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Imagine going to Briarcliff Mall this afternoon, and standing among the hustle and bustle of holiday shoppers, and asking them one-by-one, "What does a Christmas gift look like? How can you tell a Christmas gift from any other kind of gift?" What do you suppose they would say?
Would someone explain that Christmas gifts are given in December? Would another say that Christmas gifts come wrapped in festive paper or hidden in colorful bags, decorated with pictures of Santa or sleigh bells or snowflakes or twinkling stars or some such other seasonal image? Would someone else point out that red or green ribbons and bows often adorn gifts for Christmas? Maybe a little girl would roll her eyes and ask, "Doesn't everybody know that Christmas gifts are the ones that you find under the Christmas tree?"
What is it that makes a gift a Christmas gift? Is it the day of the year on which it is given? Is it the decoration on the package? Is it the tree under which it waits? Or is it something else?
What is it that makes a gift a Christmas gift?
Let me tell you a true story about a Christmas gift that was given one warm summer's day many years ago.
A little girl-about two years old-was playing in the sandbox at the park. Her twelve-year-old brother was playing in the sandbox with her.
The little girl constructed a mountain of sand, patting it here and there to give it shape. Her twelve-year-old brother helped. The little girl decided to squash the mountain down and start over. Her big brother helped. The little girl laughed with delight at their handprints in the sand. So did her big brother. She threw some sand in the air and giggled some more. So did her big brother.
For the longest time, they had a great time playing in the sand, just like a pair of two-year-olds without a care in the world.
Two women walked by, watching the children play. Just beyond the sandbox, one turned to the other, "Poor little boy, I wonder what's wrong with him." Her companion shook her head sympathetically. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. I feel sorry for his mother," she said.
As it turned out, his mother was sitting on a bench nearby, and she heard this little exchange. She just smiled. She found it rather amusing that passersby would conclude that the smartest kid in seventh grade had the mind of a two-year-old. She was quite pleased with her twelve-year-old son.
Do you recognize the Christmas gift in the story?
No green and red ribbons. No snowflake wrapping paper. No Christmas tree. Just a sandbox on a summer day. And a twelve-year-old boy who entered into the world of his two-year old sister and was with her, and I mean really with her. That's the Christmas gift in the story-the gift of presence.
Decorated evergreen trees are a late addition to the celebration of Christmas. Once upon a time, evergreen trees played a part in the pre-Christian traditions and rituals of northern Europe. When Christianity came to the region, the Church co-opted the evergreen, replacing pagan symbolism with Christian symbolism.
Wrapping paper and ribbons are an even later addition to the celebration of Christmas, and equally non-essential.
Even the date on the calendar is significant only because some date had to be chosen if the church was going to celebrate Jesus' birthday. It's hard to know exactly when Jesus was born. December 25 is as good a date as any other and better than some. Setting Christmas so near the winter solstice means the birth of the Messiah is celebrated when the earth itself is displaying the triumph of light over darkness (at least in the northern hemisphere).
The Church sets aside December 25 for one reason and one reason only-to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, our Lord and Savior. In Jesus, the creator and ruler of the universe set aside heavenly majesty and became incarnate in human flesh. In Jesus, God who is bigger and more mysterious and more awesome than all the universe entered into the world of his human creatures and was with us, and I mean really with us. That's the gift of Christmas-the gift of incarnation, the gift of presence.
On that summer day in the sandbox, the twelve-year-old boy could have given his sister the gift of his proximity. Being close by is a pretty good gift.
That's what any normal, self-respecting twelve-year-old would have done. He might have played with his sister, but he would have rolled his eyes on a regular basis. He would have been careful to look bored. He would have employed every nuance of body language available to an adolescent to make clear to anyone watching that this activity was beneath his dignity. He would have made sure that passersby would assume that he was in the sandbox merely out of the goodness of his heart and the compulsion of his mother. Any normal, self-respecting twelve-year-old would have been mortified to find that to passersby he appeared to have the mind of a two-year-old.
This boy didn't roll his eyes. He didn't look bored. It didn't occur to him even to wonder what anyone else might think. He wasn't there to impress anybody; he was there to play with his sister.
The boy could have given his sister the gift of just being next to her. But he didn't. He gave more. He gave the gift of being with her.
The gift of presence is about more than being in the same place as someone else. The gift of presence involves humbling oneself enough to be with someone else.
Imagine, for a moment, the existence of heavenly passersby. Strolling by the earthly city of Bethlehem one day, they notice the Christ child sleeping in the hay of a manger. Along with the animals, two humans watch over him. The man and woman show all the signs of having traveled far on few resources. They look exhausted. Their clothes are warm enough, but dusty and frayed. They look so very alone in that stable.
