Last revised: December 16, 2014
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RCL: Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)
RoCa: Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14
Christmas Day Gospel: John 1:1-18

Isaiah 9:2-7


1. James G. Williams, The Bible, Violence, and the Sacred; his sections on the prophet Isaiah are on pages 146 (the call of Isaiah) and 151-152 (dealing with Second Isaiah separately on pages 157-162). His summary of Isaiah is as follows:

Isaiah prophesied about 745-700 B.C.E. His vision of the new age includes a new Davidic king (Isa 9:1-7; 11:1-8), but there is no clear evidence that he knew or appealed to the Exodus-Sinai tradition. Likewise unclear is his view of how the sacrificial cult began. But there is no doubt that he condemns it in unmistakable terms. In fact, the connection of sacrifice and violence is made more explicitly than in Hosea and Amos. Those who bring "vain offerings," who think YHWH delights "in the blood of bulls," have hands "full of blood." This image, whether hyperbole or not, pictures mass violence and murder. The prophetic alternative is an ethical exhortation given in a staccato series of brief imperatives:
Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean;
remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes;
cease to do evil, learn to do good;
seek justice, rescue the oppressed,
defend the orphan, plead for the widow.
Torah, which for Isaiah is synonymous with the word of YHWH (1:10), does not make victims in cult offerings or in any sort of violence. Rather, it draws all the peoples to it in peace and leads them to "beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more" (2:4). This vision of the new age mentions "the house of the God of Jacob," undoubtedly a reference to the Temple, but quite strikingly there is no mention at all of a reconstituted sacrificial cult. The "house of Jacob" is associated with torah, with teaching, not with sacrifice (2:3).
2. James Alison, The Joy of Being Wrong, p. 137. The appearance of Isaiah 9 comes toward the end of a superb chapter -- ch. 4, "The Resurrection and Original Sin" -- the chapter that lays out the core of his thesis through readings of John (primarily John 9), Paul (primarily Romans), and a survey of the OT. As he is providing a summary of the Old Testament view of sin, he cites Isaiah 9 as representing the pinnacle of OT insight:
Some of the prophetic critique goes further, in understanding that the presence of fratricidal violence, the reign of death, is an universal phenomenon, which is a veil of blindness that is over all peoples (Isa. 25:7-8). When therefore Isaiah talks of the darkness (9:2; 42:16; 59:9; 60:2; etc.) out of which God will lead his people, it is a particular form of darkness to which he is referring -- a darkness related to the reign of death -- to the boot of the tramping warrior and the garment rolled in blood (Is 9:5). This theme is not greatly developed, but there is enough of it present to suggest that prophetic insight went as far as to see sin as related to the reign of death precisely in the measure in which God is increasingly perceived as entirely foreign to death. (p. 137)
Alison then brings the chapter to an end by returning to where he began it, the resurrection as the key which unlocks the notion of not just sin but "original sin.":
We are back to the double insight into God's deathlessness and human deathfulness provided by Jesus resurrection. It is now clear not only that human beings must struggle against evil so as to avoid death, but a step further has been reached. The resurrection reveals that human beings are already shot through with death in a way that no amount of struggle can avoid. It is not that we are sick, but that we are dead. Life is not something fought for, but something given. There is no real freedom that does not pass through a recognition of complicity in death. (p. 138)
Our complicity in death is the violent death that is the victimage mechanism which founds human culture -- the boot of the tramping warrior and the garment rolled in blood (Is 9:5).

3. Brian McLarenWe Make the Road By Walking, ch. 15, "Women on the Edge." In an Advent/Christmas season essay, primarily on the stories of Elizabeth and Mary in Luke 1, McLaren brilliantly brings in Isaiah 9:
Many of us today will suspect that Luke made up this story about Mary to echo Isaiah’s prophecy about a son being born to a virgin, just as he invented the story of Elizabeth conceiving in old age to echo the story of Sarah. It’s tempting to quickly assign both stories to the category of primitive, prescientific legend and be done with them. After all, both stories are, to scientific minds, simply impossible.

