A Fairy Tale For Us

I'm all excited about the Bible Study starting this Tuesday night, "Good News for Busy People," four weeks in the Gospel of Mark. I put a lot of thought into what I'd like to do for this last study, and I couldn't come up with anything more important than talking about Jesus. And the best way to do that is through reading what the Bible has to say about him.

I hope you come - all of you - because people just don't read the Bible anymore. Some people read it, sure, people like me who are paid to read it, other people who maybe grew up reading it, other people in on the secret who read it for the sheer joy of it, others who read it looking for clues as to what on earth is going on here anyway, yes, they read it.

But by and large, to the average soul, the Bible is unfamiliar territory, a dark room, a closed book, and if you ask a lot of them why, they will tell you: "It's a fairy tale," people will say, "just a fairy tale." Now we resent it when people say that about the Bible, but to be honest, the Bible doesn't help us out much, doesn't give us much ammunition to fight back with.

After all, the whole thing starts off with the creation of the world. "In the beginning," it says, and there is not much before that. The creation is laid down in distressingly simple terms, in categories far too brief, with nowhere near enough detail for us scientifically-minded folk.

"In six days," it says, and on the seventh God rested. God has a seat. God takes a breather, wipes his brow. Fairy tale language.

To make things worse, the Bible goes ahead and tells us all about the creation a second time, but this time around it tells it with a different order, and for a different purpose. This time, the man is in at the beginning, and everything follows to give him a home and some company, including a woman taken from his rib. Fairy tale language, followed by a talking snake and forbidden fruit and a one-way ticket out of Paradise.

The story rolls along, with an old boat-building animal collector and a flood which brings us right back to square one; with unlikely patriarchs and babies born of nonagenarian parents; with dreams and visions and intrigues at the pyramids of the Pharaohs; with Moses and miracles scattered hither and yon, with pillars of fire and the parting of seas and the falling of manna from heaven. "Fairy tales," they say. "Fairy tales."

Heroes and villains, epics and tragedies, giants in the land: as our Old Testament reading reminded us, "The Nephilim (or Giants) were on the earth in those days - and also afterward - when the sons of God went to the daughters of men and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown."
Fairy tale stuff, all right, complete with "Once Upon a Time."
So why do we bother?
Why do we care about this old black book, this dusty collection of largely forgotten stories?

The clue to why we bother is in the very beginning of the Gospel of John. The curious thing about this Gospel, is that it starts just the same way that Genesis did. Over a thousand pages have gone by, who knows how many years, and John starts the whole thing all over again.
But with a difference.
A difference which transforms it all from "fairy tale" to something else altogether. Listen again, listen closely, as he writes:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.

In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it. He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him.

He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God-- children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband's will, but born of God.

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth (John 1:1-14, passim).

Now those fourteen or so verses make up a pretty impressive fairy tale in their own right.
Unfortunately, John writes with a bag full of vocabulary and double meaning which was crystal clear to the people of his day, but which to us comes across as so much theological and philosophical double-speak. Suffice it to say that the Word is the part of God we call Jesus Christ, the part, we are told, which became, well, which became a face and eyes, hands and feet, which became a person with flesh and bones, just like you, or just like me.

But what about this difference in the tale John tells, in the song John sings? What about this bit which transforms the whole thing from a fairy tale to something else? Well, it is right in the next couple of lines. "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory."

You see, what separates the Bible from your average fairy tale is that it purports to be true.
What separates the Bible from the average fairy tale is that everything is not far, far away; was not long, long; did not happen once upon a time. "No," says John, "the Word, the one behind all this, became one of us, lived among us, hung around with us, and we," says John, "we even had a look at him.
We beheld him.
We have seen his glory."

What happened is that not only is the fairy tale real, we are in the cast of characters.
It has to do with us. It is about us. We are in it.
Those are the words which John uses; "us," he writes. "We."

Now this may be hard to grasp.
It certainly was for the people of Jesus' day.
Those people had it tough, and it seemed as though the Romans were interested only in making it tougher. In fact, things had been tough for the People of God from square one, ever since God and Abraham made their deal.

The moments of triumph were always far outweighed by the moments of despair, and in the time just before Jesus it seemed as though things couldn't get much worse. The people were hoping for the Messiah, the Deliverer, the Christ to come, were waiting for the Son of God to bail them out of their troubles, to give them new life, and it had been so long since people had heard from God, that they began to think of the whole thing as a fairy tale. And then along came Jesus.

