Welcome to Episode 19 of Season 4! In this episode I speak with (and listen to) the Rev. Dr. Rob James. This episode focuses on the Christian understanding of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ and what that means theologically for Christianity, but what it means for followers of Jesus to reflect on this reality for our human lives.

This is Rob’s third appearance on What Matters Most. Rob is currently priest in charge at St. Paul’s Anglican Church in Vancouver. He has several degrees in Theology, including a PhD from SOAS (The School of Oriental and African Studies), University of London. His book The Spiral Gospel: Intratextuality in Luke’s Narrative was published in September 2022 by Cambridge-based publishers James Clarke. Rob has also written and published a book of stories from the Bible designed for storytellers to use with children in children’s homilies or Sunday School or church camps. The first book is on stories from the NT, but there is a second coming on stories from the OT. The illustrator for both is the Reverend Amanda Ruston. The book is called Fifty New Testament Stories for Storytellers.

Today's podcast is about Incarnation, which begins with Rob's poem of the same name:

Incarnation, by Rob James

Incarnation –

He came with a cry

that awakened the Universe, not in the thunder of a coronation,

but in the hush of a barn, where hands make straw into a cradle,

and a name is given the

Nameless.

The Word, whose syllables shaped galaxies,

now shapes hands in infant fists. Here is God in full circumference,

the circle of glory that holds stars

in their orbit;

here too, a mother's sigh, a bed of straw,

a lantern guttering against winter's teeth. Majesty has stooped,

and in stooping is not lessened but made strange, veiled,

a blazing sun learning to walk

under the humble skin of

ordinary things.

Most eyes would not see.

There is a carpenter and his wife,

and a baby, cause enough for joy.

But, they note the birthplace: insignificant, smelling of hay,

of travellers’ boots; nothing more than a peculiar

human birth,

if peculiar at all. But the light that wove the cosmos is

here.

Some have worked on their sight.

Others have been gifted it.

The shepherds, startled by angels,

are the first of the seeing;

then some foreigners come

to see and to give outlandish gifts;

later, fishermen will fish in the dark,

and land a glory

that amazes their nets.

A startling rule of incarnation:

the fullness of God most easily concealed.

For God does not

clothe glory in gold so emperors will bow;

but chooses a manger,

where lice and lullaby mix,

where a mother's breath

keeps time with the stars

the Word cast into space.

He must learn the geography of our skin,

and the dialect of our temptations.

God risks being unknown. To teach us how to be human,

God becomes human: not as an image

of what we might dream to be, but as the figure who bears our clay,

and our laughter.

Look at his childhood.

Physical learning of

saw, plane, lathe, hammer, nails, sweat.

Carpentry apprentice,

he learns the fashioning of wood

and of people,

as they come and go,

family, neighbours, customers. He grows in wisdom

measured in days of doing. If Heaven had taught him

by decree,

thin would the lesson have been.

God would not have learned it. Instead, the curriculum of human life, breaking bread with hands

that would be pierced. Scandal and the consolation:

God learns human craft the only way humans can learn it,

by living.

Perfection is not

in being less tempted,

less wounded. It is in being more human:

more obedient to mercy

than to appetite, more given to the poor

than to prestige,

more tender to broken things than to the pleasant, safe authorities of the world. Where the first Adam hardened

his will into an instrument for taking,

the second Adam bends

his will into a conduit

for living. First Adam learned to hide,

to cover his shame.

Second Adam walks toward shame

as toward a kind of school, not for humiliation but for education in love.

To be truly human

is to be drawn into this life, to let the Word

teach in our wounds,

to let divine steadiness be the language

we begin speaking,

even in our unsteady hearts.

And yet we are not

invited to become copies

of something unreachable, but forgiven forms of ourselves,

the selves for which we were

called into being.

Ourselves, repaired, redirected. Incarnation is pedagogy:

God showing with flesh and face what humanness looks like

when fear bows to faith, when power is veiled by service,

and the loudest voice is mercy.

This peculiar birth

lets Easter open. If the Word had never

taken on the manger, if God remained an untouchable brightness

beyond eyes and tongues, there could be no tomb

turned inside out with new light. Resurrection

is not rescue from distance;

it is the vindication of the Word's risk

of being bound in time

and blood. Christmas and Easter are but a single movement:

chords of one long song.

Alleluiah, Alleluiah, Alleluiah,

and even at the grave,

shall we make our song,

Alleluiah! Alleluiah! Alleluiah!

The road from cradle

to grave

twists beyond imagining.

Silence waits upon Golgotha, where the Word,

who spoke galaxies,

is muted by nails.

The Logos enwrapped

in the shroud of dust and derision. Pilate's questions,

soldiers' jeers,

the crowd's litany.

The Word is measured not in syllables

but in the heavy business of dying. ‘It is finished’.

A last syllable. A hush, as the Word is swallowed.

This is the horror and the heart.

Speech that created worlds is silenced.

Silent man,

silent God,

Incarnation: A Poem by and a Conversation with Rev. Dr. Rob James