God With Us

Sermon preached at North Hill Adventist Fellowship
Sabbath, Christmas, 2010


If you had been at my house early this morning you would have been amazed at the transforming power of Christmas. Just before dawn, I was out feeding the animals. Since we live on a hobby farm you might think this quite unremarkable. After all, farmers are famous for getting up early to do chores.

It has long been my habit to get up early. However, I do not get up and feed animals.

The reason we live on a farm is because my wife and kids love animals. I have supported their hobby by maintaining the farm infrastructure. My days off are spent building horse shelters, constructing fences, installing water lines, running electric. Or repairing horse shelters, fences, water lines or the electric fence. If fix horse trailers, replace the roof on the dog house after the wind rips it off, fix the roof on the chicken house and battle noxious weeds. I'm a farmer. However, I have my limits.

We have animals because my wife and kids are animal lovers. I'm a people lover. When it comes to the farm—I'm the hired hand. I do not feed the animals. Maybe in an emergency. Certainly if everyone else is out of town. But regular morning and evening feeding is their responsibility not mine. If I feed the animals, I own them. And if I own them I can sell them. And then my life would be simple and easy.

It has been an iron-clad rule, an unchangeable principle—I do not do regular feeding. Covering in emergencies when people are sick or gone—maybe. But no way was I going to get sucked into the drudgery of regular animal feeding.

So my going out early on Christmas morning and feeding the animals while everyone else was still asleep—a Sabbath morning, no less, with the responsibility of a sermon hanging over my head, and having been up really late last night for our Christmas eve service—this would surely be evidence of an overflow of Christmas spirit.


Actually, it's more complicated than that.

While I constantly complain about the hassles of living on a farm—the endless repairs, the battles with weeds and mud, the animal emergencies that disrupt everything, the expense (Hobby farms like ours do not produce income. They only produce expenses.)--there are some benefits. One of the richest blessing our farm offers is the view east from the backyard. A sweep of pasture, beyond that a ragged, picturesque line of Doug fir, Sitka Alder and maples set against a backdrop of the west edge of the Cascades. If I sit in just the right spot in the predawn darkness I have a 180 degree view unspoiled by lights. The view is so wonderful that for the last couple of years, I have spent an hour every morning sitting on a stool out behind the barn praying and meditating. No matter how cold. When it is raining I sit just inside the barn door where I can still see the sky and trees.

My habit was so fixed, the animals ignored me. If anyone else in the family came outside in the morning, the dogs would bark, the chickens would gather, the horses neigh, the cows moo. If I came outside later in the morning, the animals would do the same song and dance for me trying to get me to feed them. But when I came out early for my quiet time, they knew it was pointless to bother me. They just watched me walk past.

Then sometime this fall, Tanya the cat decided to change things.

I would be sitting on my stool, my mind full of the richness of God's love and the glory of the brightening sky when Tanya would climb up my back and and crawl around on my shoulders meowing. I'm reasonably practiced in the disciplines of prayer and meditation, however, Tanya the cat is able to overwhelm all my years of practice. I cannot effectively focus my mind on God while a Siamese cat is prowling about my shoulders, meowing in my ears and sticking her hind end in my face.

So, in order to have an undisturbed time of prayer and meditation, I learned to feed her when I went into the barn to get my stool.

Then the chickens started following me into the barn when I fed the cats. So I would toss some feed out for them. That sometimes got the dogs excited, which means Teddy started barking his head off. So, I would feed the dogs to keep them quiet. It wasn't far from there to feeding the horses and cows.

So, for several months now, I have been feeding the animals in the morning. I realize this is a startling admission. After twelve years of resolute insistence that I do not feed animals, I have been voluntarily feeding dogs, cats, chickens, horses and cows. Every morning. Before the sun comes up. Even on days when it's 35 degrees and raining. Even when it meant walking a quarter mile to the back pasture where the cows were.

I have an even more astounding confession to make.

I enjoy it.

Jack, the barn cat cannot meow. Instead he croaks. When I come into the barn in the morning, he runs to his shelf, stands beside his bowl and croaks at me reaching his nose as far forward in my direction as he can without falling off the shelf. I grab his head with both hands and scruff him up for a few seconds. He purrs.