But what if that’s the point? What if their purpose is to challenge us to blur the line between what we think is possible and what we think is impossible? Could we ever come to a time when swords would be beaten into plowshares? When the predatory people in power — the lions — would lie down in peace with the vulnerable and the poor — the lambs? When God’s justice would flow like a river — to the lowest and most “god-forsaken” places on Earth? When the brokenhearted would be comforted and the poor would receive good news? If you think, Never — it’s impossible, then maybe you need to think again. Maybe it’s not too late for something beautiful to be born. Maybe it’s not too soon, either. Maybe the present moment is pregnant with possibilities we can’t see or even imagine.

In this light, the actual point of these pregnancy stories — however we interpret their factual status — is a challenge to us all: to dare to hope, like Elizabeth and Mary, that the seemingly impossible is possible. They challenge us to align our lives around the “impossible possibilities” hidden in this present, pregnant moment. (pp. 68-69)

Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)


1. James Alison, "Looking Backwards for Christmas," a homiletic reflection on Christmas that brings out many elements of his theology succinctly (new to his website in 2005). For example:

Jesus did not just happen, as an adult, to cotton on to something interesting. All along, there had been a purpose to his being alive – a purpose not comprehended at the time, and comprehended only gradually afterwards. That purpose turned out to be the rescuing of our capacity to be the fulfilment of God’s creation, a capacity that was so snarled up in us that we did not even know what being created was about.
2. Gil Bailie's tape series "The Gospel of Luke," tape #2. Link to my notes / transcription of his lecture on Luke 1-2. Here are excerpts on the Christmas passage:
"In those days..." Probably nothing historical here, but Luke is using it to make another contrast. Rome is the center of the known world. The emperor's title is "Son of God." Acting as the Son of God, Augustus declared that his whole realm should be counted, measured, an act of control and power coming out from Rome. And it causes Joseph to go to Bethlehem, which was nowhere. You have this juxtaposition of all this Roman power and these two simple people who go to this out-of-the-way place, and there the savior of the world is born.

And born into a lowly situation: "she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth and laid him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn." This is the gospel in miniature. There's three things here about the birth that tell us everything about the gospel:

(1) There's no room in the inn. (Luke 9:58) "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head." In the gospel of John (1:9): "He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him." It's in the nature of the Messiah that he is always the one left out. He's the stone the builders rejected. That there's no room in the inn is not incidental to the story; this is what the Messiah is. There's no room in Rome, so go to Israel. There's not room in Israel, so go to Nazareth. There's not room in Nazareth, so go to Bethlehem. There's no room in the inn, so go out to the shed where the animals are. Out, out, out, out.... The Messiah is the one left out. The real truth breaks in on you when you recognize the stone the builders rejected that becomes the cornerstone.

(2) Who first gets wind of this? The shepherds. We have to shake free of some of our Christmas piety. This is not some nice little pastoral scene. Shepherds in the first century represented something like bikers, socially. They were the unwashed, unscrupulous. People locked their doors when they came into town. They had the social mark of gypsies, with a very low social status. Luke always turns the social order on its head: Luke is always interested in the women, the outcast. And so the angel appears to the shepherds: "Do not be afraid!"

(3.a) Shepherds can find the child by two signs: The deeper implication of swaddling clothes: culture. The bands of cloth were used to shape the child physically, a way of physically forming the child. When we say that Jesus takes on human form, this story shows us that it includes being enculturated. Culture shapes us spiritually. Jesus, too, was a product of culture and not just nature. Its not like today in which we apologize for culture. Mary wouldn't look over to Joseph and say, "Well, maybe we should let him decide for himself. Let's not cram anything down his throat." We think that somehow the blank slate is preferable. Jesus himself is swaddled; he's enculturated.

(3.b) Manger: a feeding trough, a place where the animals come to eat. At the end of the gospel: The disciples of Emmaus find Jesus in the breaking of bread, at an eating place. Where do you find him? These shepherds will also find Jesus in an eating place.

