God's Refusal--December 3, 2019
“What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” [John 1:3b-5]
There didn't have to be anything.
Like, at all. There didn't have to be a universe. Or a Milky Way. There didn't have to be a yellow, middle-sized star, and there didn't have to be a rocky sphere ninety-some million miles out from it, just far enough for its light to support life on that rocky ball's surface.
There didn't have to be light at all... and there didn't have to be life. Green blades of grass and red leaves on a Japanese maple, iridescent butterflies and high-leaping deer, none of them had to exist at all. Not even you or I are strictly... necessary to existence. There didn't have to be any of us.
And yet... here we are.
The opening verses of John's Gospel remind us that we are here, not because the universe needed us to exist in order for the math to work out right, but because God has willed to bring the cosmos into existence and to give us life. We aren't a random side effect or a pleasant coincidence to the universe, but God's unflagging desire to give us the gift of ourselves, the gift of life.
And so, like a chain reaction of grace, God set the universe on fire with a flash of light and light (scientists like to call it the Big Bang), and as one flash of light begat other shining spheres, swirling in spirals and condensing into balls, one of those stars shone light enough for a miracle of chemistry: life. From plants taking in the sunlight to my own body taking in the nutrients of spinach leaves, peaches, and bell peppers, my existence and yours are made possible because of the ongoing gift of light. And day by day, God sustains the light in order to sustain your life and mine.
But here's the thing. Despite God's persistent giving and the continuous shining of the light to give us light, we seem hell-bent on wallowing in the shadow of death. Our many kinds of cruelty--to each other, to animals and forests, to an abstract "them" and "those people" far away--are evidence of how we seem driven to destroy what God so lavishly gives. Our many distractions--our rectangles of technology, our love affair with pain-killers, and our need to run off to the next "fun" thing--they reveal that we would rather sleepwalk through existence rather than live fully aware of what is going on around us. Our many forms of apathy--indifference to the needs of others around us, complacency when others are treated as disposable, and the wish to stay comfortably numb rather than be troubled with the suffering down the street--they all reveal how used to death we are.
We seem driven to wipe ourselves out, whether slowly or quickly, intentionally or indirectly. And yet... God refuses to let our death-wish be the last word on thing.
God refuses to stop shining the light. God refuses to let life be snuffed out. God refuses to let us keep the light out forever. That is what Christ's coming is all about, really. It is about the lengths to which God goes to reject our rejection of the light, to refuse our refusal, of life. As much as we keep running into the shadows, God enters into the night among us--not only giving us sunlight for life, but giving us God's own self in Christ. Our stubborn "no" to God's gift of life for all will not be the end of the story.
And so, in a very real sense, the whole Christian story is about God's "No" to our "no," about God's refusal to leave us in the darkness of the grave, and to keep shining the light, even when we seem bent on turning away from it. Christ's coming is the culmination of the grace that began with "Let there be light," and it makes possible a life beyond the grip of death, even after we have done our worst to one another and to ourselves. Our cruelty and complacency would let others perish in the darkness of death, but God refuses to let our hatred or apathy get the last word. So Christ comes, to call back to life and light all who are mired in death.
Maybe it doesn't sound like a very jolly or sentimental thought, but it is deeply good news: these days of centering on the coming of Christ are about the good news of God's refusal--God's refusal to let us stay dead, God's refusal to let our crookedness win the day, and God's refusal to let the light be overcome.
When we say "death," God says, "life."
When we say, "shadow," God says, "light."
When we say, "despair" with a shrug, God speaks hope that wakens us out of our numbness.
Don't let this season--don't let your whole life--be about anything less.
O God of Life and Light, don't let our stubborn self-destructiveness be the end of the story. Refuse our refusals, and bring us to new creation.
Like, at all. There didn't have to be a universe. Or a Milky Way. There didn't have to be a yellow, middle-sized star, and there didn't have to be a rocky sphere ninety-some million miles out from it, just far enough for its light to support life on that rocky ball's surface.
There didn't have to be light at all... and there didn't have to be life. Green blades of grass and red leaves on a Japanese maple, iridescent butterflies and high-leaping deer, none of them had to exist at all. Not even you or I are strictly... necessary to existence. There didn't have to be any of us.
And yet... here we are.
The opening verses of John's Gospel remind us that we are here, not because the universe needed us to exist in order for the math to work out right, but because God has willed to bring the cosmos into existence and to give us life. We aren't a random side effect or a pleasant coincidence to the universe, but God's unflagging desire to give us the gift of ourselves, the gift of life.
And so, like a chain reaction of grace, God set the universe on fire with a flash of light and light (scientists like to call it the Big Bang), and as one flash of light begat other shining spheres, swirling in spirals and condensing into balls, one of those stars shone light enough for a miracle of chemistry: life. From plants taking in the sunlight to my own body taking in the nutrients of spinach leaves, peaches, and bell peppers, my existence and yours are made possible because of the ongoing gift of light. And day by day, God sustains the light in order to sustain your life and mine.
But here's the thing. Despite God's persistent giving and the continuous shining of the light to give us light, we seem hell-bent on wallowing in the shadow of death. Our many kinds of cruelty--to each other, to animals and forests, to an abstract "them" and "those people" far away--are evidence of how we seem driven to destroy what God so lavishly gives. Our many distractions--our rectangles of technology, our love affair with pain-killers, and our need to run off to the next "fun" thing--they reveal that we would rather sleepwalk through existence rather than live fully aware of what is going on around us. Our many forms of apathy--indifference to the needs of others around us, complacency when others are treated as disposable, and the wish to stay comfortably numb rather than be troubled with the suffering down the street--they all reveal how used to death we are.
We seem driven to wipe ourselves out, whether slowly or quickly, intentionally or indirectly. And yet... God refuses to let our death-wish be the last word on thing.
God refuses to stop shining the light. God refuses to let life be snuffed out. God refuses to let us keep the light out forever. That is what Christ's coming is all about, really. It is about the lengths to which God goes to reject our rejection of the light, to refuse our refusal, of life. As much as we keep running into the shadows, God enters into the night among us--not only giving us sunlight for life, but giving us God's own self in Christ. Our stubborn "no" to God's gift of life for all will not be the end of the story.
And so, in a very real sense, the whole Christian story is about God's "No" to our "no," about God's refusal to leave us in the darkness of the grave, and to keep shining the light, even when we seem bent on turning away from it. Christ's coming is the culmination of the grace that began with "Let there be light," and it makes possible a life beyond the grip of death, even after we have done our worst to one another and to ourselves. Our cruelty and complacency would let others perish in the darkness of death, but God refuses to let our hatred or apathy get the last word. So Christ comes, to call back to life and light all who are mired in death.
Maybe it doesn't sound like a very jolly or sentimental thought, but it is deeply good news: these days of centering on the coming of Christ are about the good news of God's refusal--God's refusal to let us stay dead, God's refusal to let our crookedness win the day, and God's refusal to let the light be overcome.
When we say "death," God says, "life."
When we say, "shadow," God says, "light."
When we say, "despair" with a shrug, God speaks hope that wakens us out of our numbness.
Don't let this season--don't let your whole life--be about anything less.
O God of Life and Light, don't let our stubborn self-destructiveness be the end of the story. Refuse our refusals, and bring us to new creation.
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