Christmas Stories: Luke–Peace Be With You

Nativity The way from Jerusalem to Bethlehem is a winding and twisty road that takes you outside the bustling city through some well-appointed suburbs. On the way you pass some interesting landmarks.

 One of the most interesting to me is the Hinnom Valley. Also known as Gehenna. It sits on the southern side of the Old City of Jerusalem and during the time of Jesus it was the city dump which smoldered and stank. Whenever Jesus refers to “hell” in the New Testament, the word in the original language is “Gehenna.” Funny thing is, the valley of Gehenna is now a park—with lovely green grass and beautiful trees and asphalt walking paths running everywhere. Here, hell may not freeze over, but it sure can be paved over!

 The scene changes, though, as you approach Bethlehem, just 6 miles from Jerusalem. Affluent suburbs give way to the site of a long, high, concrete wall blocking the road. Bethlehem, you see, is in the West Bank—Palestinian territory. The Israeli government erected this wall in 2002 as a way of keeping suicide bombers from infiltrating into Israel. No matter how you understand the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, the reality is that if you want to go to Bethlehem, you have to prepare for an ordeal.

 As you wait to enter the busy checkpoint, you notice the guards on the ground and in the towers, scanning the area with automatic weapons. They come on the tour bus, looking each person in the face, looking for signs of nervousness or trouble. You look out the window at the stark grey of the concrete wall, the razor wire, and tire-ripping barriers. But what you really notice in the midst of all this military display of security is the brightly painted sign that spans the wall from nearly top to bottom by one of the guard towers. It’s a sign that was put there by the Israeli Ministry of Tourism and it says in English, Hebrew and Arabic, “Peace Be With You.”

Peace-be-with-you-483  Peace Be With You. It would seem to be the height of irony to have that painted on a wall covered by a machine gun in a tower.

 On the other side of the wall, the Palestinian side, the wall isn’t neatly painted with slogans for the tourists, but is sprayed with graffiti in both Arabic and English. “God will tear down this wall,” says one.

 A giant spray-painted snake slithers down the length of the wall toward the checkpoint.

 There’s a picture painted by a British graffiti artist named Banksy of a young girl in pigtails and a pink dress patting down an Israeli soldier.

 On another section of the wall is a picture of a dove of peace—wearing a flak jacket. Turning away from the wall you notice the stark contrast that comes by moving about 100 yards from Israel into Bethlehem—it’s almost like flipping a switch from relative prosperity to real poverty.

 To live in Bethlehem, on the other side of the wall, is to deal with unemployment as high as 60%. Those few who are fortunate enough to have a job outside the city have to stand in hours-long lines every morning and evening to be searched and herded through the checkpoint on their way to and from work. Shops are boarded up, infrastructure is crumbling, and life depends on the trickle of tourists who are allowed through the wall to quickly visit the Church of the Nativity and maybe stop at one of the few gift shops selling olive wood crafts, especially nativity sets (I buy something every time I go there). One wood carver, Tawfiq Salsaa, makes nativity sets that look like the others, except that there’s a wall separating the wise men and Jesus. "I wanted to give the world an idea of how we live in the Holy Land," says the 65-year-old Palestinian carpenter. Truth is, if the wise men tried to get to Bethlehem today they’d have to run their gifts through a metal detector. On this side of the wall, life is hard and hope is hard to come by.

  Dove My point here is not to try to delve deeply into the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It is a complex and difficult situation, and the problems are owned by both sides. I have been there three times and, after talking to people on both sides, I realize that it’s a tragic situation for everyone involved, especially for the majority of people on both sides who simply want to live and raise their families without fear.

 Point is that when we read the Christmas story and when we sing “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” this isn’t what we picture. We love the Christmas card image of a sleepy little town with open streets and gentle, rustic stables. The fact is, though, that while there was no concrete wall around Bethlehem in the first century (indeed, walls usually indicated a prosperous city), there was no less stark a contrast between the poor of this little village and the powerful holding court in Jerusalem and, even more so, in Rome. Then, like now, Bethlehem and indeed all of Israel was occupied territory.