"But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart." --not her head, her heart. What's the difference between pondering them in our heart or in our head. The gospel is an epistemological emancipation from superstition. But it's not a recipe for Enlightenment rationalism, which is a modern superstition. It's a mental narrowing. We're lucky that the gospel stands there as a rock in the road, filled with stories of miracles and inscrutable things, because it's a reminder that we live in a world of superstition. It just happens to be Enlightenment rationalist superstition. We assume that there's an end to pondering, a point at which you have things figured out. There is no conclusion to the pondering. Pondering is a way of life that is synonymous with faith.

3. Andrew Marr, Abbot of St. Gregory's Abbey (Three Rivers, MI) is a long-time reader and writer on Mimetic Theory and in his blog, "Imaginary Visions of True Peace," has several essays relating to Christmas: "Celebrating the Prince of Peace"; "Outcasts at the Manger"; and "The Word Became Vulnerable Flesh."

4. René Girard, Things Hidden, pp. 215-223. Girard's anthropology is not an excuse to disparage traditional orthodox positions such as the divinity of Christ or even the virgin birth. Rather, he supports his position from the standpoint of such staple doctrines. Link to his sections on "The Divinity of Christ" and "The Virgin Birth."

5. In a sermon during Advent 2006, Father Raniero Cantalamessa -- Pontifical Household preacher, in the presence of Benedict XVI and members of the Roman Curia in preparation for Christmas -- included this excellent interfaith nugget:

In the Qur'an there is a Sura worth knowing (also as an aid in friendly dialogue between religions) that is dedicated to the birth of Jesus:
"The angels said, 'O Mary! Allâh gives you good tidings through a word from Him. His name is the Messiah, Jesus, son of Mary. He shall be worthy of regard in this world and in the hereafter… 'And he will speak to the people when in the cradle and when of old age, and shall be of the righteous.' Mary said, 'My Lord, how can I have a child when no man has yet touched me?' He said, 'In this way: Allâh creates what He will. When He decides something He simply says "be" and it is.'" (Qur'an, Sura III)
See the full sermon on Zenit as "Father Cantalamessa on the Peacemakers."

6. Robert Hamerton-Kelly, sermon from December 24, 2000, and sermon from December 24, 2002 (Woodside Village Church); sermon from December 18, 2005, sermon from December 17, 2006, and sermon from December 6, 2009 (Society of St. John, Palo Alto, CA).

7. Brian McLarenWe Make the Road By Walking, ch. 17, "Surprising People." This chapter begins with the surprising women named in Matthew's genealogy and then transitions to the shepherds:
We might say that Jesus isn’t entering humanity from the top with a kind of trickle-down grace, but rather from the bottom, with grace that rises from the grass roots up.

That theme is beautifully embodied in the unsung heroes of Luke’s Christmas story: shepherds. They’re the ones who, along with Joseph and Mary, have a front-row seat to welcome the “good news of great joy for all the people.” They’re the down-to-Earth people who hear the celestial announcement from angelic messengers.

Shepherds were marginal people in society — a lot like Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba, and Mary. They weren’t normal “family men,” because they lived outdoors most of the time, guarding sheep from wolves and thieves, and guiding sheep to suitable pasture. A younger son, for whom there was no hope of inheriting the family farm, might become a shepherd, as would a man who for some reason was not suitable for marriage. It was among poor men like these that Jesus’ birth was first celebrated. (pp. 76-77)

His sermon/essay for Christmas Eve -- ch. 17a, "The Light Has Come" -- begins with the message of light and aliveness from John 1 but ends with the Luke 2 story:

On Christmas Eve, then, we remember a silent, holy night long ago when Luke tells us of a young and very pregnant woman and weary man walking beside her. They had traveled over eighty miles, a journey of several days, from Nazareth in the province of Galilee to Bethlehem in the province of Judea. Mary went into labor, and because nobody could provide them with a normal bed in a normal house, she had to give birth in a stable. We can imagine oxen and donkeys and cattle filling the air with their sounds and scent as Mary wrapped the baby in rags and laid him in a manger, a food trough for farm animals. On that dark night, in such a humble place, enfleshed in a tiny, vulnerable, homeless, helpless baby . . . God’s light began to glow.

