December 18, 2022 – Fourth Sunday of Advent

We are almost there… we are almost to Bethlehem… and you have been so very patient! For three Sundays now you have heard the pain and the hope, the judgment and the deliverance of Advent… those themes we hear in anticipation of the Messiah. This is the final Sunday before we celebrate the miracle of Jesus’ birth. And until we do, the color is still Advent blue, with all the humility and suffering and promise it signifies. This is one more blue Sunday on which to watch and wait for the arrival of the Christ Child. 

Although he has yet to be born, this morning the Christ Child receives a name: Emmanuel, God with us. It is an important name, a fundamental name, a name that summarizes the good news of the Gospel.

Way back in Scripture, near the beginning of the Old Testament, tucked into the pages of Exodus, God revealed a name to Moses: the name of God. It became a holy name, holier than any other name for God, a name the Israelites would not utter out loud: Yahweh. I am who I am. I will be who I will be. Yahweh… powerful, mysterious, wonderful, and utterly incomprehensible.

Way back in Scripture, near the beginning of the New Testament, tucked inside a dream, God reveals a name to Joseph. It is a promised name, a holy name, that tells of something radically new: Emmanuel—God with us… the Spirit of God active in the world as never before. 

“I Am Who I Am” from the Hebrew Scriptures. “God with Us” in the New Testament. Now put those two names together. Take Yahweh’s name, I Am Who I Am, split it apart, and place Emmanuel’s name, God with Us, right smack dab in the middle. And what do you get? I Am Who With You I Am. That’s what God declares in the first chapter of Matthew: “I Am With You Who I Am.” Or: “I Will Be With You Who I Will Be.”

Now God had been with God’s people from the very beginning. God had spoken this promise to Abraham, to Moses, to David, to Isaiah. God’s presence with the people of Israel is woven throughout theHebrew Scriptures, but never before had God proclaimed it in such an intimate, incarnate way. Matthew’s Gospel wants to make it clear that at a particular time, in a particular place, in a particular way, and in the life of a particular person, God intervened in history in order to accomplish the salvation of humankind and all creation. Jesus will save his people, and he will do it by being God with us.**

Unlike Luke, who gets ecstatic about angel choirs and heavenly wonder, Matthew is content with the stark reality of a homeless outsider born in Bethlehem at night. It will be a quiet and lonely birth. No family or friends will be there to fret and to celebrate.

Unnoticed as it may be, this birth will not go unnoticed by the powers that be. We know enough of the story to be afraid for this child. We know how King Herod will force this family to flee as refugees to Egypt, how Herod will execute his violent paranoia upon the innocents. 

You see, the anticipation of Advent—this longing for a savior—cuts both ways. When the psalmist yearns for the One to Come, upon whom God’s right hand of favor will fall, and when the prophet Isaiah points to Emmanuel, they both do so with their eyes wide open. The psalmists and the prophets are well acquainted with both the awe of God’s promise and the terror of its consequences.

Do you think God doesn’t know about governments, famines, wars—all the struggles that send this world spinning sickly through space? This child will be born into the world of Tiberius Caesar and our world of power politics. This child will be born into the world of Pontius Pilate and our world of culture clash. This child will be born into the world of Rome and our world of long‐armed oppression. This child will be born into the world of the High Priest Caiaphas and our world of phony piety and cruel religion. This child will be born into the world of King Herod and our world of dictators who commit genocide in the name of racial purity.

Before Christmas Eve arrives, we need to put Advent back into the manger. This is no cardboard Emmanuel lit with a soft‐glow bulb. This is the Emmanuel of righteous justice and magnificent grace, who comes into the world and splits it wide open: “I Am With You Who I Am.”

But why would God come to Joseph in a dream and come to us as a child? What vulnerability! What kind of comfort is this for the hungry child in West Africa or East Buffalo? What kind of security is this for the fearful child in Albania or Texas? What kind of healing is this for the hurting child in Brazil or Detroit? No matter where they live, children are the first to starve, the first to feel cold, the first to fall from hurt, the first to suffer in the crossfire of terror. This world is no place for a child—especially _this_ child! That’s the point, I think. Imagine our surprise when we reach out to grasp the hand of God (like the picture of Adam and God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel) only to be grasped back with the hand of a child.

As we spend the next few moments in silence, I invite you to ponder two questions: First, knowing that God’s names identify and define God, what is the importance of YOUR name in defining who you are? And second, what has been the principal message of this Advent for you? 

The bulletin cover this week brings up the Advent theme of love, with the quote from the end of our sequence hymn: “Let us find our rest in thee.” Christmas is indeed an opportunity for us to express love to one another and rejoice in the salvation that Jesus Christ brings. But if Christmas is to be fully and finally the climax of our Advent preparation, the longing and hope and expectation of Advent must be at the manger Saturday night, present in all the pain and vulnerability that surrounds this child and his family. In order to find our rest in Jesus, I have to be at that manger. I pray that you will be there, too. And I pray this, in all confidence and hope in believing, in the holy name of a child. Emmanuel: I Am With You Who I Am. I Will Be With You Who I Will Be.