Third Sunday of Advent
December 15, 2024

Christmas at John's House

Tom Are Jr.
Interim Pastor

Isaiah 42:1–4
John 1:1–14

Here at Fourth Church we are engaging in some holy imagination during this Advent season. We are imagining what it would be like to stop by the homes of the Gospel writers to celebrate Christmas with them. There was quite a crowd at Matthew’s house last Sunday. All the children of Father Abraham were gathered. It was quite the party. I hope it’s OK with you if it’s a bit quieter this week. We are invited to John’s house.

John lives right downtown, not far from the university. Luminarias line his sidewalk, leading you to his front door. You have seen those houses that have flashing lights on the roof and the yard is filled with blow-up illuminated figures — Santa visiting the manger and snowmen by the front door and life-sized reindeer shining on the roof, light you can see for a mile. Well, that’s not John’s house. It’s more modest there. There’s no manger in his front yard. There are no magi leaving presents under the tree. There’s just simple light. The kind that makes you aware of the contrast between the light and the darkness.

Stop by on any other day, and John would want to tell you a story, a moment from the ministry of Jesus. He is a master storyteller. It’s John who tells us of Nicodemus, who comes to Jesus by the cover of night. They talk about being born and the gift of salvation. It’s more than Nicodemus can process, and he leaves pondering.

John tells of the woman at the well and the noontime conversation. There are 100 reasons that conversation should never have happened: he was a man, she was a woman; he was Jewish, she was Samaritan; he was a rabbi, she was of insignificant status. The conversation shouldn’t have happened, and had any other man been at that well, it wouldn’t have happened. But it was Jesus, so they talked about the things that matter the most.

There’s the story of those sisters, Mary and Martha, hosting Jesus for lunch. If you know the Son of God is going to drop by for grilled cheese and tomato soup, well, it can be stressful. It was for these sisters. I understand.

There was the man born blind, and Jesus opened his eyes. No one celebrated this work of grace. The Pharisees accused Jesus of the sin of bad timing: healing on the sabbath. The man’s parents distanced themselves from him. The blind man now healed says, “Whether he is a sinner or not, I cannot say. I only know once I was blind, but now I see.”

And of course, there was Lazarus. Dead in the tomb four days until Jesus called him out. I could go on.

John alone is the teller of these amazing stories.

John knows how these stories can guide us in confusing times and inspire us in challenging times. But when he comes to Christmas, John leaves the storytelling to Matthew and, even more so, to Luke.

At John’s house, there is no manger or magi, no angels or anthems, no shepherds or shining stars. There’s just a word and a little light in the darkness. Which is why, when we arrive, we will find John in a modest library, where the bookshelves are lined with Torah scrolls and the words of the prophets. But there are also works of Greek philosophy and all the poetry he can find. Books are scattered all across his desk as John is struggling to find the right words. Words that are big enough, words that are mature enough to speak the truth of the incarnation. Words created in this world and that speak of a word from another world. John is searching for the right words because John knows that words matter; the right words make worlds (Krista Tippett, Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living, p. 16).

John also knows that words that are false or dishonest or too casual carry corrosive power. Dishonest words destroy. They are a tiny vocabulary that anyone can use. But John knows that words of truth can create a world. They create new hope, new love, a new day. He’s searching for the right words, and for this, John needs poetry. He stands on metaphor, because it’s not enough to be accurate; he must speak truth.

“In the beginning was the Word,” he says.

In this opening phrase John is pulling on all the wisdom he knows. “In the beginning,” this phrase that begins John’s Gospel, is also the phrase that begins the Torah: “In the beginning when God began to create …”

But John writes beyond the world of Hebrew wisdom. “In the beginning was the Word.” The Greek word is Logos. For the Greeks, Logos is word, but more than that, Logos is the very wisdom and heart of God — the Word. Using wisdom from every culture John knows, he says that Word becomes flesh. The eternal becomes bound by time. The creator becomes creature. The immortal condescends to walk in the shadow of death. The Word became flesh and lived with us … and light shines.

