Sermon: "Your Image of God," December 24, 2019 (Christmas Eve)

Rev. Ryan Slifka
Luke 2:1-20

Perhaps you’ve heard of the late great children’s writer Maurice Sendak. 

He’s most famous for his classic Where the Wild Things Are. He’s quirky, one of our family’s favourites. 

Sendak was the child of Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe. 

In a recent collection of his artwork, Sendak says the two biggest influences in his childhood were Mickey Mouse and his bearded, stern-looking maternal grandfather.  

Mickey Mouse and grandpa. Mickey’s influence makes sense—he was everywhere in the 1930’s. But Sendak had never even seen his grandfather. His grandfather died back in the old country, long before his grandson was born. 

He’d never seen his grandfather in person. But there was an old black and white photo of him on the wall in the living room of their tiny family home. Sendak said the image burned itself into his brain. So much so that young Maurice believed that this is what God looked like. The photo of this old grey-bearded man was the approximate likeness of the Almighty. The Creator of the universe. 

Now, most of us probably didn’t grow up with a photo of an old Yiddish dude hanging in our living rooms. But some of us grew up hearing the word “God” and imagined something like Sendak’s grandfather: a bearded old man who maybe lives in the sky somewhere. Or some of us were raised in strict or judgmental households and so pictured a harsh authoritarian figure, maybe an ogre ready to punish at the drop of a hat. Still, some of us may have imagined God like our own parents—distant, uninterested. A well-meaning idea perhaps, but ultimately irrelevant as we grew into adult maturity. 

But regardless of the image that comes to mind our image of God, the divine, the source of all things, is dictated by our growing up. Or something or someone we’ve associated with it along the way. 

 And we’re not unique. The great 19th century German philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach famously dismissed the concept of God altogether as a projection of human feeling onto an incomprehensible universe. Like the young Maurice Sendak, we humans throughout history have thought about the divine and imagined something like ourselves. Or at least somebody we know.  

So our image of God tends to look like us, and what’s important and influential to us. Which is what makes the Christmas story all the more interesting. 

Following the birth of Jesus, the story tells us, some angels drop in on some shepherds to share the news. The angels make this announcement to the shepherd. “Do not be afraid,” they say. Do not be afraid, “for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” Good news, they say. A Saviour, the Lord, God is about to touch down in your geographical neighborhood. 

Now, when these shepherds heard the words “Saviour” and “Lord,” they wouldn’t have immediately thought of a manger baby. Though would have thought of Caesar. They would have thought of the Roman Emperor, who held both titles—Saviour and Lord. Caesar, who ruled the known world. They would have assumed that the word “God” would have meant someone like him. Someone, or something strong. Powerful. Ready to subdue his enemies through pure, overwhelming might. Caesar—that’s the image of God they’re working with. 

That’s the image of God they’re working with. But here’s where the surprise comes in. 

The angels continue. “This will be a sign for you,” they say. “This will be a sign for you; you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” A child, wrapped in cloth, sleeping in a manger… “The Lord… Saviour of the World.” 

The Shepherds expect something, someone else. Caesar’s the image of God they’re working with. But no… here… a baby… in rags… spending the night in straw… the Christmas story says this is the image of the invisible God. This nobody. Born to a couple of other nobodies in the middle of backwoods nowhere.  Born fleshy, defenseless. Lives shortly, dies violently. Rises unexpectedly. The Christmas story says this is who God is. This is what God’s like. This is what God’s up to in the world. 

It’s surprising. It’s weird. It’s as strange to us as it is to the shepherds who first heard it. But in the Christmas story says that in this child’s eyes we stare deep into the mystery at the heart of the universe. And all of our other images—whether Caesar or grand-daddy Sendak are—at best, derivative or incomplete. At worst, damaging or downright dangerous and wrong. 

Now, it’s Christmas Eve. So obviously I don’t know a lot of you. So I don’t know the image of the sacred, the divine that you’ve been shaped with. Maybe an old photo of a relative, like Maurice Sendak. Or maybe the image of God you grew up with was cruel, an oppressive source of anxiety. Maybe the God you grew up was nice, but ultimately irrelevant, unbelievable. Or maybe you didn’t grow up with God at all, and the only image of God you ever had were believers who didn’t make God look good in the first place. 

I don’t what comes to your mind when you hear the word “God.” But what I do know is that this is the image of God we’re working with, the image we’re wrestling with, as a community of faith. The image of God that comes to us on the lips of the angel. One who says: “This will be a sign for you; you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” 

At the manger, we meet a God who is not far away from us off in heaven only, but one who joins us in the world, on the ground, and in the fleshy struggle of our daily lives. 

At the manger we meet a God whose power lies not in might, control, or dominating strength, but whose power lies in vulnerable, self-giving, sacrificial love. 

At the manger, we meet a God whose heart is not only for those on top in our world, but has a preferential option for the poor, the outcast, the homeless and dispossessed. A God whose politics are compassion, whose mission is mercy, and whose reputation is built on a bottomless forgiveness.  

A God who knows what your suffering is like. A God who knows your shame and your heartache. Because he’s not only been there, done that, but in doing so has healed it and redeemed it for good. 

I don’t know what image of God you’re working with. But the wonderful thing about Christmas is that we’re given an image of the divine that’s so unlike any other we could dream up. One that blows most other images away. Especially the ones that drain life from us, rather than giving it.  

So not matter what comes to your mind when you hear the word “God,” my prayer for you this night… our prayer for you as a community of faith. Is that maybe the next time you hear this word, what comes to mind is the one who we meet at a manger, the one who we meet on a cross. The One we meet yet again this night... together… in music and song. 

Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. 

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward all. Men and women alike. 

AMEN.