Our ancestors were better at it—seeing the details, seeing through them, seeing the heaven behind the icons of sacred words. Better at seeing the spiritual sense of things, they read the story better. Less distracted, I guess—no screens, no lights, no noise. God looks different in a wilder world; and which world is more real—the wilder world of our ancestors and the poor or the clean and lighted and screened world we have made? There are, of course, many reasons we may not see or sense God. They were better at it, our ancestors; they saw Christmas better, God better too, I think. Which is why I listen to them, especially this time of year, especially when I can’t quiet my own mind and soul, when I can’t see. Sometimes I have to beg these ancestors to show me what I cannot see. Sometimes I have to see my own life, our world, with dead and ancient eyes, to see clearly at all. Christmas is such a beautiful feast, buried though it is, its truth ignored so much. I just can’t see it without help; perhaps neither can you. Which might be why you’re here—to see what you cannot see.
Origen—that ancient, strange, and beautiful theologian—he noted once the detail, Caesar’s decree that the whole world should be counted in a census. It is, of course, the external cause of Christ’s birth in Bethlehem, figuring his birth within the ancient promise made to David. But Origen asked another question about the census itself. Why—he asked—did Luke tell us that Mary and Joseph and Jesus were enrolled in the census, counted by Rome along with whole world? “To one who looks more carefully,” he wrote, “a mystery seems to be conveyed.” For Origen, this beautiful ancient reader of the Bible, he saw it as a sign of mystical solidarity, a prophecy of the world’s redemption. “He was registered with everyone, and sanctified everyone,” he wrote.[1] As Christ’s name is recorded in Caesar’s book, so may those with faith see their names recorded in the “book of life” and escape the eternal “lake of fire,” as John saw it in his vision recorded in the Book of Revelation.[2] Jesus told his disciples their “names are written in heaven.”[3] Origen saw this little detail of Caesar’s census as a figure and sign of this heavenly truth: that Christ allowed himself to be counted by us so that we might be counted for heaven. It is a beautiful thought—poetic, imaginative. I would not have thought of that myself; I am not still enough for that, not quiet enough with the words of God to see such spiritual art. As I said, our ancestors were better at it, seeing beautiful sacred things, mysteries and secrets and the poetry of God.
And I’ll take it all year, this beautiful idea, this keynote. Jesus was counted. He let himself be counted. He was counted with us. We are counted; we will be counted. “[I]n thy book were all my members written.”[4] Ours is a God not above details, not aloof. God keeps track. Perhaps it’s because God knows better then we do that details matter, that humans—precious images and children of God—are touched by the details. We can forget this. All our data, our passwords and account numbers, our supply chains, curbside pickup, our earnings, our rates of return: there are human beings behind all these numbers, precious images and children of God we help or hurt. Jesus was counted. I can’t help but remember something I read a while back—about cobalt, the element. We need cobalt to work our phones, our laptops, our rechargeable batteries. And more than half of it’s mined in the Democratic Republic of the Congo; the miners work twelve to fourteen-hour days, many without masks or gloves; many are children, many die—for the cobalt in our phones.[5] Jesus was counted. Ours is a God not above details, not aloof. God keeps track. I don’t know; that’s not a very cheery message for Christmas. I’m sorry. But that’s what I’ll think about for a while—how Jesus was counted, how details matter, and how we’ll be counted too one day, one way or another.
But that’s just a single keynote, and a disturbing one at that. A little moral truth illuminated by Christ’s light, in contemplation, by Scripture; a sober wisdom for mature Christians, for those who want the real Gospel, not sentimentality, who want to be saved and not just feel better: there are, of course, others, other truths, beautiful and painful and redemptive; other wisdom too if you want it, if you really do. Christ is born; made flesh, he dwells among us.[6] Jesus was counted. Ours is not a God above details, not aloof. God keeps track. Again, the ancients who were so much better at it, our ancient brother Origen, he preached once, he said: “Let us understand this manger. Let us endeavor to recognize the Lord and to be worthy of knowing him.”[7] Whoever you are—sinner, clueless, holy, wise, or confused like me—perhaps that’s a prayer good for each of us, that we may understand this manger, that we may struggle to know the Lord and to be worthy of knowing him—this God who was counted, who counts us too. Amen.
[1] Origen, Homilies on Luke 11.6
[2] Revelation 20:11-15; cf. Philippians 4:3
[3] Luke 10:20
[4] Psalm 139:15 Coverdale
[5] Eyal Press, Dirty Work, 258-259
[6] John 1:14
[7] Origen, Homilies on Luke 13.7
© 2021 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