Which is rather remarkable because Jack was a feral cat who was tamed by my daughter. He is skittish around people. Jack will not allow me to touch him if he's on the ground. If I get anywhere near him, he scoots out of sight in his unique awkward gait. But in the morning, when he's up on his shelf, he doesn't just tolerate my presence. He begs me to rough him up. And purrs like a motor when I do.

I get a kick out of that.

Usually, when I turn around from feeding the cats, there are ten to fifteen chickens standing in the door of the barn staring at me with bright eyes. If I pick up a scoop of chicken feed, they crowd in so close I can scarcely walk. I have to shuffle forward, shoving them out of the way with me feet, being careful not to trip or step on them.

They are excited. If it's not raining I pour the food into a couple of very large rubber bowls out in front of the barn. The hens immediately attack the food, and sometimes each other. (The phrase pecking order comes from real life in the chicken yard.) George, the rooster, does not immediately begin to eat. Instead he parades around for a few minutes calling all the rest of the hens, announcing breakfast is served.

I feed the dogs in their pens, then the horses. Jericho is first. When I walk into his paddock, he typically stands in my way and tries to grab a bite of hay before I can put it in the feeder in his stall. So lately, I've taken to kicking him in the chest when he grabs for the hay in my hands. He whirls around, clearly throwing a bit of a temper tantrum, then follows me into his stall. After I toss the hay into his feeder, I scratch him on his chest, the same place where I kick him. He's always happy to make up.

Jericho's funniest behavior comes next. After feeding him, I go back to the hay room for more hay for the two horses that live in the stall next to Jericho's. There is no feeder in their stall, I just throw their hay into the center of their stall. The easiest, most direct way to do this is to carry the hay through Jericho's paddock and toss it over the fence.

Jericho hates it when I feed those horses. He will try to get in my way. He will try to grab the hay out of my arms. He sometimes throws a bit of a temper tantrum, bucking around his paddock. He does all of this even though his feeder is full of hay. In fact, it has higher quality hay than what I feed his neighbors. I always feed him first. But that is not enough. He thinks I have no business giving hay to his neighbors.

I wish I could explain to him that my giving them hay does not imply any lack of affection on my part for him. do it any way. I wish he would join me in the pleasure of sharing happiness in the morning. But for now, all the pleasure he gets is the direct attention I give him—the hay I put in his feeder, the petting I give him before I go to feed his neighbors.

His neighbors, two Halflingers, appear to enjoy life much more. Before I feed them they trot back and forth in their paddock making incredibly low rumbling sounds. Their running expresses excitement and anticipation, not agitation. When I feed Jericho they don't get jealous. They appear to merely get more excited. Breakfast is almost here. Just another minute or two and our hay is going to come flying in over the fence.

Then I go feed Samson. As soon as he sees me headed his direction he walks into his stall and stands with his head over the large tub I feed him in. If the tub has gotten scooted out of its usual place, he'll back up so I can put it where I want it. I drop his hay and scratch his chest, run my hand over his back and scratch his hindquarters. On cold mornings I delight in the magic warm of his fur as I run my hands over him. I wonder how a mammal can generate enough heat to stay comfortable living outside when the temperature is in the teens.

Then I feed Mr. Bojangles. That's not his real name, but it's what I call him because he's always dancing around. He's a young horse, my wife's “baby” that she plans to begin training this coming summer. I feed him by throwing his hay over a fence into the center of his stall. Usually about the time I'm ready to throw the hay, he goes into a long stretch, reaching forward with his head and front feet. It reminds of a person trying to touch their toes. I'm afraid that if I throw the hay over his back while he is all stretched out like that it might startle him and he might do something weird and pull a muscle. So I wait until he has finished his stretch and moved before I throw the hay. He spins a couple of circles then noses into his hay.

Finally, I grab about half a bale and head out to the back pasture to feed the cows. It's inconvenient. It's a long way. Part of the way is boot sucking mud where the cows have churned up the ground. If all I was doing was providing calories for needy livestock, this last part of my morning chores would be the worst part of an annoying job. Instead, it's one of the best parts. While feeding horses and chickens and dogs I constantly glance east watching the fading stars and brightening sky. Carrying the hay back to the cows is a five minute walk due east. Straight into the sunrise. Straight toward the skyline of trees and hills. Straight into beauty. And I am not blind.

More than that. I have discovered a wonderful sense of connection with all these animals. The cows are eager for the hay. They do not evince any particular interest in me. Samson, the horse, is my friend. Teddy, the dog, and Jack the cat, take obvious, demonstrable pleasure in the attention I give the for a fe minutes when I feed them. With these animals, there is a lively sense of mutuality. I enjoy them. They enjoy me. We enjoy each other.

