If God is going to be with us—today—there are some things we shall do, and there are some we shall not do, and you may remember that if drunkenness is a sin, so is gluttony and sloth. But it is time to be positive. Immanuel means that God is for us.
GOD IS FOR US
The whole mystery and wonder and miracle of grace is there, and it is the foundation of Christianity. We often talk about people deciding for Christ, and we do well. I myself tried to preach so people would do this. But all this talk and all this deciding would be the vainest nonsense, if God had not first of all decided for us. “You have not chosen me,” said Jesus, “but I have chosen you.” And behind your willingness to follow him lies his choice of you. So behind our being for God, and far more important, is God’s being for us.
Think how much reason God had for not being for us but against us. I see that the BBC is offering us that very moving play of the African-American’s idea of the Old Testament—Green Pastures. The picture of the Lord God walking the earth and being incensed with the folly and iniquity of humanity is crude enough, but what is wrong with it? I can see nothing theologically wrong with it. Small wonder that more than once God resolves to destroy his own handiwork. Yet he doesn’t; he can never quite bring himself to blot out the rebellious humans on the little earth. Behind wrath, there is mercy, and in Christ God is for us. “He that might the vengeance best have took/ Found out the remedy.” Again and again in the Old Testament you can read the prophetic words—“Therefore I am against you,” says the Lord. But in Christ he is with and for us, even those who have rebelled against him, disobeyed his laws, flaunted his Word.
What this means you can see in the original setting of the Immanuel prophecy in Isa 7.14. The situation had seemed hopeless; Israel was lost. But the time would come, Isaiah said, when after all, people would say “Why, God is with us! He has delivered us from our foes.” What it means you can see even better in the story of Jesus. He accuses, but even when he accuses, he is on our side. “Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? God—who justifies us?” The God who lays bare our sin also forgives it. God with us. There remains one more question.
WITH WHOM
We have been talking happily enough about “us.” But who is “us”? We know the answer that many people would give. Only the lowest level people say, “God is on the side of the top dogs.” Scarcely higher up the scale, is said “God helps those who help themselves.” God, that is, favors the strong, the wise the resourceful, the universe is on the side of those who thrive. In a more refined way people may say God is on the side of the righteous, the pious, the religious. So one would assume, but it does not ring true to the story of Jesus, for it was the righteous and the religious who rejected him.
No—God is with the poor, the humble, the lowly. Above all he is with sinners, and those who know they are sinners. He came to the lowly, needy folk who were looking for deliverance from their chains. He was with them—and that is how we know he is with us.
“TROUBLED AT CHRISTMAS”—Matthew 2.3
[Preached thirty-three times between 12/14/47 at Croft to 1/8/06 at Kelloe]
Yes, I admit, there is trouble enough in the world already. There is no need for a preacher to augment it, and on the Sunday before Christmas at that. But you will see before we have finished that this trouble is the most helpful thing there is. And at least you will not be so warmed up by the prospect of your attenuated Christmas dinner as to deny me this—we are starting in the full blaze of topicality. The latest political move has set our hearts palpitating again—how modern it is. What’s going to happen next, and what can we do to stop it? The age-old questions.
For a moment let your minds go back, as once a year at least they should, to the days of 1900 years ago. Jesus was born at the moment of one of the triumphs of history. For a hundred years or so during the death throes of the Roman Republic, life had indeed been nasty, solitary, brutish, and short. There was no security of mind, body, or estate for anyone, anywhere. And then had come Augustus, the first Emperor. Looking back in the cold light of history we are not likely to think him a god—he didn’t think so himself, but we are not surprised that his contemporaries did. For he had brought peace, and the world breathed a happy sigh of contentment. Herod ruled a puppet kingdom, nominally independent, but in fact all his future was tied up with Rome’s. And now, just as the machinery was working smoothly, someone throws in this spanner—another king, another pretender, another war.
What did Herod feel? What did all Jerusalem feel? You know exactly what they felt. What did you feel when, as you thanked God for peace in Europe, you learned that there was one more totalitarian state, with a spiritual depravity, a viciousness, an aggressiveness, and a physical force at least equal to Nazi Germany. Troubled—and so was Herod.
Of course there were those at the first coming of Christ who were ready to rejoice. There was his mother, and if she didn’t love him, who would? But there were others, men and women looking for the consolation of Israel, who saw him and rejoiced. But I am glad that our Gospels do not leave out this realistic note. Where is he that is born King of the Jews—asked the wise men. And the first recorded comment is, King Herod was troubled and so was all of Jerusalem. But why? Let us look into this trouble a little further.
WHY WERE THEY TROUBLED?
Firstly, there was trouble because the authorities had not been consulted. The civil authority had not been consulted. Here, they said, was a new king. But surely the reigning sovereign has a right to know something about the birth of the heir to the throne. And Herod had not been consulted at all, the news was sprung on him. And the religious authorities had not been consulted either. They were hurriedly hustled together to look it up in their official tomes, under pressure.
Now civil and religious authorities don’t like that kind of treatment. It troubles them. It always has done so, even when the event has been the coming of Christ. I need not stay to illustrate that. Has there ever been a civil authority that didn’t stir uneasily when the name of Christ was invoked in its council chambers, even in respect to slavery or child labor? And are the religious authorities better? We know at least what happened when Wesley offered Christ to thousands of English pagans. The Anglican authorities were not consulted, and they were troubled.
“Hurrah!” We say. “We’re all agin the government. Let the easy rogues in ermine and plush be discomfited.” But wait. There is one place, if only one, where you are the authority. What happens there? When Christ comes, as, from time to time, he does come, elbowing his way through the jostling crowd of interests and ambitions that pass through your mind—what then? When he says, as he has been saying for 1900 years—“never mind your history, never mind your ledgers, never mind your legal practice, never mind your college fellowship—follow me!” What then? I know, that is the trouble, that is where the shoe pinches. But again, further. . .
Secondly, there was trouble because a new set of standards was involved. I have spoken of “the immense majesty of Roman peace.” Even Herod was no pale imitation of the greater Roman ruler. And there was no newborn king in his court. Nor was there any royal messiah in the Temple court. You know what there was. There was a baby, supposed illegitimate (for that was the natural inference from the circumstances), in a stable, at the village of Bethlehem. The new king was a different king, and at this rate he was going to turn the world upside down.
There is nothing revolutionary about Christianity but this—that its kings are servants and their weapons are love. But there are few revolutions more disturbing than that. It may be well enough to shout for a bloody revolution, but if the blood is going to be your own, it is a different matter. The question for this: was Herod going to climb down before the newborn infant of a peasant woman? And the answer was— not likely! Slaughter a thousand infants first. You recognize the choice of course, for you have had to make it, and like