Footprints on the muddy path hint at the shepherds who visited. But, for the most part, Bethlehem, crowded with travelers, seems unaware of this particular newborn.
The scene doesn't make any sense to the heavenly passersby. They recognize the Son of God. He should be in the heavens, being glorified by the heavenly host. What's he doing here?
It's beneath his dignity. If he's going to come so near to human creatures, at least he should make it clear that he is there only out of the goodness of his heart and the compulsion of his Father.
He should have made his presence known in the company of kings. He should have demanded lodging in a palace. What's he doing in a stable?
He should have brought a crew of angelic servants to meet his every need. What's he doing showing up as a helpless baby?
Imagine what these heavenly passersby would conclude, if they didn't already know the story.
Apparently, the Son of God was unconcerned about appearances. He wasn't trying to impress anybody. He was there to be with his people.
The Christ could have given his people the gift of just being nearby. But he didn't. He gave more. He came to us as one of us. As one of us, he experienced the total dependence of infancy. As one of us, he experienced the wonder and the challenge of growing up. As one of us, he experienced cold and hunger and weariness. As one of us, he experienced friendship and laughter and celebration. As one of us, he experienced loneliness and betrayal and rejection and accusation. As one of us, he suffered and died.
The gift of presence is about more than being in the same place as someone else. The gift of presence involves humbling oneself enough to be with someone else.
Christmas gifts don't always come in December. They don't always come wrapped in festive paper with red and green ribbons. They aren't always found under decorated trees. The purest form of Christmas gift is the gift of presence.
The gift of presence has also been called the ministry of presence.
In Jesus, God who is bigger and more mysterious and more awesome than all the universe entered into the world of his human creatures and was with us, and I mean really with us. He didn't come trying to prove anything. He came to reveal the love of his Father.
Jesus didn't cling to his dignity. He humbled himself, coming to us where we were, receiving us as we were.
Jesus was not jealous of his time. He spent a lifetime with us, and whomever he was with received his full attention for that time. He did not look down on us. He reached out to us with compassion. He touched the untouchable. He welcomed the outcast. He offered hospitality to social misfits and people of questionable character. He received hospitality from rich men of pure and impure motive. He looked beyond outward appearances and into people's hearts-not only with the poor, the broken, and the disreputable, but also with the rich and the powerful. He was just as unimpressed by glitz, fine clothes, and proper etiquette as he was by signs of poverty or brokenness.
Jesus invited those who had it all to lay it all down so that they might receive something better. He invited those who had nothing to lift up their eyes so that they might be filled.
The incarnation of Jesus Christ-his birth and life as a human being-was the ultimate ministry of presence. The incarnation does not, by itself, save anybody. Redemption and hope come through the cross of Christ and his resurrection. But the incarnation sets the stage for redemption and hope, and incarnation creates opportunity for transformation.
Those of us who desire to follow Jesus are called to be like Jesus-to love as he loved, to serve as he served, to witness to the love of the Father that he revealed.
Those of us who desire to follow Jesus are called to a ministry of presence. As the Holy Spirit comes to us and makes his home with us, we are called to enter into the world of those whom God places in our lives and to be with them. We don't need to prove anything. We have only one task-to reveal the love of the Father.
We can't do this if we insist on clinging to our dignity. We have to humble ourselves, come to people where they are, and receive people as they are.
We can't do this if we are jealous of our time. Even in a culture that celebrates multi-tasking, Jesus invites us to give our full attention in each moment to the one he is asking us to love in that moment.
As Jesus does not look down on us, so we are invited not to look down, but to reach out with compassion. Jesus touched the untouchable; so can we. Jesus welcomed the outcast; so can we. Jesus looked beyond outward appearances; by the gracious equipping of the Holy Spirit, so can we. He offered gracious hospitality to all who would receive it, and he graciously received hospitality from all who would offer it; so can we.
Poor, broken, or disreputable-our first task is to love. Rich or powerful-our first task is to love.
Through the ministry of presence, the love of the Father is revealed.
Through the ministry of presence, relationships are nurtured.
Through the ministry of presence, the Holy Spirit creates opportunities to invite those who have it all to lay it all down so that they might receive something better and to invite those who have nothing to lift up their eyes so that they might be filled.
Imagine going to Briarcliff Mall this afternoon, and standing among the hustle and bustle of holiday shoppers, and asking them one-by-one, "What does a Christmas gift look like? How can you tell a Christmas gift from any other kind of gift?"
I'd like to think that it wouldn't be long before someone…maybe an older person-eyes twinkling with wisdom and understanding…would stop and explain, "It's hard to say what a Christmas gift looks like. It can come in all shapes and sizes, colors and seasons. But if you know the story of the Baby born in Bethlehem, and you keep it in your heart, you'll know a Christmas gift when you see it, for it is the gift of presence and it creates opportunities for transformation."
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