THE CHRISTMAS DILEMMA. “SILENT NIGHT” OR “HARK THE HERALD ANGELS SING”?

 Some time ago, a composition that required the orchestra to sit in silence for four minutes and 33 seconds threw the musical world into controversy. During that time, the only sound was musicians turning blank pages of their “scores” and, probably, by the audience shifting uneasily in their seats caused

Hailed by some as innovative or avant-garde, it was generally dismissed as a piece of musical fraud. What the “composer” had in mind is not clear. It might have been a protest against the emptiness of the contemporary world. Perhaps it was a cry for help against the endless noise that explodes all around us. In that case, we have some sympathy for him.

In your local store, you are inevitably immersed in streams of “muzak” flowing down the aisles; in the street you are deafened by the roar of traffic; seek solace in the countryside and somebody’s radio invades your private world, or a Boeing 777 roars overhead; turn your TV to a favourite program and a thunderous surge of “background” music obliterates what you really want to hear.

Enter some churches and, apart from an interlude called the sermon, the musicians are hardly ever silent. Perhaps that’s why Matt Redman wrote his insightful song When the Music Fades, with its thought-provoking lines, “I’ll bring you more than a song, for a song is not what you have required . . . I’m coming back to the heart of worship, and it’s all about you, Jesus.”

As a small boy with an over-active imagination, I overcame fear of going upstairs at night by stamping on the stairs and singing or whistling loudly, in the belief that this noisy display would warn whatever dark thing lurked upstairs that I was not afraid. In later life, I put away this childish notion understanding real power is not measured in decibels, loudness cannot hide weakness, and very often “empty vessels make most noise.”

Against the background of a world in geophysical and political upheaval, Psalm 46 called for silence, “Be still, and know that I am God” (v 10). Like Elijah on Mount Horeb (1 Kings 19:11–12), we eventually discover the presence of God is often revealed not in impressive supernatural manifestations but in a low whisper heard only by a humble, listening ear.

Maybe we are afraid of silence because we don’t know how to handle it. We fail to distinguish between stillness and deadness, and, like Peter on the Mount of Transfiguration (Mark 9:5–8), feel we must always say or do something to make the occasion meaningful, when God is actually calling us to listen to Jesus.

To argue that only times of quietness reveal the presence of God is foolish. The Scriptures are full of exhortations to praise the Lord with songs and shouts of praise, trumpets and “loud sounding cymbals” but sometimes we may have over-emphasised the latter and given ourselves concussion from too much percussion. We need to get the balance right.

Christmas presents us with a typical dilemma: is it to be Silent Night or Hark! The Herald Angels Sing? Our answer is likely to be personal music taste rather than theology, or simply due to the mood of the moment. But that’s to be on dangerous ground. Really, they’re different sides of the same coin and how it falls depends very much, in more senses than one, on how you spin it.

Excerpted from Reflections: Looking at Timeless Truths in a Changing World, with permission, copyright © John Lancaster 2010

DON'T IGNORE THE NEIGHBOUR FROM HEAVEN

“Will God really dwell on earth with men?” The question falls from Solomon’s lips as he stands before the great temple he has built. His eyes sweep over its spacious courts and massive pillars, and he sees the towering majesty of its soaring architecture, then he lifts his gaze beyond the highest pinnacle to where the great blue dome of heaven arches over it all and is overawed by its vastness. 

This great temple, created by the wealth of the richest man in the world and the artistry of the wisest man in the world, is dwarfed by the universe in which it stands. He knows when darkness falls that same dome will be lit by millions of star lamps glittering from immeasurable distances, and far beyond them, mysteriously vast, will be the far pavilions of “the heaven of heavens.” He is overwhelmed with the staggering contrast (2 Chronicles 6:18). God, on earth? Living with men? Unthinkable. 

How, indeed, can you localize the infinite? How can you harmonize the incompatible—bridge separation between a holy God and a rebellious race? How can you verbalize the inexpressible—translate the free-flowing poetry of eternal truth into the stilted prose of human speech? 

To man “come of age” in a world of radio telescopes and space probes, the realization of the size of the universe creates a problem which is even more staggering. Man’s greatest explorations are nothing more than riding a fairy cycle round the backyard, and his search for secrets in the cosmos like digging holes in the beach in the hope of capturing the ocean. 