"Here I am," said Jesus, and even his own family found it hard to believe. "Here I am, right here and now," said Jesus, and the good solid citizens of his own town could hardly believe their ears. "You're Joseph and Mary's boy," they said. "We have known you since you were a tyke." "That's right," said Jesus, "and it turns out that I am the Messiah, the Deliverer, the Son of God."

And the home town folks thought it best to throw him off a cliff, before "who knows what" happened, but fortunately in their enthusiasm they lost track of him altogether.

The Pharisees and the Sadducees found it hard going, as well; when your entire religious system is based upon the expectation of a coming Messiah, it is hard, when he finally arrives, to see the forest for the trees.
First they made fun of him, and then they tried to ignore him, and when that didn't work they tried to discredit him, and finally, frustrated, they decided to kill him. It is hard to condemn them, though; people hate to find themselves caught in the middle of a fairy tale come true.

Suddenly, everything you thought you knew about the world turns out to be dead wrong and you have to start living all over again. Which is, of course, the whole point.

Jesus tried to explain it to people, to help them understand, as they listened to him and tried to decide whether he was a nut of some kind, or whether he was, after all, the promised Messiah.
The trouble was, Jesus not only seemed like a fairy tale come true, he spoke fairy tales, as well: "The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field," he said. "When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it. (Matthew 13:44-46)."
Treasures.
Pearls.
Kingdoms.
How are we to understand all this? And in understanding, how are we to believe?

It is a problem, and Jesus knew it.
When struggling with the incredulity and disbelief of his own people, he uttered the old complaint, "This people's heart has become calloused; they hardly hear with their ears, and they have closed their eyes (Matthew 13:16)."

Our eyes and ears have become closed to the truth of this wonderful story.
They have become closed through disappointment and disillusionment.
They have become closed through screening out the endless cries of injustice and suffering in our world.
They have become closed through our materialistic world view, where if you can't hold it in your hands or see it on your TV or charge it on your gold card, it just isn't there.
They have become closed through illness and grief.
They have become closed through a thousand and one different reasons, and we need new eyes altogether if we hope to see a thing, a new heart if we hope to believe.
"They are darkened in their understanding," wrote Paul (Ephesians 4:18) "and separated from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them due to the hardening of their hearts."
Like in a fable, our hearts have become hard; like in a fairy tale, they have turned to stone. What can be done?

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh," said God, way back in the days of Ezekiel (36:26), and in Jesus Christ he made good this old promise.

Through faith in Christ, we are made to understand what is real, to hear the truth, to see with new eyes, to live with new hearts of love and peace. The fairy tale becomes real; it is no longer a story, it is our story; God is no longer just God, but our God: it is to us he has come, it is we who are given new life.

A fairy tale?
If "fairy tale" means a story which boggles the mind, a story which shakes heaven and earth, a story almost too good to be true, then yes, it is a fairy tale.
And believe it or not, it is our story. Our tale. And it is true.

If you find it all a bit hard to believe, a bit hard to grasp, a bit hard to live, then we are in the same boat, you and me. It is hard, because the whole world is fighting against it, and it is only with the eyes of the heart that we can see it for what it is.
And it might help to know that it has always been so, even back in the beginning.

For once upon a time, or more precisely about nineteen hundred years ago, the Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Ephesus, a church filled with struggle, with lethargy, with half-way commitment, with doubt; a church filled with people not entirely unlike ourselves. To these good people and to us, he sends this prayer, he sends this hope:

"I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you... I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge - that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God (Ephesians 1:18; 3:16-19)."

Maybe fairy tales cannot come true, despite what we may hope, whether or not we are young at heart.
Maybe dreams don't come true, whether or not we wish upon a star.
But friends, this one happened; this dream came true, this fairy tale is real, real.
And it is ours, ours; it is mine, and it is yours. And when we read the Bible, we give the story a chance to take root, to grow, to become a part of us, nourishing us, bringing us light and life.

Let me conclude with a favourite illustration of mine.
Over twenty years ago I was in Germany, in Braunschweig, for the funeral of my Aunt. On a spare afternoon I had trudged, camera in hand, to the ancient cathedral called the Braunschweiger Dom, and had attached myself to a tour. The tour was in Italian, so I wasn't reaping much benefit from the commentary, but it did get me behind otherwise locked doors.