 The emperor, Augustus, ruled over most of the Mediterranean world. Augustus was the first Roman emperor to officially be considered divine—some of his titles may sound familiar: son of god, savior of the world, divine redeemer. The cult of the emperor was the main Roman religion—his face was everywhere from coins to road markers. Augustus was called “a man of peace,” but his definition of peace was that of every empire that has ever moved across the face of the world. For Rome, for Augustus, peace was about victory—about military and economic security. Augustus killed off the opposition, and subjected foreign lands and called it peace. He taxed those conquered peoples heavily in order to fund his army, his building projects, and his personal needs, and called it prosperity. Under Augustus, Rome erected a virtual wall of separation between those who were in and out, those who were rich and poor, those who lived and died. Peace was the luxury of the powerful.

 What we miss when we boil down the Christmas story to a once a year celebration of mangers and mall-shopping is the stark truth Jesus was born on the wrong side of the wall. The emperor Augustus never heard about his birth, nor did the rich and powerful just up the road in Jerusalem (according to Luke—Matthew says that Herod certainly knew, as we said last week). If Augustus had heard anything about it he probably would have simply acknowledged that another taxpayer from the working class had been born to help fill the treasury. Luke tells us that no one of consequence was paying attention on the other side of the wall. It’s that way with people who enjoy all the benefits of the kind of peace and prosperity the empire provides.

 Notice, though, that the angels didn’t appear in Rome, or in the Temple in Jerusalem. They didn’t perform a concert for the emperor or invade the dreams of wealthy merchants or military leaders. When the angels came, they came to Bethlehem—on that side of the wall. And they gave their performance for a group of shepherds—who in a place of poverty were the poorest of the poor. It was to them, the lowest of the low, the insignificant and forgotten people of the empire, that God chose to reveal his grand plan for the world.

 The plan that God was announcing through the overture of the angel choir was a plan of peace, but a peace radically different from that so often trumpeted by human empires. God’s plan of “peace on earth” would not come through the power and might of conquering armies and vanquished enemies. It would not be a peace that meant prosperity for some and poverty for others. It was not peace through victory, but peace through God’s justice.

 That’s what shalom, the Hebrew word for “peace” really means—well-being, justice, good news for all the people. It’s the kind of peace that happens when God sits on the throne of the world and not Caesar. It’s the kind of peace described in Isaiah 9—where the yoke of oppression is shattered and where the implements of war are “destined for burning.” It’s the kind of peace that Mary sings about in Luke 1—a song that is incorporated with that of the angels. She sings, “God has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts. He has brought down the rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich empty away.”

 This vision of peace, if we really understand it, is something we usually only think about on Christmas Eve. We like to sing of “peace on earth, good will toward men” along with the angels, but when the angels retreat back into heaven we put away that vision for another year, leaving world peace to be the subject of posturing politicians and beauty queens trying to look and sound their humanitarian best. It’s a nice idea but, really, there isn’t anything we can actually do about it.

 But maybe we feel that way because we live on the other side of the wall from Bethlehem. We live in a place where we can spend our money on recreation instead of wondering where our next meal is coming from. We have the luxury of looking at places like the Middle East, Darfur, and other locations around the world through our television screens instead of seeing war, genocide, injustice, and poverty just outside our windows. When it gets to be too much, we can afford to change the channel. The empire has been good for us, and because of that it is so easy for us to forget about the world on the other side of the wall. The truth is, however, that that’s precisely where Jesus is calling us.

 Most people come to Christmas Eve services expecting to hear a message about a smiling baby, gentle shepherds, adoring parents, and lowing cattle. It’s all rather innocuous and non-threatening when taken out of its context. People hold on to some precious memories of childhood or a sentimental story about Christmases past. Maybe a little something to bless all the gift buying that we’ve done. We’re supposed to feel good at Christmas, right?