Politicians compete for the highest offices. Business tycoons scramble for a bigger and bigger piece of the pie. Armies march and scientists study and philosophers philosophize and preachers preach and laborers sweat. But in that silent baby, lying in that humble manger, there pulses more potential power and wisdom and grace and aliveness than all the rest of us can imagine.

To be alive in the adventure of Jesus is to kneel at the manger and gaze upon that little baby who is radiant with so much promise for our world today. (pp. 80-81)

Reflections and Questions

1. In 2013 we had been using a series on the Isaiah readings in Advent, based on a presentation by Barbara Lundblad at the 2013 Festival of Homiletics, titled "The Word Isaiah Saw." For Christmas Eve I used the 'objects' of a baby in a wash basin and bath salts. I played with the old saying about "throwing out the baby with the bath water" -- except from a Girardian perspective we tend to throw out the baby and keep the bath water. Our cultures, the bath water in which we sit, are based on expulsion. We are forever blaming someone and expelling them. Throwing out the babies is the constant. The cultural container remains the same; only the names of those thrown out changes. The baby born in Bethlehem will let himself be expelled in order for Easter to expose the smelliness of the water, and for Pentecost to produce disciples of salt who begin to sweeten the water once again. Link to the sermon "Throwing out the Baby...."

2. Link to a sermon that makes use of many of Gil Bailie's comments and themes, entitled "The Spirit of Christmas."

3. The Christmas story is one of the most inclusive of nature. Subsequent tradition has made it even more so. We assume that because Jesus was laid in a manger there were probably animals present. Did the stars become involved in the heavenly host? Did the shepherds bring any lambs? The magi their camels? We tend to depict the nativity as well-represented by nature. Our songs speak of heav'n and nature singing, the fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains. Yet, if the ultimate scope of salvation for the typical Christian faith is for a disembodied soul to live in heaven, then why is the rest of nature so joyful? My 2003 sermon, "Let Heav'n and Nature Sing," raised this question and answered it with the recent work of N. T. Wright in mind. In The Resurrection of the Son of God Wright argues that the common notion of heaven as a place for disembodied souls is more like Plato's view than Jesus' view. A properly Jewish-Christian hope is for the whole creation. See also my paragraph on Heaven in "My Core Convictions."

In the 2006 version of this sermon ("Let Heav'n and Nature Sing") I ventured a bit more into our modern scientific worldview that tells the story of the universe in terms of either a fizzling out of entropy or a "big crunch" into another big bang. But against both those stories is the story of life in the opposite direction of either entropy or big crunch. Faith sides with this latter story of science in order to celebrate God's promise of life in Jesus Christ as the true bottom line of the universe.

4. In 2007 I used a favorite Christmas story from Story Share (by subscription) with an excerpt from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, for a sermon, "This Will Be a Sign," on the theme:

He came that first Christmas as a vulnerable, poor, and homeless child that we might learn to hear him say to us tonight, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’

John 1:1-18


1. René Girard, Things Hidden, Book II, Ch. 4, "The Logos of Heraclitus and the Logos of John" (pp. 263-280). I give the last word to Girard in the essay "René Girard: The Anthropology of the Cross as Alternative to Post-Modern Literary Criticism" from this chapter of Things Hidden. Here is an excerpt from that essay:

But how do we know, a post-modern disciple of Derrida might ask, that this version of "light" and "darkness" is not just another binary opposition of yet another version of logocentric theory? The question, as I would like to re-pose it in this essay, involves whether or not we let our collective horror at human violence in this post-Holocaust age become the impulse to perform yet another violent expulsion, this time of the truth most pertinent here, namely, the truth about human violence. Or perhaps we re-veil the truth about our violence under a new cloud of mystification called the text, never being able to offer a theory of violence, only the violence of theories. Girard is bold enough in this post-modern context to offer a theory of violence. In the face of the post-modern anxiety over theories, let me give the last word to Girard.

