Kathy Douglass
Scripture: John 1:1-18
I’d like to tell you about an old friend of mine. And as I describe her, I invite you to let your imagination piece her together, flesh her out.
She was in her early 40s, she was tall, maybe 5’10”, she had a killer smile, deep brown eyes, a glorious soprano voice, and a laugh that was infectious. She was an executive and wore smart skirts and jackets and high heels. Her personality was a delectable mix of passion and pragmatism, tenderness and tenacity. She knew how to light up a room, and once it was lit, she knew how to work it. She was a knockout.
Can you picture her?
Her name was Selma. Her life wove its way into mine when I was 12 years old. She was my junior high Sunday School teacher at the little Baptist church not far from here where my family crash landed after a painful chasm of betrayal, divorce and death tore open and ripped the footing from beneath us. In the falling, we couldn’t catch our breath. Abandonment lurks in the shadows and then attacks in plain sight and the physical, emotional and spiritual scars can leave us wide-eyed and worn out, grasping for a steady hand to hold. These ruptures leave us longing for presence, for intervention.
Intervene – Selma. Like I said, she was really ‘something else’, a stellar human being. She could’ve shared her gifts in so many ways. But she chose to spend a precious hour every Sunday morning with a pack of 12-14 year old rascals… all hormones and innocence, dorkiness and brilliance, eye-rolls and boredom.
A cornerstone of her self-designed curriculum, was that she committed, over the course of the time we spent in her class, to teaching us, to coaching us, to memorize a large portion of our Gospel reading for today, John 1.
Please pardon my King James:
1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
2 The same was in the beginning with God.
3 All things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made.
4 In him was life; and the life was the light of men.
5 And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. 6 There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.
7 The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe.
8 He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light. 9 That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. 10 He was in the world, and the world was made by him,
and the world knew him not.
11 He came unto his own, and his own received him not.
12 But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name:
13 Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.
14 And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth.
Selma started every Sunday morning class time by reading this portion of John chapter 1, and week to week, she’d have us repeat back what we’d heard, mimicking her pace, her tone, her expression. We all stumbled at first, but once the words settled in, once we had a grasp of them, we got to make them our own.
Unbeknownst to my little Baptist kid self, I was getting a taste of liturgy. I was being invited into the practice of hearing and reciting the same words week to week in community, the practice of staying with it and not rushing ahead but savoring, so that, over time, the truths I needed to latch onto would find their way inside my hungry heart and take up residence, providing nourishment, sustenance, that longed for steadiness of a hand to hold.
Decades later, I find myself curious why it mattered to her so much that these particular words keep me good company. What had she born witness to that I had not? What did she understand that I didn’t yet understand?
Today, a few days after we celebrate again the birth of Jesus, I find myself curious why it mattered so much to the writer of this Gospel that these words walk alongside us all. What is the understanding that wants to keep us good company?
I think it is, as our poet, Denise Levertov writes, the mystery of the incarnation. The taking on of flesh. The offering of presence. The closing of the chasm. The finding of the footing. The catching of our breath.
I think Selma wanted me to hear, I think the writer of this Gospel wanted us to hear that we have been, that we are now, that we will always be enveloped and carried by the Presence of God in the person of Jesus Christ.
In the beginning was the Word. The Word was with God and the Word was God. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
There in the beginning. Here with us now. Can I explain this mystery? No. Can I experience this mystery? Yes.
I think that what was lived and felt before Jesus’ birth, is what is lived and felt now. Today’s Hebrew scripture, the Psalm, the Epistle all point to this. What did our ancestors ache for then? What we ache for now. For shame to be clothed in forgiveness, to know what it is to be beloved, for seeds planted to break free from their burial place and spring up to life, to be vindicated, set free from blame, to shed an old identity, to be called by a new name, to have our broken hearts and gaping wounds bandaged and healed, to be invited into peace, to be gathered into a place of belonging, no longer on the outside looking in, but for doors to be flung wide open and to be welcomed home.
The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. In the birth of Jesus, God is fleshing out this truth: I have always been here. I am here with you now. And I’m not going anywhere.
I am undone by these lines from the Levertov poem:
not to a flower, not to a dolphin, to no innocent form
but to this creature vainly sure it and no other is god-like,
God (out of compassion for our ugly failure to evolve)
entrusts, as guest, as brother, the Word.
Our ugly failure to evolve. These words stung a bit when I first read them, but after a moment I realized I didn’t feel judged, I felt seen. I’ve met me. We’ve met us.
This resistance to growth and change isn’t new. It was ugly failure of the oppressors to evolve that compelled a desperate people to cry out for a Savior, to cling to the hope stirred by the prophets that a child would be born, that peace would break through their terror, that light would shine into their darkness. It is ugly failure to evolve that finds our human family crying out today for peace to break through the terrors, for light to shine into the darkness.
The Word became flesh. We’ve not only been given this gift in the birth of Jesus. We’ve been entrusted with it. We have been entrusted by our Creator with the life, the way of being and the way of loving we’re shown in Jesus.
I’ve heard that sometimes new parents leaving a hospital or a birthing center with their newborn are overcome with this panicked realization: “they’re sending this kid home with us? Really? Us?”
God, in the gift of Jesus, is sending the kid home with us. It is our Maker saying, I entrust you with the love, the light and the life of my beloved son. We have been entrusted. To receive this gift, and as John did, to bear witness to this gift. He was not that light, but came to bear witness to that light. We are not that light, but we bear witness to that light.
What is it to bear witness? It is to offer presence. It is to see and hear, to listen, to consider, to respond and to tell. To let the light that has shined into our darkness be reflected through us.
Back to Selma – last fall, when my siblings and I were looking for a memory care home for mom, we visited a lovely place up in Troutdale. As we were led through the halls, a door opened and a young caregiver walked out, gently holding the arm of an old woman to steady her as she took halting steps. I saw those big brown eyes and knew immediately that it was her. “Selma?”, I said. “Hi Selma, it’s me, Kathy Douglass”. She slowly lifted her head up a bit to meet my eyes, she smiled and in a hushed voice quietly said, “oh, Kathy. I remember you.” I guided my mom’s wheelchair, so they were right in front of each other. “And here’s mom”, I said. “Here’s Helen”. “Oh, Helen”, Selma said. They grasped hands and held onto one another. There they were, 2 weary women suffering with dementia.
Did she remember me? Did they truly recognize each other at that moment? I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Right there, some 50 years later, Presence made itself known. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Full of grace and truth. The mystery of incarnation.
The hopes and fears of all our years are met in the God who has entrusted us with the Word, the child whose birth we celebrate, the One we’ve waited for, the One whose life and love we follow after.
Who was there in the beginning, who is with us now, and who is not going anywhere.
Amen.
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