Yesterday I was out much of the day scouting birds for the annual Christmas Bird Count. In the freezing cold on the Strubble Trail, a man paused to tell me of eagles he's seen in recent weeks. He mentioned a spot on the river where he often sees them fishing and pointed me toward the cell phone tower as a place where a pair often roosts.
It's interesting how often people will stop to tell about birds they've seen when they see me with binoculars, scanning the woods. I've had some great finds thanks to stories of strangers: a bittern along a reedy bank in Exton Park, a scarlet tanager near a dam on Pickering Creek.
In Manhattan, in Central Park, I've had strangers point me toward local secrets: a perfect bird blind for a rainy day. A surprising garden of homemade bird feeders. A sunny rock where a local resident feeds birds by hand and shares his seed with anyone wanting to hand a seed to a waiting chickadee.
There's always a moment of choice: listen, say thank you, and enjoy the gift, or shrug and continue on my way. My default is to enjoy the gift. Those tiny decisions have yielded abundant treasures.
Reading the gospel accounts of the days surrounding the birth of Christ, I'm reminded of those tiny moments of choice.
Imagine Zechariah, the aging priest. It fell to him by lot to burn incense, alone, in the holiest part of the temple. And there, alone, in the inner, sacred space:
detail from Gabriel appears to Zecharias,
Nicolaes de Giselaer, Netherlands, 1625
an angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing at the right side of the altar. When Zechariah saw him, he was startled and was gripped by fear. But the angel said to him: Do not be afraid, Zechariah; your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you are to call him Joh. He will be a joy and delight to you, and many will rejoice because of his birth.
I wonder how long it took Zechariah to realize his response was all wrong: "How can I be sure of this?"
The angel's reply suggests exasperation. To paraphrase:
ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I'm Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God. He sent me here, to YOU, to give you this message (in the temple!) AND YOU WONDER IF I'M LYING? Give me a break. It will surely happen exactly as I told you. And YOU can be silent for the next nine months because you didn't believe me.
Did Zechariah tell that story to Luke? Or did he and and his wife Elizabeth share it with their beloved son John? Did John give the details to Luke for his account?
Elizabeth's own story is very different. Joyfully pregnant with the promised baby John, she was visited by Mary, newly pregnant with Jesus.
When Elizabeth heard Mary's greeting, the baby leaped in her womb, and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit. In a loud voice she exclaimed: Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear! But why am I so favored that the mother of my Lord should come to me? As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy. Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!That promise of blessing cuts in two directions: to Elizabeth. To Mary. Both choosing belief and blessing. Did Elizabeth pass that story on to John? Did Mary tell it to Jesus? Did all tell Luke, as he gathered his accounts?
I wonder as well with the wise men: who shared the details of that story? How long did they linger with Mary and Joseph? When did God warn them not to tell Herod what they'd found? Who did they tell, before they headed home, that God had warned them to go a different way?
Those pages of the gospels are a golden tapestry of blessings and sorrow, promises and warnings, stories told and repeated, believed and doubted, all echoing earlier promises, earlier stories.
Each time, there's a moment of decision, a default position of belief or suspicion, hearts ready to leap toward joy, or holding a well-earned pattern of doubt, asking: How can I be sure of this?
In the geography of our own lives, we can point toward the moments of doubt or delight, the small turning points, the growing patterns, those moments of choice.
Our responses are not always as amusing as Zechariah's response to Gabriel. They are not always as immediate and joyful as Elizabeth's response to Mary's visit. They are not always as careful and deliberate as the wise men's decision to bypass King Herod on their travels home.
Sometimes we don't notice we're deciding, or asking, or doubting, until long after. By then the habits of heart are set and we live with the loss, not even knowing what we've lost.
Strange, isn't it, that two thousand years later, the world pauses to celebrate a baby's birth. Of course some of that is based on the capitalist delight in sales and profits and reasons to spend. And some is tradition: family gatherings around a tree, favorite meals, lights and decorations.
But across continents, across centuries, millions pause to read those accounts set down so carefully by Matthew and Luke: the genealogies, the visions, the dreams, the stories. And in those stories, we find ourselves stirred with joy, with delight, with the abiding mysteries: God spoke to a troubled world. God promised hope and healing. Then, mystery of mysteries, God, creator, sustainer, judge, became an homeless child.
How do we understand that? How do we explain it? I've wrestled with the question of miracles and virgin birth, but find that holds less and less interest. We all choose to believe things: that people are lying, or that they're telling the truth. That the universe is flat, and final, or that it's fused with mysteries we'll never understand.
Here are the stories I hold to this Christmas: God speaks in ways we all can hear. God keeps his promises, even when we don't believe. God's heart is love, toward this weary world. God came to live among us, to weep, to die, to conquer death. I choose to believe that. In the big moments, and the small.
Blessed are all who believe!
As a Christmas gift, I'm sharing a concert from The Gospel Coalition: some old familiar favorites, some very new work, some artists I've known for years, some new discoveries. May your Christmas be joyful, hopeful, blessed in this strange pandemic season. May you choose well how to respond to every gift you're given.
