The Lutheran Hour
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"Somebody You Don’t Know"
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Text: John 1:6-8
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Christ is risen. He is risen, indeed! Today, in the midst of the festival madness I invite you to come and see. Come to Bethlehem and see the cradle of the newborn King. Come to Calvary’s cross and see the suffering Savior. Look into His empty tomb, and know that the best of Gifts has come from the love of your Lord. Salvation is here in Jesus. Meet Him. Know Him. Worship Him.
Years ago, one of the teachers in my parochial school told me about one of her special students. I won’t give you his name because I don’t know how to find him so I could ask his permission. So let’s just call him Michael, and tell the story. Michael’s father, an irresponsible sort, had years before departed for parts unknown. His mother had died of cancer. Whenever Michael talked about her, he painted a picture of love, care and Christian understanding. Although technically not an orphan, he had been, most reluctantly, taken in by his aunt and uncle. They didn’t understand children; they didn’t especially like children. It was almost with a sense of glee that they informed Michael, at every available opportunity, he would be homeless if it weren’t for their unparalleled generosity.
My teacher friend was amazed, in spite of all Michael had gone through, to see he had managed to remain a gentle and gracious child. Perhaps in a desire to postpone his inevitable home going; possibly because he had a genuine desire to be needed, Michael often stayed after school. In the classroom he busied himself cleaning erasers, picking up loose papers, and doing a host of little favors for his teacher. She enjoyed the visit; he loved the one-on-one attention. Finally it was time for Christmas break. On the last day, shortly before the bell rang, Michael sidled up to her desk. He had a crumpled bag in his hand as he confessed, “I don’t know how to wrap a Christmas present, but I made something for you.” He gave her a box made out of popsicle sticks. The teacher did the appropriate “oohing” and “aahing” and then she asked, “Michael, is there something inside the box?” He admitted there was, and then quickly added, “but you can’t see what’s inside.” “And why is that?” “Because it’s invisible. You can’t see it, or taste it, or touch it, or smell it,” Michael said “but it’s in there.” “What is it?” the teacher asked. “My mother said it was something that makes you unafraid when you’re scared, and can make you feel safe when you’re alone.” “And what can do such wonderful things?” Michael whispered, “It’s love.” And with that he quietly, and quickly, exited the room. As for the popsicle-stick box which had love in it, the teacher keeps it displayed, with pride, in a most prominent place.
It has often been said that Christmas, the way the world celebrates it, can be defined as exhaustion, excuses, exchanges, exasperations, exhibitions and worldly excitement. If you find your days have been marked by such excesses, the next few minutes may be the most important of your life. See if these comments from one of my friends sounds familiar. He maintains that Christmas shopping is a highly contagious illness whose symptoms can be easily identified by the transformation of sane and responsible people into single-minded, multi-tasked, road-raged pressure cookers.
After having been drop kicked at a clothing store bargain table, and body-slammed in the electronics department of a major department store, he commented to the store clerk that the Christmas spirit seemed to be getting a little bit frayed around the edges. She looked at him, and with a surprising lack of humor in her voice, commented, “From Thanksgiving to the week after New Year’s, this place is an insane asylum.”
Is your Christmas bedlam? Let me tell you about that English word “bedlam.” When we use that word in our conversations, we mean “complete chaos.” What you may not know is the word bedlam is taken from Bethlehem, the name of the town where Jesus Christ was born. In the year 1247, a hospital was built in England. It was dedicated to and called, St. Mary’s of Bethlehem. Of course, that’s a very long name. People who entered the hospital didn’t say, “I’m going to St. Mary’s of Bethlehem.” Those who were visiting a sick relative didn’t use that oversized name either. Instead, whenever someone headed out to Saint Mary’s of Bethlehem, they would say, “I’m going to Bethlehem.” Eventually, they just shortened the whole thing and said, “I’m going to Bedlam.”