John’s desk is littered with scraps of paper as he scratches out his poetry, writing to the light of a single candle. It’s not too much light, because John knows that in this world light and darkness, good and evil, joy and pain — they battle. Day after day, they battle.

My friend, the Reverend Joe Clifford, is pastor of Myers Park Presbyterian Church in Charlotte. He says the situation in the world today reminds him of the opening paragraph of Dickens’ great novel, A Tale of Two Cities. You remember it:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

This is how Dickens saw his day, and my friend Joe says it sounds like our day (Joe Clifford, “Merry Messes,” preached at Myers Park Presbyterian Church). John knows this: the battle between the good and the evil, between the whole and the broken, between the best and the worst — it’s not just Dickens’ time or John’s time, or our time. This battle defines time.

If we were to get the Christmas we want, then our Christmas list might request a day with no shadows. Let every relationship be defined by love. Let every encounter be one of justice and kindness. Let every nation be guided by values. Let the light be so strong the darkness evaporates.

But that is not the incarnation that John knows. Instead of total victory, we get something painfully modest (Scott Black Johnston, “Christmas at John’s House,” preached on Day 1). The light came into the darkness of this world, and the darkness did not overtake it. The light has come, but the battle continues. Life has come, but the shadow of death remains. Love breathes in flesh, but love in this world is often crucified. We live in the best of times and the worst of times. But John knows a word that comes as light and life. This light does not destroy the darkness, but it is a word that is strong enough to keep you human in a world of inhumanity.

In July of 2018, John Volanthen lifted his head from frigid waters in the depths of a Thailand cave and for the first time in nine days twelve little boys and their twenty-four-year-old soccer coach saw light emanating from Volanthen’s flashlight. Do you remember this? The week before, they had set out for a brief exploration of the cave, a birthday celebration for one of the boys. But monsoon rains came and chased them back into the depths of the cave with rising waters cutting off escape.

After nine days of darkness, there was a little light shining in the darkness. The darkness didn’t go away, but there was enough light to create a new world, a new hope. John knows a word, a life, a light like that. It’s not enough to destroy the darkness, but it is strong enough that the darkness cannot overtake it.

John leaves us with these world-creating words: “in him was life, and the life was the light for all people.”

My friend Scott Black Johnston says in John’s house, he leans forward and whispers to us: God refuses to watch our battle in the darkness from a safe distance. God chooses to climb into the darkest places to be with us — to light a candle alongside us (Scott Black Johnston, “Christmas at John’s House”).

I remember sitting on the porch of Westfield Dining Hall. It was my first summer camp. Do you remember summer camp? There was a camp store where I could get a Coke and M&M’s. I could even say, “Just put it on my tab.” Camp had archery and canoeing, swimming and arts and crafts. I made a lanyard out of those nylon strings. I still don’t know what a lanyard is for.

Camp lasted six days, I think. I had looked forward to summer camp for weeks. But when I got to camp, I discovered something that was not in the brochure: I was homesick. I was “crying in your pillow at night” homesick. Have you ever been homesick?

Day four was parents’ day. Lots of parents came about lunchtime. We displayed some arts and crafts. We sang a few camp songs for the parents, like “If I Had a Hammer” and “Do Your Ears Hang Low?” (which may be the dumbest song in the history of music!). But my parents, and I’m sure some parents of other kids too, were working on day four.

The afternoon crept away until right before supper I saw the little red Volkswagen Bug kicking up dust on the dirt road towards Westfield Dining Hall. It was the first time in my memory that I cried tears of joy. Carried in a modest VW Bug was the love that made sense of my life as a seven-year-old. Into the darkness of homesick heartbreak there came light.

In John’s house, we learn that God refuses to watch our battle from a distance. God reaches into our darkness with a word, a light that is life. The darkness will remain, but this light is strong enough to keep us human.

These are the best of times, and these are the worst of times, because that is always the battle in time. So do this: Don’t let life be defined by the dark. Pay attention to the light. For God refuses to watch the hardship of the world from a distance. God is crawling down into the darkness to light the candle of life. And it may seem small. Its power may seem modest. But even in the worst of times, look for the light. It will be there, and it will be enough.

Sermon © Fourth Presbyterian Church