ADVENT 3 - SAW THE
GLORY
Luke 2:8-14
The second verse of our Advent theme song, “Infant
Holy,
Infant Lowly,” begins:
Flocks
were sleeping,
Shepherds keeping Vigil till the morning new
Saw the glory, Heard
the story, Tidings of a gospel true.
A couple of weeks ago Linda and I went down to the
National
Gallery of Art in Washington,
D.C. to see a special
exhibition. We actually saw two special
exhibits of paintings at the National Gallery of Art that day, one in
the
original West Building,
and another in the East
Building, but I’m
only
going to tell you about one of those exhibits today.
Next week I will describe the other
exhibit. The special exhibit in the West Building
features the paintings of the nineteenth century English artist J.M.W.
Turner. The exhibition runs through
January 6, 2008, so there are still a few weeks left if you want to go
down to
see it. If you miss it in Washington, you can catch it in Dallas
and then New York
next year.
J.M.W. Turner, who lived from 1775-1851, was the
leading British
artist of his era. He excelled equally
in the media of watercolor and oil, and he raised the status of
landscape painting
to a new level. The art establishment of
his time believed that the most worthy subjects for paintings were
scenes from
history, the Bible, literature, and mythology.
Landscape was considered a lesser subject for artistic
representation. But Turner was drawn to
landscapes (no pun intended), which he sometimes combined with
historical or
biblical or literary or mythological themes.
Among the 145 paintings that we saw were “Snow Storm: Hannibal and His Army Crossing the Alps,” an
oil on canvas painting completed in 1812; “The Battle of Trafalgar,” an
oil on
canvass completed in 1824; and “Temple of Poseidon,” a pencil and
watercolor
piece completed in 1834.
As we walked through the exhibition and studied
the
paintings, I noticed two things about Turner’s landscapes.
First, almost every painting features the
interplay between light and darkness, between brilliant bursts of
sunlight and
muted shadows often on the periphery of the canvas.
The second thing I noticed in all the
paintings was a sense of awe or mystery or even fear created by his
depictions
of the untamed forces of nature. I later
came to find out that this sense of awe was deliberate, that Turner was
fascinated with what philosophers of his day called the Sublime, the
sense of
being dwarfed, humbled, even thunderstruck by the unrelenting power of
the
natural world. Turner was influenced by
the philosopher Edmund Burke, who distinguished between the Sublime and
the
Beautiful. The Beautiful, according to
Burke, are things that are smooth, unthreatening, and pleasurable. Fields of wildflowers or leafy trees
reflected in a tranquil pond are beautiful, but they don’t really
disturb us or
shake us or move to fear. The Sublime,
on the other hand, are huge, vast, and overpowering, such as a volcanic
eruption, a storm at sea, or a snow squall on a mountaintop. It was the Sublime which Turner sought to
portray in his paintings—a sense of the vastness and majesty and power
of
nature, beyond human control or comprehension.
Confronted with the Sublime humans react with shock and awe, and
even
terror, realizing that there is power far greater than ourselves.
In our travels Linda and I have been privileged to
witness
many beautiful sights, but we’ve also experienced certain vistas that
could
only be called sublime. Standing on the
Canadian side of Niagara Falls,
watching the thunderous torrent of water cascade down some 16 stories
into the
river below, how could you not be filled with awe and wonder? Or standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon,
seeing how the Colorado River carved
a vast gorge
into the rock miles wide and almost a mile deep, how could you not feel
dwarfed
by the majesty and grandeur of that? No
wonder Native Americans considered the site holy. Niagara Falls
and the Grand Canyon are more than
beautiful;
they are sublime.
A few years ago on a trip to Ireland
we took a ferry ride out into Galway
Bay to the largest of the Aran
Islands, Inis Mor. Approximately twelve square miles in area,
with a year-round population of about 900 souls, Inis Mor is known for
its prehistoric
stone forts dating back perhaps 3000 years.
The most famous of the forts is Dun Aengus, located on the
northwest
side of the island, perched on the precipice of a sheer cliff that
rises 300
feet above the ocean. The view from the
cliff top was simply breathtaking, providing a panorama of 75 miles of
coastline. But as majestic as the view
was,
it was also terrifying. You see, there
is no railing at the edge of the cliff, no wall or fence, nothing to
prevent
the careless visitor from slipping and plunging straight down over 300
feet
into the sea. To add to the terror, the
wind was howling, strong enough to blow a body off the cliff. So, to keep my balance and to provide a low
profile against the wind, I scooted out to the edge of the cliff on my
belly. Lying flat on my stomach I looked
straight
down to see the waves crashing on the rocks some 30 stories below. Historians believe that the ancient fort was
more than a military outpost, as impregnable as it seems.
