Our friends recently told their youngest child that Santa Claus is myth.

When they explained to us how they had revealed it to her, I was astonished by their care and respect. The hard-bitten part of me, the Santa-only-gets-in-the-way-of a-real-Christmas part of me had a reflex response almost of disdain.

After some thought, I am more than a little ashamed by my reaction. I will need to make amends.

There is something of a similar disdain, or disregard, by many people about the deeper, original, Christmas story. This is a response from within the church, as much as without. There is an almost reflexive disbelief about miracles and prophecies, about Mary’s extraordinary pregnancy and the story of shepherds and magi and wondrous proclamation.

There appears to be a sudden urge to explain, or diminish, to nod our heads condescendingly and talk about world views and obstetrics. We want to ignore theology, transformation and wonder, and surgically scratch our way to a story rendered anaemic by our greater knowledge.

May we allow the splendour of the story to sing for a moment?

What if we felt the perplexity of Mary, and the comfort of her friendship with Elizabeth, as they discovered what unexpected pregnancy might mean for the two of them? What if we dawdled with Joseph’s confusion, ameliorated by an extraordinary dream, as he considered the social crisis of Mary’s pregnancy and the implications for his child – and for himself?

What if we step more fully into a story where we explore what it means that God breaks into our world as a child, embracing our humanity? What if we allowed ourselves to be humbled by Mary’s courage as she accedes to God’s request; and equally astonished by Joseph’s obedience in caring for Mary, and raising Jesus as his own?

What if we pay deserved attention to what the stories of Luke and Matthew (and the mystical poetry of John) are superbly proclaiming to us, that God’s imagination and initiative sundered all the established boundaries, stepping into our lives and world in love, constrained, entirely and wonderfully, in the form of a newborn baby?

God has become human flesh. Suddenly, no life is ordinary, neither is its value easily explained. God has become like us, and nothing can diminish the wonder of God’s embrace.

Your cry a provocation, a call
To prayer; all day you wail our troubles.
Prophet of the suburbs, you declaim,
As summer midwifes the earth’s second
Birth each year: suffer my child to come
And be your own. So it goes with love
Both sacred and profane: a borrowed
Cot, a sacrifice, an act of faith.
And may we so raise each other up.

And the crowds asked him, “What then should we do?”In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?”He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.”Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.” [Luke’s Gospel 3.10-14]

So, what should we do?

This is the question for which all proclamation yearns, the inquiry for which preachers wait. This is the response to what has just been spoken, with the hope that it has been heard and inwardly digested.

John the Baptizer has confronted the community and urged them towards change. The failed image of repentance is a person, sitting sorrowfully in a corner. This is not what John is calling for. There is no place for huddled remorse, but an active response to failure, to injustice, to harm.

So, the question comes, three times, to John; what should do we do now? Individuals from the crowd, moneychangers and soldiers all ask, publicly, what they can do.

And John reminds them – and us – that repentance is creative, not simply responsive. Once you realise what’s happening, change how you live; don’t stop living, live differently!

The critical change is not simply avoiding destructive behaviour, good as that might be, it is about creating hope and life where you are.

Use your life, your resources, to create life for others. What you have in your wardrobe and your kitchen, your wallet, your job and your life can provide hope when none is visible.  

Neither is it about the “grand gesture”, because that’s usually a gesture manufactured for avoidance. We plan, and consider and try to change the world, when all that is asked is about the relationship at our front step.

What is the creative act you can offer in this relationship – of thirty years, or thirty minutes – that can engender hope, build worth, encourage resilience? You are citizens of a new economy, says John, where worth and esteem are valued by service and generosity and justice.

You might consciously ask yourself, in which direction will I turn to create that today, for the next person I meet, and for the person sitting last in the queues for bread, or justice? We are citizens of a new community, proclaimed by John, and shaped by Christ’s very person.

Before Jesus
was his mother.

Before supper
in the upper room,
breakfast in the barn.

Before the Passover Feast,
a feeding trough.
And here, the altar
of Earth, fair linens
of hay and seed.

Before his cry,
her cry.
Before his sweat
of blood,
her bleeding
and tears.
Before his offering,
hers.

Before the breaking
of bread and death,
the breaking of her
body in birth.

Before the offering
of the cup,
the offering of her
breast.
Before his blood,
her blood.

And by her body and blood
alone, his body and blood
and whole human being.

The wise ones knelt
to hear the woman’s word
in wonder.

Holding up her sacred child,
her spark of God in the form of a babe,
she said:

“Receive and let
your hearts be healed
and your lives be filled
with love, for
This is my body,
This is my blood.”

From Accidental Wisdom by Alla Renée Bozarth, Universe 2003
and This is My Body~ Praying for Earth, Prayers from the Heart by Alla Renée Bozarth, Universe 2004.
All rights reserved.

And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people
by the forgiveness of their sins.
By the tender mercy of our God,
the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.” [Luke’s Gospel 1.76-79]

An unruly character breaks early into the story. Roughly hewn and sharply edged, he proclaims a story which unsettles all around and brushes against us like sandpaper.

He has wandered in the scrub for decades, perhaps, waiting until the right moment to come and disrupt the community from which he arose. He’s a minister’s kid, probably with all the baggage that entails, and a full awareness that the words he offers will not provide comfort.

Comfort is not in his job description, neither for himself, nor for those he encounters.

His vocation is to progress like earth-moving machinery through his community, making a path for the one who follows him, knocking down locked gates and clearing out speed bumps.

In this season when we look for cute and cuddlesome, John is the antithesis of these. When we want (demand?) our stories to be tinsellated, this eccentric cousin of Jesus has no tolerance for decoration, demanding instead the substance of repentance and transformation.

John is not the guest speaker for your Christmas function; you don’t invite him to neighbourhood drinks, unless you want an early night.

Notwithstanding all of this, John is the Advent cornerstone, ushering in Jesus, who embodies the reign of God in the world. John seems like a poor marketing choice, an HR nightmare.

And yet, all four gospel writers place him at the forefront of their story, disturbing everyone and offering renewal, because renewal does not come without cost and consequence.

If you come seeking justice, can you live justly? If come seeking forgiveness, can you offer it to others in your turn?

Then, as now, we like our stories undisturbed. Unless, of course, our stories have broken edges, or a fractured mainframe. Unless we come limping, or lost, or fearful of what every day is like. Unless renewal appears like water to a life drowning in sand.

John comes, asserting that story in which we live is not the whole story; that the story can be transformed towards life; that the one following him embodies a life worth everything.  

As we stride and stumble toward Christ’s coming, are we willing to live forgiveness and offer mercy, to articulate the hospitality of God, and carry peace with our every step?

If you are, there is someone you need to encounter.

There is no silence lovelier than the one
That flowers upon a flowering tree at night. 
There is no silence known beneath the sun 
That is so strange to bear, nor half so white. 
If I had all that silence in my heart, 
What yet unfinished heavens I could sing! 
My words lift up and tremble to depart, 
Then die in air, from too much uttering.

It must have been beneath a tree like this 
An angel sought a girl in Galilee, 
While she looked up and pondered how the kiss 
Of God had come with wings and mystery. 
It may be that a single petal fell.
Heavy with sorrow that it could not tell.