Why would Yahweh, the God of Gods, choose to reveal himself to the Israelites, a tiny oppressed people group on the fringes of Middle Eastern society? Why not to the Egyptians, the cultural and political leaders of the Bronze Age? Why not the Babylonians, that magnificent, lordly civilisation at the heart of the fertile Mesopotamian plain? There were so many options which had a better chance of success.
And then, in the midst of the Roman Empire, when he chose to send his greatest Message by the hand of his only son, not only did he bypass the Romans for his previously favoured Jews, but he steered clear of the temple complex in Jerusalem, of the priests and civic leaders, and instead arrived in Galilee among the poor peasants and craftsmen. How much harder could he make it for himself?
Marshall McLuhan famously said 'the medium is the message'. That is to say, the form and method of delivery shapes and determines the content. A message delivered in a book will be different to ostensibly the same message delivered through film. A message delivered by a black woman conveys something different to a seemingly identical message delivered by a white man. A message delivered from Judea, or from Galilee, is different from one delivered from Babylon, or Rome.
It is tempting, perhaps, to see it as a mark of some sort of ethnic superiority, as if despite appearances their special relationship with God was somehow a badge of honour. The Chosen People. John the Baptist gave the lie to these ideas.
...do not think you can say to yourselves, “We have Abraham as our father.” I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham.
God never chose the powerful. He never wanted to be at the heart of an empire. When he went looking for a 'man after his own heart' to replace Saul as king he chose the youngest of Jesse's many sons, the one considered so unworthy of notice that he was sent out to mind the sheep while the prophet visited. When he revealed himself to Elijah he avoided the gale-force wind, the earthquake and the consuming fire and revealed himself instead in a tiny, almost inaudible whisper.
When he sought a woman to bear his own son he sent the angel far from the compromised priests and the centres of power in Jerusalem, to a young single woman in the outer reaches of Galilee. His son had to be born far from home, in a borrowed room, with rumours swirling about his paternity and his mother's morals. He had to be welcomed into the world, not by kings and priests, but by shepherds and foreign astrologers.
Perhaps if God were to come today he would not come to Australia, with our riches and our comforts. He would more likely come to a teeming refugee camp in Jordan, or a tiny poor village in Nigeria, or a slum in Kolkata.
But if, for some strange reason (perhaps because we are far away from everywhere) he chose to come to Australia, he would not be born into an Anglo family in Sydney or Brisbane. He would be born into an Aboriginal family. And not just any Aboriginal family. He would not be the grandson of a Linda Burney or a Ken Wyatt. Not that I disrespect those hard-working leaders, but they are like the priests, with a stake in the system. God would not go there.
Rather, he would send his messenger to a teenage girl in Aurukun, or Yuendumu, or Hopevale. She would be frightened and confused, but she would not refuse. Perhaps she would have a steady partner who would take responsibility for the child. Perhaps not. She would have to travel hundreds of kilometres to the nearest maternity unit to give birth, and then on discharge she would bunk in with some aunty or cousin in town while she recovered. Perhaps they would have a spare bed for her, or perhaps the spare bed would be occupied by some important uncle and she would have to sleep on the floor.
No-one would pay her much attention, just another Aboriginal girl careless enough to get herself pregnant. No-one would pay her son much attention either, just another young black man from the mission, hanging out with other black people and refugees, with poor women and unemployed labourers, with homeless people and sick people. What would he know?
It's almost as if God was trying to tell us something in this avoiding of kings and politicians, of the powerful and the rich, in his avoidance of the centres of power and privilege. It's like he's trying to draw our eyes somewhere we are reluctant to look, to open our ears to voices we are reluctant to hear. It's almost as if Christmas is not a time for safety, for rest, for giving of opulent gifts, but a time for hearing uncomfortable truths, for seeing invisible people, for building something new and different.
The medium is the message. The Word became flesh. Whose flesh?
Happy Christmas, I guess...
And then, in the midst of the Roman Empire, when he chose to send his greatest Message by the hand of his only son, not only did he bypass the Romans for his previously favoured Jews, but he steered clear of the temple complex in Jerusalem, of the priests and civic leaders, and instead arrived in Galilee among the poor peasants and craftsmen. How much harder could he make it for himself?
Marshall McLuhan famously said 'the medium is the message'. That is to say, the form and method of delivery shapes and determines the content. A message delivered in a book will be different to ostensibly the same message delivered through film. A message delivered by a black woman conveys something different to a seemingly identical message delivered by a white man. A message delivered from Judea, or from Galilee, is different from one delivered from Babylon, or Rome.
It is tempting, perhaps, to see it as a mark of some sort of ethnic superiority, as if despite appearances their special relationship with God was somehow a badge of honour. The Chosen People. John the Baptist gave the lie to these ideas.
...do not think you can say to yourselves, “We have Abraham as our father.” I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham.
God never chose the powerful. He never wanted to be at the heart of an empire. When he went looking for a 'man after his own heart' to replace Saul as king he chose the youngest of Jesse's many sons, the one considered so unworthy of notice that he was sent out to mind the sheep while the prophet visited. When he revealed himself to Elijah he avoided the gale-force wind, the earthquake and the consuming fire and revealed himself instead in a tiny, almost inaudible whisper.
When he sought a woman to bear his own son he sent the angel far from the compromised priests and the centres of power in Jerusalem, to a young single woman in the outer reaches of Galilee. His son had to be born far from home, in a borrowed room, with rumours swirling about his paternity and his mother's morals. He had to be welcomed into the world, not by kings and priests, but by shepherds and foreign astrologers.
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| Nativity scene by Miree, Wiradjuri Nation |
But if, for some strange reason (perhaps because we are far away from everywhere) he chose to come to Australia, he would not be born into an Anglo family in Sydney or Brisbane. He would be born into an Aboriginal family. And not just any Aboriginal family. He would not be the grandson of a Linda Burney or a Ken Wyatt. Not that I disrespect those hard-working leaders, but they are like the priests, with a stake in the system. God would not go there.
Rather, he would send his messenger to a teenage girl in Aurukun, or Yuendumu, or Hopevale. She would be frightened and confused, but she would not refuse. Perhaps she would have a steady partner who would take responsibility for the child. Perhaps not. She would have to travel hundreds of kilometres to the nearest maternity unit to give birth, and then on discharge she would bunk in with some aunty or cousin in town while she recovered. Perhaps they would have a spare bed for her, or perhaps the spare bed would be occupied by some important uncle and she would have to sleep on the floor.
No-one would pay her much attention, just another Aboriginal girl careless enough to get herself pregnant. No-one would pay her son much attention either, just another young black man from the mission, hanging out with other black people and refugees, with poor women and unemployed labourers, with homeless people and sick people. What would he know?
It's almost as if God was trying to tell us something in this avoiding of kings and politicians, of the powerful and the rich, in his avoidance of the centres of power and privilege. It's like he's trying to draw our eyes somewhere we are reluctant to look, to open our ears to voices we are reluctant to hear. It's almost as if Christmas is not a time for safety, for rest, for giving of opulent gifts, but a time for hearing uncomfortable truths, for seeing invisible people, for building something new and different.
The medium is the message. The Word became flesh. Whose flesh?
 |
| Nativity Scene by Tom Bishop and Matthew Cook Boomalli Aboriginal Arts Cooperative |
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