In Part Two of Things Hidden since the Foundation of the World, Girard demonstrates a "non-sacrificial" reading of the Gospel, one which makes clear that the sacrifice of the Cross is about our need for sacrificial violence which we project as God's need. Human beings are the ones who, through our false idols, demand sacrifice, not God. Girard's next chapter relates how historical Christianity has lapsed back into a sacrificial reading of the Gospel in order once again to justify our violence. He concludes Part Two with a chapter that draws a dramatic distinction between the Heraclitean Logos of Violence and the Johannine Logos of Love. The Prologue of John (John 1:1-18) is about how the former is continually trying to expel the latter. I leave the reader with the posing of a universal truth which I do not think could be seen as imperialistic. Girard writes:

The Johannine Logos is foreign to any kind of violence; it is therefore forever expelled, an absent Logos that never has had any direct, determining influence over human cultures. These cultures are based on the Heraclitean Logos, the Logos of expulsion, the Logos of violence, which, if it is not recognized, can provide the foundation of a culture. The Johannine Logos discloses the truth of violence by having itself expelled. First and foremost, John's Prologue undoubtedly refers to the Passion. But in a more general way, the misrecognition of the Logos and mankind's expulsion of it disclose one of the fundamental principles of human society.

. . .This revelation comes from the Logos itself. In Christianity, it is expelled once again by the sacrificial reading, which amounts to a return to the Logos of violence. All the same, the Logos is still in the process of revealing itself; if it tolerates being concealed yet another time, this is to put off for just a short while the fullness of its revelation.

The Logos of love puts up no resistance; it always allows itself to be expelled by the Logos of violence. But its expulsion is revealed in a more and more obvious fashion, and by the same process the Logos of violence is revealed as what can only exist by expelling the true Logos and feeding upon it in one way or another. (Things Hidden, pp. 271, 274)

It is my hope that such a theory of violence, which comes to light only when the truth about human violence lets itself be expelled by such violence, can begin to ease the post-modern anxiety about "logocentric" theories leading to violence. It is my faith that, in the light of the Victim raised as forgiveness, we can begin to follow the traces of an expelled human victim, not just the traces of an expelled gramme. In God's love, we would then become children of the Creator who learn to model the divine agape, increasingly leaving our violence behind. Is not this the goal worthy of the post-Holocaust age, rather than learning simply to identify violence everywhere in our texts?
2. Gil Bailie, Violence Unveiled, Ch. 13, "Where Are the Philosophers Now?" Bailie expands a bit on Girard's comparison of Heraclitus and John. Here is a brief summary of why Heraclitus is important to mimetic theory:
Heraclitus offered a theory of cultural origins strikingly different from the myths of creation that were a familiar feature of the pagan cults and the mystery religions of his time. For him, the “world” did not originate with the conniving schemes of Gaia, Uranus, Cronus, and their peevish, incestuous, and parricidal Olympian intrigues. It began with human violence, albeit a violence structured by some mysterious organizing principle. Heraclitus sensed that violence behaved in accord with an enigmatic logic of its own, which he called its logos. This logos or logic of violence made it possible for violence to both create and destroy. Heraclitus wrote:
War [polemos] is the father and king of all things; he has shown some to be gods and some mortals, he has made some slaves and others free . . . . Everything originates in strife . . . . Strife is justice; and all things both come to pass and perish through strife.
For Heraclitus, the logos of violence was an ordering principle that was generated by disorder itself. Once in play, this logos turned chaotic and destructive violence into socially stable and hierarchically differentiated social systems. Heraclitus saw that however random and lawless it is, collective violence nevertheless develops according to certain recognizable patterns, patterns that could not be traced to any cause or any conscious intent on the part of those participating in the violence. Furthermore, he appears to have seen that it is violence of the most lawless and random kind that is the most likely to conform to the mysterious ordering principle he termed the logos. (Violence Unveiled, pages 241-242)
Heraclitus is almost an early version of mimetic theory -- not the whole thing, of course, but significant bits of it in his aphorisms -- bits that have been important to latter day philosophers like Heidegger. What these philosophers haven't seen is the way in which the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and its logos of agape, is God's answer to the human logos of polemos. And so they also miss that there is an alternative to the logos of violence, tending to go from the descriptive to at least an implied normative. In short, the assumption that violence is behind everything receives an endorsement to use it wisely. Bailie's chapter is an excellent account of how philosophy comes up short.