Moreover, such knowledge as he does have fills him with a sense of his own insignificance and vulnerability. As modern poet, Edward Shillito, put it, 

The heavens frighten us; they are too calm.
In all the universe we have no place.
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by thy scars we claim thy grace.

The answer to that cry for help—and to Solomon’s question—lies in John 1:14: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” 

The incredible has taken place! In the person of his Son, who as “the Word” (Logos) is the perfect expression of His infinite glory, God has stepped down into time and revealed Himself to fallen men. In Jesus Christ, He “became flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1 :14)—“moved into the neighbourhood” (The Message), pitched His tent in our squalid encampment and shared our limitations.

“He who was rich became poor for our sakes” (2 Corinthians 5:21)—He who had lived eternally amidst the mountain freshness of the uplands of heaven came down into the fetid atmosphere of earth. Then, fragrant in personal holiness, He waded into the filth-laden sewer of human degradation to unblock the massive build-up of sin, guilt, and shame that separated us from God. He whose slightest gesture moved squadrons of angels into instant action “became obedient unto death, and that the death of the cross” (Philippians 2:8) in order to give us life eternal. 

God has “moved into the neighbourhood,” but the sad thing is that, like the first Christmas, many of us don’t seem to want to have much to do with the Man who has come to live next door (John 1:10–12). lt’s time to invite Him in (Revelation 3:20).

Excerpted from Reflections: Looking at Timeless Truths in a Changing World, with permission, copyright © John Lancaster 2010

BETHLEHEM'S "DOOR OF DESTINY"

It was probably rusty, maybe lacking a screw or two, and almost certainly attached to third-grade, splintered wood. But it was, in the words of American preacher Ralph Sockman, “the hinge of history” on the door of a Bethlehem stable.

In contrast to the pomp and pageantry of kings and presidents and the sleek, purring cavalcades of limousines conveying world leaders to their summits—and, sadly, to the ostentation of many of the Lord's 21st century “servants”—the entrance of the Son of God into the world was markedly low-key.

As Phillips Brooks sang, “How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given!” But a host of angels poured from Bethlehem's skies in a cascade of song—a private "Christmas card'' for a few lonely shepherds. The world heard nothing—the Messiah slipped unobtrusively from eternity into time. The words of another poem sum up the paradox of the incarnation of Jesus,:

They were all looking for a king
To lead them forth and lift them high.
He came a little baby thing
That made a woman cry.

But, so often, that is God's way of doing things. Bethlehem had no particular claim to fame: it was “little among the thousands of Judah” (Micah 5:2). But from it came a ruler whose roots were in eternity. Nathanael asked, “Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?” (John 1:46). Others said, ''You won't find a prophet coming from a place like that!'' (John 7:52). Yet out of that run-down town, came the Saviour of the world.

The world imagines that it can shape history and create security by erecting impressive and loudly trumpeted political and economic structures (super-states and globalisation). It should study the story of the tower of Babel (Genesis 11)!

Sometimes the Church tries to bring in the kingdom through loudly acclaimed structures and methods. But “the kingdom of God is not a matter of talk but of power” (1 Corinthians 4:20). It is not about brand image, high-flown rhetoric about dynamic leadership, cutting-edge ministry, and prophetic this and that. It is about humility and empowerment by the Spirit

History turns on that rough-edged stable door in Bethlehem. More precisely, it revolves around the Incarnation of Jesus Christ—his virgin birth, his sinless life, his atoning death, his glorious resurrection, and his ascension to the throne of the universe—in which he triumphed over the powers of darkness and wrested the keys of human destiny from the grip of the devil. God has made him both Lord and Christ.

The great Scottish preacher James S Stewart has summed it up superbly, “A child is born to a peasant woman; a young man toils at a bench; half a dozen fishermen suddenly leave their boats . . . . In the obscurity of a wooded glade, a bowed figure wrestles in prayer; on an insignificant hill a cross is raised; in a garden a tomb stands empty.”

It all sounds so local . . . far removed from the rushing years and the surge and thunder of the deeds of men. Yet in this, God leapt the barriers of the centuries and the frontiers of every nation under heaven. In this, from its hidden beginnings, it has stormed the mind and conscience of the world.

It's true—that creaking old door in Bethlehem opens up a whole new world!

Excerpted from Reflections: Looking at Timeless Truths in a Changing World, with permission, copyright © John Lancaster 2010