Well there it is, right between verses 18 and 20 of our text: the basis for our doctrine of the virgin birth. We don’t talk about that much in the church anymore. We seem to treat it at times almost as an embarrassment – the stuff of a bygone era, something no reasonably sophisticated and intelligent person would embrace today. Yet most Sundays here we rise up and profess our belief in Jesus who “was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary.” At least most of us…
So what do we do with this ancient teaching of the church? How are we supposed to respond when we come across this passage of Scripture? This second Sunday of Advent strikes me as a good time to take a look at the doctrine of the virgin birth.
It is worth pointing out that the virgin birth is mentioned in only two of the four Gospels; here in Matthew and then again in Luke. You won’t find it in the gospels of Mark or John. In fact, the Apostle Paul never spoke of it in any of his epistles which is kind of strange if you think about it. It is never mentioned in Acts. James and Peter don’t talk about it. In fact, the only two places in which you will find it in the entire New Testament are the first chapter of Matthew and the first chapter of Luke. All of which suggests that the virgin birth was probably not part of the early kerygma of the church. It wasn’t part of the gospel they shared. Does that mean it isn’t true?
Given what we know about the nature of discipleship, and what we see of these early followers and their commitment to the truth – even to the point of allowing themselves to look bad – it seems extraordinarily unlikely that someone would simply make this story up. Far more likely, this was something known only in certain circles of the Christian community during the first century (circles very close to Mary), or shared only at a later point in a candidate’s preparation for baptism.
********
Some of you may remember Carl Sagan’s wonderful series called Cosmos back in 1980. He was an astrophysicist and astronomer, and in this thirteen part series explored the origins of the universe and the nature of this vast cosmos in which we live. It remains an extraordinary work even today, and at the time established Sagan’s reputation as both a scientist and teacher.
There was one segment of that series I still remember. Sagan was climbing the spiral staircase of an ancient stone turret. He made the climb itself into a metaphor, a way to visually capture this movement he was describing back through history to the very beginning of time some 15 billion years ago.
Science, he said, has been able to identify every step in that evolutionary process as we make our way back. Science can tell us exactly what happened and why it happened at every step along the way. In fact, he said, we can trace this movement all the way back to within a fraction of a second of the beginning.
At this point Sagan stopped on that long spiral climb. He stopped and said that while we can explain everything up to that very first moment, the truth is that first millisecond still remains a mystery to us. There is, he said, this one tiny fraction when it all began that science simply cannot explain.
Sagan famously did not believe in God. What I would suggest, however, it is precisely there in that first, inexplicable moment that we find God. It is right there that we see God’s hand; that single millisecond when God brought all of creation out of virtually nothing. A single millisecond; about the length of time that it might have taken God to say, “Let there be…”
To say that God is our creator is ultimately a statement of faith, and like any such statement it is not something we can prove – not in a way that a pure scientist like Sagan or Stephen Hawking would be forced to accept. Does that make it less true?
For many of us the very beauty and complexity of this universe points to that One who stands at its source. In other words, we intuitively sense that there are limits to science; that while science has a crucial place in our world and offers one, very significant way of knowing, that there are other ways of knowing, as well.
Who could prove, for example, the beauty of a particular painting? It is not something one proves; you sense it, you simply know it with very fiber of your being as you gaze upon it. The absence of scientific analysis doesn’t cause us to question that conclusion. We simply realize that there are forms of truth that lie beyond the capacity of science to verify or prove.
So here is my question: if we believe that out of nothing God brought all the heavens and the earth into being, is it any more incredible, any less miraculous, to assert that the same God created – there in a virgin’s womb – this new life which was his Son?
Be clear: we aren’t talking here about God somehow providing the male element to Mary’s female. No, what we are speaking of is God’s Word becoming flesh; out of nothing – something. A child, “Conceived by the Holy Spirit; born of the Virgin Mary.” Fully divine. Fully human. “Emmanuel” – God with us.
Lose this, lose the divinity of Jesus, and we lose the driving center of our faith. Jesus was not just a great teacher. He was so much more than a moral hero to emulate and admire. No, Jesus was and is very the Son of God; God in the form of human flesh. When we speak of the virgin birth, it is one way to acknowledge who Jesus most truly is.
But there is this second part to that confession, as well: the understanding that Jesus was not only conceived by the Spirit, but that he was also born of this young woman named Mary. He, too, was once a helpless child. Like us, he did not arrive fully formed but had to grow in wisdom and stature. And like us, he, too, knew the heartbreak of loss, the struggle of temptation, the agony of physical suffering and approaching death. Jesus was not only fully divine (conceived by the Spirit), in other words, he was also fully human (born of Mary).
What that means for us is that no matter where we are in our own journeys, no matter what we might be going through at a particular moment, Jesus is able to be there with us as no one else can. He has been there. He understands. He’s tasted the depths of despair. He’s known the joy and laughter of a wedding feast. This isn’t some distant God. This is one who knows us, who knows what it is like to walk this great planet.
It is certainly possible to believe in the divinity and humanity of Jesus without believing in the virgin birth. The two natures of Christ (fully human, fully divine) are central to our faith, but no one here is going to call you apostate if you just can’t bring yourself to embrace the virgin birth, as well. It likely was not a part of the early message of the church. It is not what we would consider one of the essentials.
Yet for me it comes as no surprise that the same God who stands in that brief millisecond at the very beginning of time would choose to join us in this form. For me, it makes sense. There is an elegance and beauty to it that suggests God’s hand; the way it holds together two affirmations that on the surface would seem mutually exclusive – how could anyone be fully divine and fully human at the same time? Here is God with us; conceived as no one else has ever been conceived. God with us; coming into the world (even so) just as all of us have come – born of a woman, fully flesh and blood.
As we receive this bread and cup, may the living presence of Jesus Christ touch your hearts and renew you in both body and spirit. Where is he? He is here, one with us. He is here, as real and as present as these elements of bread and cup.