As the years changed, the medical needs of society also changed. The hospital, now known as Bedlam, became an asylum for the insane. Understand, we’re not talking about a contemporary, uncontaminated, fully equipped psychological facility. When we say Bedlam was an asylum, it would be better if you thought about the place as a prison. The doctors had no theories about therapy. The notion of rehabilitation would have to wait for another age. The hospital was a holding tank of helplessness.
Once you were admitted to Bedlam there was little hope of ever walking out again. If you were not genuinely disturbed when you entered, Bedlam’s sites and sounds would soon make you so. Bedlam became a space where the insane were placed, not for their healing, but to keep them quarantined from those who were healthy. People on the surrounding streets could hear the continuous cries and constant screams of Bedlam’s inmates. The ignorant found coarse humor as they ridiculed Bedlam’s sick and sad souls. The once beautiful St. Mary’s of Bethlehem became bedlam, a place of uncontrolled noise, chaos and confusion.
It is quite possible that this holy-day season has become a bedlam for you. The good news of the Savior’s birth to redeem sinful humankind, first proclaimed by angels 2,000 years ago over the hillside of the little Judean town of Bethlehem, has for you, been drowned out by the bedlam of discord from the cash register and the swooshing sound of a swiped credit card. The wonderful words of the heavenly host above Bethlehem’s pastures have been replaced by the incessant click of video game keyboards. The pastoral picture of the shepherds bowing in worship before their newborn Lord has been replaced by the flickering screen of the television as it uploads the latest electronic game. The desire to find the “perfect present” has superseded your search to see the newborn Child of Mary.
Has Christmas become bedlam for you? Has your need for the Savior been shoved into a remote second place, supplanted by the endless things that demand to be done? I’m not surprised. Think of the many people you need to be. You are a decorator. Get the tree up, get the lights on, toss the tinsel, hang the ornaments. You are a buyer. You need to find those good gifts that will make the recipients swoon with gladness and glee. Not so long ago, I heard of a well-mannered six-year-old, who having opened a present from her aunt, dutifully intoned: “Oh, thank you so very much, auntie. A handkerchief. It’s just what I wanted, but not very much.”
Has Christmas become bedlam for you? You have to be a social success. There are the parties, the get-togethers, the drop-ins and stop-bys. There is the family fellowship, the social soirées, and the office obligations. Little wonder you feel burned out, upset, distressed, depressed. The Christmas clock keeps ticking; your list keeps growing, and you wonder who was the crazy person who invented all of these terrible traditions and relentless requirements. Every year you promise to make a resolution that you will simplify the next Christmas; you will cut down your card list; give money rather than gifts and keep your calendar clean and uncomplicated. But your resolution is broken, and the next year it all begins again. For you, Bethlehem has become bedlam.
The great author, Robert Louis Stevenson, was a frail little boy. Because of his many sicknesses, even at an early age, he had much time to think and philosophize. One night, sitting in the window of his parents’ home, he watched in the dusk as a lamp lighter went down the street. He observed the man turn on the gas, open the glass window of the light, and with a flame at the end of a long pole, ignite the street lantern. Turning to his mother, he commented, “Look mum, a man is coming down the street making holes in the darkness.”
In the minutes that remain to this message, won’t you stop your scurrying; let go of your lists and let the Lord take you from Bedlam back to Bethlehem? Won’t you let Him punch holes in your personal darkness? He has something to show you. Let me tell you about the birth of your Savior. He came into this sin-stained world over 2,000 years ago. Do you remember me telling you about Michael, the boy who made a Christmas box for his teacher? That box was nothing to look at, but it was very precious, it was filled with love. When Jesus was born, His arrival was nothing much to see. He came to us, the Son of a simple mother, the stepson of a humble carpenter.
The angels of heaven said that He was “good news of great joy,” but humanity couldn’t see it. Because no one would make room for Him, He was born in a stench-filled stable. His first sleeping spot was a manger, an animal’s feed trough. When you look at this newborn Baby, you would quickly conclude that He was nothing special. I’m not surprised that you would come to that conclusion. Hundreds of years before the prophet Isaiah had said, “There would be nothing in Jesus’ appearance that would make Him desirable.” (Isaiah 53:2b) Still, in spite of His outward appearance, this little Baby, born true Man to be one of us and true God to save us, is the greatest Gift, the most perfect Present you will ever receive. Go to Bethlehem, see the Savior, and find release from your bedlam.