The tour went down a winding staircase cut into the rock and entered the vast sepulcher beneath the cathedral floor, the harsh glare of suspended bulbs making us squint, the mammoth wooden door unlocked and swung open. The group is huddled close, due to the chill as much as the fifty or so sarcophagi stacked around.
The guide continues his endless commentary, as I wander the old stone caskets, trying to make out the Latin and the dates. I crouch down behind one, tracing the numbers with my finger, and suddenly the door clangs shut, the lights are extinguished, and I am alone, in the darkest place I have ever, ever been.

I stood and stared into nothing for what seemed ages, running plans through my mind. Banging on the door or yelling my head off would have been embarrassing and quite ineffective, as I was at least fifty feet below ground with only solid rock and a foot-thick door of wood and iron between me and anybody who had not been dead for at least six hundred years. The dead didn't frighten me; the prospect of being locked up until next Tuesday's tour had me rattled, though.
So I stood, and stared.

And after another eternity, my eyes begin to pick up the faintest glow of orange light, a hint of light, a whisper of light, from the other end of the vast chamber. I touch and edge and ease my way around the caskets and make my way slowly along. Soon I am in the part of the room where only twenty feet or so stand between me and the stone coffins of Heinrich der Loewe, who built the place a thousand years before, and his bride. The coffins are glowing faint, faint orange.

I approach the final chamber and the light becomes more clear. I can even make out the edges of the arch that borders the room. I stumble into the chamber and look up, and I see far, far above me the source of the light; a piece of amber the size and shape of a small loaf of bread, set into the ceiling of the sepulcher, letting the faintest glimmer of light through to the coffins below; not even enough for me to see my hand in front of my face, but reflecting in the marble of the tomb. It is a magic, magic moment. I stay, spellbound, bathed in the light, until the door opens an hour later to let the Dutch group have a look.

The Scriptures glow too, with a light not of amber but of truth, of a truth timeless and strong. These writings come from the hearts and minds of people who had been touched by God, and the afterglow illumines them still.

The Scriptures are not just any stories but are stories and testimonies pointing to the God of us all, pointing to the God who came to be with us in a mighty way, a powerful way, in a way as real as sitting around a table for a meal, as real as watching the sun set over the lake of Galilee.

God has come to us, reached out to us, touched us in our hopeless confusion, our self-deceit, our sorrow and our pain, and has given us a light in the darkness of the tomb. As he breathed life into the hearts of those around, he breathed life into their testimony, their life story, their witness of God in their midst, and these stories are the Scriptures.
Their stories.
Their tales. Not fairy tales, but the stories of those like you, like me, of people touched by God.

When you read the Scriptures, take time. When you read the scriptures, read with a prayer that God would speak to you through them. When you read the Scriptures, put yourself there, in the Garden, naming the animals with Adam, in the Ark with Noah and his friends, facing Goliath with the young shepherd David, facing the furnace with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.

Put yourself there with the shepherds in Bethlehem, stand and hear the Baptist preach, ride the waves with the fisherman disciples, hold your breath as Lazarus rises from the dead, as Jesus receives the lash, as Mary returns running from the tomb. Stand on the road to Damascus as Paul finally finds, in a way he never expected, the Jesus he had been trying to hunt down. Cry out with the disciples in the Upper Room as the Spirit descends and sets our hearts aflame.

These stories are our stories.
These people are our people.
These promises are the promises to us, for the God of the Bible is not some distant God, some other God, some forgotten God of long ago, but is our God, our God.
The life of Jesus, the words of Jesus, the love of Jesus, the death and resurrection of Jesus, are for us - for us! - are ours.
These words are our words, for they are our past, our present, our future.
They are alive.

Thanks be to God for his wonderful story; may he bless us with hearts of faith and with knowledge of his surpassing love, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ. ~Amen.

(Genesis 6:1-4 NRSV)
When people began to multiply on the face of the ground, and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that they were fair; and they took wives for themselves of all that they chose.
Then the LORD said, "My spirit shall not abide in mortals forever, for they are flesh; their days shall be one hundred twenty years." The Nephilim were on the earth in those days--and also afterward--when the sons of God went in to the daughters of humans, who bore children to them. These were the heroes that were of old, warriors of renown.

(Ephesians 1:16-23 NRSV) I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers. I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that, with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe, according to the working of his great power.

God put this power to work in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come. And he has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.