3. Within philosophy itself Derrida's deconstructionist movement is largely about uncovering the violence embedded within philosophy. Andrew McKenna's book, Violence and Difference: Girard, Derrida, and Deconstruction, is a brilliant analysis of how Derrida comes so close and yet how the philosophical method ultimately comes up short compared to the anthropological hypotheses of mimetic theory.

4. Gil Bailie, "The Gospel of John" audio tape series, tape #1. Bailie's commentary on the Johannine Prologue is interspersed with comments on T.S. Eliot poetry and combined with Girardian insights into John 8. John 8:44 -- "You are from your father the devil, and you choose to do your father's desires. He was a murderer from the beginning and does not stand in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks according to his own nature, for he is a liar and the father of lies." -- expresses Heraclitus' logos of violence. For a full bibliography on John 8, see Reformation Day.

5. James Williams, The Bible, Violence & the Sacred, pp. 204-210.

6. James Alison, Raising Abel, pp. 49-56: his discussion of "Creation in Christ" (excerpt) elaborates on NT passages like John 1:1-3.

7. James Alison, The Joy of Being Wrong. Alison cites this passage at several points in Part 1, ch. 3, "The search for a soteriology." This chapter unfurls "the intelligence of the victim," which is the insight gained by the apostles in the wake of Jesus' Resurrection. Alison says, for example:

What was unique was the way in which, after Jesus' death they began to be able to tell the story of this life and death not from their own viewpoint, as muddled hangers-on, but from the viewpoint of the dead man, of the one who had become the victim. It is not as though they had invented a profound new insight into Judaism to honor the memory of a dead teacher. Rather they were now able to see clearly the inner unity of the interpretation of Judaism which their teacher had been explaining to them as with reference to himself. They were able to see his life through his own eyes: that is, tell the story of the lynch from the viewpoint of the victim's own understanding of what was going on, before the lynch, leading up to, and during it. (p. 80)
What the disciples became aware of after the resurrection was that the person whose consciousness is constituted in rivalry and survival by victimization does not possess the intelligence of the victim. The beginning of the perception of the intelligence of the victim is already an alteration in what constitutes human consciousness, permitting us to see things from the viewpoint of the victim, and from the point of gratuitous self-donation. (p. 81)
"Gratuitous self-donation" becomes an important theme in Alison's Girardian framing of the Gospel. The place that John's Prologue plays in this is that of placing the self-giving back to the beginning:
John takes the final step of tracing back explicitly the gratuitous self-giving of this man into God. In his Prologue John shows the self-giving as prior to the rejection, and in the Passion narrative he shows God giving a victim into the hands of men that is far more than any of the cultic victims which the figures of the Old Testament sought to offer to God. (pp. 82-83)
This chapter in JBW also includes a more expansive discussion of the "Creation in Christ" material cited above in Raising Abel. Alison suggests that "creation ex nihilo" is a product of the Resurrection and expands the discussion into that of the doctrine of the Trinity. For example:
It is already clear that John alludes to creation in his account of the first day of the Resurrection. This becomes even clearer in his prologue, which can be seen, as can the whole of the Johannine re-casting of God, as the consequence of the shift in perception permitted by the intelligence of the victim. The resurrection of Jesus made it possible to see that the same self-giving towards victimization present in the life of Jesus was the perfect image and imitation of the Father, revealing the Father as he really is, fount of all self-giving. The self-giving of Jesus was then the Word, the Logos, the full self-revelation of the Father. Furthermore, the self-giving of Jesus exactly reflects (but does not exhaust) the self-giving of the Father, and this means that the relation of gratuity anterior to all that is, is common to both of them, Father and Son. (p. 99)
Finally, Alison has an important interpretation of related text 1 John 1:5 ("This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light and in him is no darkness at all."):
In the light of the resurrection it gradually becomes possible to see that it was not that God was previously violent, now blessing now cursing (see Deut. 32:39), but had now brought all that ambivalence to an end. Rather, it became possible to see that that was all a human violence, with various degrees of projection onto God. God had been from the beginning, always, immutably, love, and that this love was made manifest in sending his Son into the midst of the violent humans, even into the midst of their persecutory projections of God, so that they might treat him as a human victim, and thus reveal the depth of the love of God, who was prepared to be a human victim simultaneously to show the depth of his love for humanity, and to reveal humanity as having been locked into the realm of the Father of lies. (p. 108)
What do you think? What does it mean to say that in God "is no darkness at all"? Does 1 John 1:5 support the Girardian tactic that all violence and death is of the human realm and not of God's? Is all talk of violence and death in connection with God a projection?