With the cows, the enjoyment is pretty much one way. They tolerate me, because I bring food. I enjoy them because of the mysterious dignity of their enormous bodies. They are huge and ponderous. They usually move with slow, very deliberate motion. The spread of their horns is pushing four feet, tip to tip. They wear long shaggy fur. On cold morning their breath steams out like smoke from the nostrils of dragons. I delight in standing in their presence, watching them eat, laughing at their jostling one another before they decide just who is going to get to each which pile of hay. Their life, their sheer existence in this wild field at dawn, gives me exquisite pleasure.

It's a deep, dark secret. But it's true.

And I think the heart of the meaning of Christmas is a secret like this about God.

The heart of Christian conviction is this: In Jesus, God became flesh. Out of his own pleasure and intention God is with us.

Too often conservative Christians talk about the coming of Jesus as if the only thing that matter to God was dealing with our guilt. Jesus came to die for our sins. Which if you push it too far implies that Jesus would not have come if we had not sinned. Which means that sin is what brings us Jesus.

For those who are tortured by feelings of guilt, the message of forgiveness, reconciliation and redemption is wonderful beyond words.

Christmas has something even more wonderful to tell. God delights in humanity. Forgiveness, reconciliation and redemption are just some of the ways God demonstrates his regard for humanity. These fixes for human problems are not the grandest truths. They are not the ultimate purpose of heaven. Humans were God's idea in the first place. That's the message of Genesis. And even given our history of failure and brokenness God still has such high regard for humanity that two thousand years ago, God joined the human race. He became one of us so he could be with us. The ultimate dream of heaven is free, happy communion, cooperation, coordination with humans.

God's greatest enjoyment comes when we are fully aware of him and respond to his love with love of our own. In my clandestine relationship with the animals at our farm, Samson the horse, Teddy the dog and Jack the cat are special because they reciprocate my affection. They like me. They like it that I like them. That's valuable to me. However, I also take real pleasure in the life of the cows who care nothing about me and pleasure in the life of the chickens, even the ones who never enter the barn, who never come when I call, but only show up to eat when George the rooster calls them.

This birds may not have even made the connection between me and food. They only know to come when George calls. Their lack of awareness does not erase my pleasure in their existence, their unique lives.


So with God. Even those people who are unaware of him, even oblivious to his gifts---even these people bring pleasure to God by their lives.

This morning, after feeding everyone, I took my thermos and a muffin and sat for a few minutes to pray. George the Rooster came over. I dropped a big crumb from my muffin for him thinking he and I would share a Christmas treat. He eyed it. Pecked at the ground beside it, then instead of eating it, lifted his head and called a hen. She came over. He pecked again at the ground beside the crumb to show her the treat. She instantly snapped it up. George threw back his head and crowed. What a fine morning, I found a treat for my hen.

I laughed. That early in the morning there was only one creature on the farm that shared with me the joy of giving, the ultimate spirit of Christmas—George the Rooster. Of course, for himas for me, the date actually had nothing to do with his behavior. I fed on Christmas morning because I had discovered already the joy of communion with our animals through feeding. And George fed his hen that prize crumb because that's what he always does.

And God sent Jesus because giving and seeking communion with humanity is at the very heart of who God is.

The meaning of Christmas is that given the entire universe of possibilities, God chose getting close to you, to us. Jesus became human, dramatically establishing an everlasting connection between God and us. God with us.

I got into feeding animals, and thus into this intimacy with the residents of our farm because of the stubborn persistence of a cat. I never suspected I would experience such enjoyment from engagement with these critters, critters that I had previously known mostly as the producers of problems for me to solve, emergencies for me to handle.

In contrast to my reluctant discovery, the Bible declares emphatically that God's engagement with humanity was not something he was grudgingly persuaded of. Jesus did not become human only because there was no other way for God to fix the mess people had created. Jesus became human because intimacy with humans was and is the grand, ultimate desire of heaven.

We are precious to God. You are precious to God. Whether you are given to jealousy like Jericho or are oblivious like the cows or happily engaged in mutual intimacy like Samson, Teddy and Jack or share with God in the habit of giving.

So, Merry Christmas. Love from heaven to you. Love from heaven through you. Love from you to heaven.