Do you see Him? Do you see His face making those cute expressions; His hands clutching and reaching? Cute? Certainly. Cuddly? Undoubtedly. You know, that’s the way many people, maybe you are one of them, want to keep Him – a cute and cuddly Child. Have you ever looked at a regular baby, perhaps your baby, and dreamed dreams about what he or she would do in life? Where they would go? What they would accomplish? Whether they would be happy or sad, healthy or ill? Take a good look into the manger here and know that this is a Baby who has been born so that He might die.
That sounds strange, doesn’t it? Cruel. Wrong. Unfair. Who could blame you for asking, “Why? Why should this Child die? It’s not right. It’s not fair!” And you would be right in saying that. His life wasn’t fair. His death would be the most unjust thing this unjust world has ever seen. In spite of the unfairness and injustice, He died. The reason? Years later, the Apostle Paul would write a letter to the church at Corinth and explain. He would tell them: “Christ died for our sins ….” (1 Corinthians 15:3)
Did you get that? It’s important that you do. This Baby, grown to manhood, will die for our sins – for us. The inspired, inerrant Word of God tells us that our first ancestors disobeyed the single commandment that they had been given, and thereby introduced sin and death into this world for all their descendants. (Eccl. 7:20) Because of sin, no human being could ever hope to be reconciled with the heavenly Father. All of us were doomed and damned. The only hope we have, the only escape there will ever be, is that little Baby you see in the cradle.
This Baby is born to save you. That’s what makes Him so precious. Every other religion demands that you to try to earn your salvation. They say you must “be good, no, be better, try hard, no, try harder.” Only the cradle and, 33 years later the cross of Jesus, tell us there is hope. Cradle and cross show that God has come down to us. Cradle and cross tell us that Jesus will, with a perfect life, and through His unjust death, build a bridge from sinner to salvation. Cradle and cross can move you from bedlam to Bethlehem. See Jesus in the cradle. See Him upon the cross. Betrayed by friends, condemned unjustly, the innocent Son of God carried your sins and died – willingly, without complaint. (Acts 8:32)
Cradle and cross and empty grave. The empty grave is the Father’s assurance that the sacrifice has been completed. The Baby born to die; the Christ condemned to crucifixion has finished the work of our redemption. Look upon Him. No matter what else you see this Christmas, look upon Him. Look into the cradle. No, don’t see only a Baby. See with eyes of faith. See what hundreds of millions of believers have seen: see something more. It is something. He is Someone who can make you unafraid when you’re scared, and can make you feel safe when you feel alone.” “And Who can do such wonderful things?” I whisper, “It’s the love of God’s Son, our Savior.”
Is your life bedlam? Come to Bethlehem, look into the manger. See the Savior. See your salvation. Have you done something wrong, thought a terrible thought, done a nasty deed, spat out a cruel curse? With faith in the crucified and risen Savior, with the washing of water and Word, those sins are gone. Are you, right now, doing that which is hurtful to your neighbor, a loved one, yourself? Come to Bethlehem. Look into the cradle. By the power that comes through Jesus you can be released of those deeds. Are you worried about tomorrow, or the next day, or that day which will be your last? Come to Bethlehem, look into the cradle. See the Christ Who can dispel that worry, and give you peace. Come to Bethlehem, leave bedlam behind.
It is possible that the Holy Spirit has touched you today. Perhaps a friend has spoken to you, or shared this message with you. Maybe you have heard these words on the radio. In whatever way the message has come to you, I encourage you to respond. There are hundreds of people listening to my voice today for whom this will be their last Christmas. Do not procrastinate. Do not hesitate. Call “The Lutheran Hour.” Talk to your friend. Look into the cradle, look up to the cross. Leave bedlam behind. Come to Bethlehem and see your Savior. Amen.