 The problem is, though, that the story of Christmas isn’t really at its core about any of those things. In very real terms, Luke and the other Gospel writers want to take us through the gates of our own security and comfort to the other side of the wall. The Christmas carols call us to “Come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem” and “come to Bethlehem and see.” We sing that so easily, but the truth is that to really know what Christmas means, we have to go to Bethlehem—to cross our hearts and minds over to that side of the wall where we can hear the songs of angel choirs proclaiming that God is doing something about the real problems in the real world.

 Jesus may have left Bethlehem, but he lived his life fully on that side of the wall. The baby born in a cave, in a manger, grew up preaching and embodying a message of the coming Kingdom of God—God’s reign and rule on the earth, a Kingdom that would bring justice and well-being to the whole world. He healed the sick, touched the untouchable, called people to share their wealth, fed the hungry. He spent his time with outcasts, loved the unlovable, and washed the feet of his disciples like the lowliest servant.

His mission and message drew fire from his enemies, whose version of comfort and security was threatened by his call for justice and grace. Rather than vanquish his enemies, though, he forgave them—even as he was nailed to a Roman cross, the ultimate symbol of the empire’s ability to kill and destroy. After his death, the empire walled him in a stone tomb and sealed the door shut. That’s what empires do to those who challenge the status quo.

 But what the empire fails to realize is that Jesus breaks down walls—walls of violence and injustice, walls that separate rich and poor, walls that define who’s worthy and who’s not, and walls of sin and death that separate us from knowing the love, peace, and justice of God in this world. In Jesus, God showed that empires cannot and will not have the last word in this world—that word belongs to the true king, the one for whom the angels sing—the true Son of God, the one called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and…the true Prince of Peace.

To celebrate Christmas, then, is to celebrate hope—not the kind of hope that’s printed in a Christmas card but the kind of hope that challenges empires and changes lives. It’s not a hope that ignores the pain of the world in favor of looking forward to heavenly bliss (despite the words in “Away in a Manger”—“fit us for heaven to live with thee there”). No! It’s about following Jesus in a mission that breaks down the walls of this world and makes God’s Kingdom a reality. It’s a call for us to be living and working as if God is on Caesar’s throne. The promise of God is that it will one day be so. That’s what hope is on the other side of the wall.

 “Come to Bethlehem and see”…how do we do it? We can’t all campaign for office or be full-time activists. What we can do, however, is come to the manger—to embrace Luke’s story of Christmas not as a once-a-year tradition but as a call upon our lives. We can offer our worship and ourselves to the Christ child, trusting that his Kingdom of peace and justice will come through us. But then we can watch for the empires of the world, even the empire in which we live. Anglican Bishop N.T. Wright, in his Christmas Eve sermon last year, puts it this way: “We must be mindful of the Augustus Caesars of our day: we can keep our eyes open for where the powers that run the world are crushing the little people who live on our street, in our town, in our local hospitals or prisons.”

 And we can listen for the song of the angels. It will come in surprising ways, as it always does. God doesn’t call everybody in the same way. But if you are learning to love the Christ-child you will find your ears gradually becoming tuned to the particular song that God’s angels are trying to sing to you, and, more dangerously perhaps, through you. That song is sung in the Bethlehems of the world, and we go there every time we serve the poor, fight injustice, speak for those who are voiceless, spend time in a prison teaching an inmate a new way of life, and in thousands of other little ways. Every great work begins with little steps.

 Tawfiq Salsaa still makes his little olive wood nativity sets with the wall between the wise men and baby Jesus. But even in occupied Bethlehem, even behind the wall, there is hope. See, every wall in every nativity set Tawfiq makes—is removable.

 That’s what Christmas is about: peace on earth—a peace with no more walls. No walls between people, no walls between heaven and earth. If even hell can be paved over, then nothing is impossible!

 Come to Bethlehem. You’ll never be the same and neither will our world.

 

 

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