They believe that the edifice also served as
a ceremonial and religious site. Again,
who could not feel a sense of the sublime in such a place?
The scripture says that on the night that Jesus
was born,
there were shepherds in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by
night. Suddenly an angel of the Lord
appeared before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and
they
were filled with fear. I’ve never seen
an angel, and I’ve never experienced the glory of the Lord shining in
that way,
but I can imagine being overwhelmed with awe and wonder and terror at
such a
sight. As I crept near the edge of the
cliff top on Inis Mor, I was gripped with awe and wonder and terror at
the same
time. Some experiences are so vast and
powerful that we feel small and vulnerable.
Psychologists call such awesome experiences “galvanizing events”
that
can shake us to our very core.
The appearance of the angel and the glory of the
Lord was a
galvanizing event for the shepherds. Why
would an angel of the Lord appear to them?
What had they done to merit such a manifestation of the divine? No wonder the shepherds were terrified; they
figured this angel had appeared to announce God’s judgment upon them. After all, shepherds were considered a low
class of people, ritually impure, sinners disqualified from attending
the religious
services in the Temple
by the very nature of their work. Never
in their wildest dreams could they have imagined the Lord coming to
them,
except to condemn them. But the angel
said, “Do not be afraid! I am bringing
you good news of great joy for all the people:
to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah,
the
Lord.” The Messiah born for them! It was almost too good to believe.
There is something about Christmas that is more
than
beautiful; there is something about Christmas that is sublime. There is something about Christmas that
should shake us to the core of our being.
To think that the Creator of the Universe, the Maker and Keeper
of heaven
and earth, the One who flung the countless stars into place across the
infinite
vastness of space, to think that God, the Eternal, the Divine, should
come to
us—how could we not be filled with awe and wonder and yes, even a holy
fear?
But no, we seldom feel that way at all. We have domesticated Christmas.
We have turned it into Santa Claus and
reindeer. We have reduced it to holiday
parties and fiber-optic artificial Christmas trees and piles of
brightly
wrapped store-bought gifts. Christmas
doesn’t terrify anyone anymore, except those who procrastinate and put
off
their shopping to the last minute. Walk
through the stores the day before Christmas and check out the
expressions of
panic, even desperation, on the faces of some shoppers.
Christmas may sometimes be beautiful for us,
but rarely is it sublime.
This year Christmas is going to
be tough for a lot of
people. Some people are dealing with the
loss of a loved one, and the Christmas season will bring back a flood
of
memories, and perhaps a flood of tears. Some
people are dealing with health issues, either their own or that of a
loved one,
and it is hard to celebrate when the future is so uncertain. Others are facing economic difficulties. The sub-prime lending crisis is having a
rippling effect through many sectors of our economy.
The real estate, banking, and building
industries are hard hit, foreclosures are rising to record levels, and
tens of
thousands of people are at risk of losing their homes.
The price of oil, the war in Iraq, the
falling value of the dollar, and other factors have made Wall Street
jittery,
with the stock market rising and falling on a daily basis.
At such a time as this, we need a touch of
the sublime, we need a reminder that God is bigger than all of our
problems. Yes, there are times when we
all feel vulnerable and small, but we have a great God who sent his Son
into
the world to show us how much he loves us.
“Do not be afraid!” the angel
said. “I am bringing you good news of
great joy for
all the people.” This third Sunday of
Advent we lit the pink candle, the candle that represents joy, because
we
needed to be reminded that Christmas is really about good news of great
joy. Despite all the problems of life,
despite
all the worries of life, our Savior has come.
Yes, Christmas is more than we
have made it. We have tried to make
Christmas beautiful,
but the true meaning of Christmas is sublime.
Jesus came into the world, not just to fill our hearts with
holiday
cheer, but to change our hearts. He came
to love us, and forgive us, and remake us in his own image. He came to give us a power beyond our own
strength, and a new quality of life beyond our own imagining.
This year may you have more than
a “Merry Christmas” or a
“Happy Holiday.” This year may you have
an experience of the Sublime, as Christ comes to you anew, with love
and power
and grace. And may you respond to his
coming with the only gift that he desires, the gift of yourself.
Love so amazing, so sublime,
demands my soul, my life, my
all.
Bruce Salmon,
Pastor,
Village Baptist
Church, Bowie, Maryland
December 16, 2007
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