8. Brian McLarenWe Make the Road By Walking, ch. 17a, "The Light Has Come." He writes in this Christmas Eve seermon,
A new day begins with sunrise. A new year begins with lengthening days. A new life begins with infant eyes taking in their first view of a world bathed in light. And a new era in human history began when God’s light came shining into our world through Jesus.

The Fourth Gospel tells us that what came into being through Jesus was not merely a new religion, a new theology, or a new set of principles or teachings — although all these things did indeed happen. The real point of it all, according to John, was life, vitality, aliveness — and now that Jesus has come, that radiant aliveness is here to enlighten all people everywhere. (p. 79)

Reflections and Questions

1. The congregation I'm currently serving (2004) doesn't have a Christmas Day service, so I was able to go and worship in a congregation and to reflect on, with the help of the preacher, this text.

There is the temptation these days to lament the political correctness around the holidays. The schools have "holiday concerts," even if they do religious numbers -- though Silent Night is rapidly being replaced by Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer. But the preacher correctly moved deftly instead to lamenting how easy it is for even people of faith to get as fully caught up in the secularization. It is generally more appropriate to see how we are part of the "we" rather than an "us vs. them."

This is especially the case if one, aided by the insights of mimetic theory, sees how much the Gospel is behind the process of secularization, in the first place. (One of the best places to read about such an argument is in the work of philosopher Gianni Vattimo, especially his little book Belief.) Secularization is the process of desacralizing the violence of Christendom, of finding oneself increasingly in solidarity with the victims of Christendom's sacred violence. While the Religious Right may be trying to revive the "last bastion of Christian imperialism" (a term I recently heard from Douglas John Hall), we might ask: Is our plight in the "mainstream" church that we are, at heart, in sympathy with secularization, at least to the extent that it hails the end of Christendom's oppressive, imperialistic ways?

The preacher this morning (Christmas 2004) seemed to grasp this in looking back over his own history. He began by recalling his high school Christmas concerts at the public high school in Billings, MT -- unabashedly Christian in its content. Yet he also brought in the episodes a few years later of frightening anti-Semitism against Billings' few Jewish citizens. The response of the churches in the community was to encourage its members to all display menorahs in their front windows in solidarity with their Jewish neighbors. Today's churches are increasingly aware of the cost of waning Christendom. Past tendencies of majority Christian communities to ignore the religious minorities had so often yielded to active persecution. Thus, sensitivity to such persecutions calls into question past tendencies to ignore -- even if that means a seemingly watered-down "Happy Holiday" in lieu of "Merry Christmas." The sensitivity of such "political correctness" is for good reason: insensitivity has too often given way to brutality. More than that, mimetic theory helps us to realize that human community itself is built on the foundation of a privileged majority whose very privilege is achieved at the expense of those on the fringe who are constantly under the threat of being expelled. "Political correctness," at its best, represents efforts to be inclusive of those normally on the fringes. (At its worst, PC can become acts of expelling the expellers, of sacrificing the sacrificers -- which is why proponents of mimetic theory are also critical of it.)

Part of the argument of mimetic theory is that such secularization coincides with the work of the Gospel. In Johannine language it coincides with the Word that came into this world and always finds its place with the rejected, the expelled. It is the work, in essence, of the Paraclete, the Spirit of Truth, who is the Defender of the Accused, and thus the opposite of "the Satan," the Accuser. (For more on the Paraclete, see the page "The Anthropology of René Girard and the Paraclete of St. John.")

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