could not leave us alone, how he was constantly involved, how our behaviour provoked in him every emotion from delight and compassion to heartbreak and rage.
So it feels to me that our God, despite knowing the cost, had been itching to immerse himself fully in humanity for millennia, as he wept and groaned and chuckled and raged at us from his heavenly dimension, trying to get through to us via any prophet who would actually listen. This way he could finally reach us in person.
God became human. Here is a very big reason to be amazed at the honour and privilege of being human, driving a royal Rolls for free. And also to honour and respect one another as fellow God-shaped beings – albeit a little warped in places – even complete strangers. David Cole tells a story about Cuthbert as a young monk offering hospitality to a stranger on a cold winter’s day, washing the man’s feet and preparing him food. He says the man left unexpectedly, leaving no prints in the freshly fallen snow.
Advent calendar alternative
In other words, like Jesus’ story of the sheep and the goats, if we treat one another like the God-shaped beings we really are, we’ll honour God himself. This has given me an idea for an advent calendar with a difference…
I’m thinking why don’t I, every day of advent, do something kind for someone else? So instead of (okay, or as well as) opening a window and extracting a chocolate for myself, how about a daily act of kindness to someone where I give the chocolate? I’m literally thinking of this as I type so I’m not sure what the chocolate would be – maybe buying a Big Issue, or giving five minutes’ of my time to someone who would appreciate a chat, or remembering to text a friend and ask how that difficult thing went the day before. I could hold off the actual chocolate until the evening and only if I’ve given out a metaphorical chocolate myself… This could be fun. I’ll let you know how it goes.
He’s coming! But we don’t have to wait long or look far to find him, because the good I do for the person right next to me, especially if they have some kind of need, I do for him.
now for the real thing 