Incarnation

By Tom Lawson

Stephen and Ian stood together talking, while they braved the crisp breeze of a cold December in downtown Lexington, Kentucky. They had decided to go to a popular local café for lunch. But the people standing outside told them what was confirmed by the hostess at the door, “It will be about 20 to 30 minutes, if you want to wait.” They did.

In the eight months between college and graduate school, my son Stephen decided to live and worship with a group of Christians in a depressed section of Lexington. From various denominations, the members of Communality dedicated themselves to being authentically Christian in an area where few suburban churchgoers can be found.

Although both Ian and Stephen were in their 20s, Ian had been a part of the community for much longer. “He looked like he belonged,” Stephen remembered. Rough face. Well-worn clothes. The look of a man who wasn”t afraid of hard work and didn”t need his food served on china.

They were outside only a few minutes when something down the street caught Stephen”s eye. He had that feeling you get when you sense an awkward moment coming.

A man, a really poorly dressed man, was shuffling down the sidewalk. He kept stopping and talking to everyone who got near him. He leaned in too close when he talked. And he moved a little like he”s a stranger in his own body, never quite sure how to keep it standing up straight, and so constantly overcorrecting as he tried. Everything about him was a little off.

“From a distance he looked kind of like a child trying to keep his balance walking on a curb,” Stephen said.

Whatever was wrong with the guy, and it was probably more than one thing, the man”s plan, if you could call it that, was clear. Sure enough, a few stopped, reached into their pockets, and handed over some money. But most people turned their heads and went on their way, seemingly embarrassed by the interchange.

Stephen stood there, pretending not to notice. He found himself suddenly wondering about the actual denominations of bills he might have in his wallet. He was in the process of trying to find some clever way of peeking without being noticed when Ian glanced up the street, stopped talking midsentence, and bounded off toward the oddly shuffling man.

Stephen watched as he clearly heard Ian loudly say, “John! How are you doing?”

Ian was shaking the man”s hand while putting his other hand on the guy”s shoulder. It was clear by the man”s body language and soft, rapid words that they knew each other well. And so, together, the two of them walked over to where Stephen was standing and watching.

“Stephen Lawson, this is my friend, John.”

Stephen found himself smiling as he shook John”s outstretched hand. And yet, he explains, in the conversation that followed he didn”t say much.

“I just watched and listened to the two of them talk about mutual friends, the new city plans, and the rescue mission where Ian works with other men recovering from addiction.”

Stephen continued, “As they stood there, talking with each other just as easily as Ian and I had been talking a moment earlier, I was struck by the realization that the strange, shuffling homeless guy had turned into “˜John.” He was a person. A person who listens and talks and has joys and complaints and aches and pains and everything else wrapped up in what we call humanity.”

On that blustery, cold downtown sidewalk, it was like Ian had somehow thrown open the doors of community and brought John in from the outside. A guest””more than that””a friend.

After a few minutes, John nodded good-bye and continued down the street, stopping people so he could ask them for money. Soon enough he was gone, and in front of the café life on a cold afternoon returned to normal.

As Stephen told me the story, the truth of it was obvious to us both””obvious but still powerful. An odd, nameless nobody became “John” when Ian brought him back to meet Stephen. It was a lesson Stephen tries every day to live out.

Incarnation has less to do today with cherub-faced angels or stables or adorable babies in mangers than with a calloused and scarred hand held out to the homeless, nameless refugees of Eden.

The eternal God, omnipotent and clothed in splendor, walked away from Heaven 2,000 years ago to take on the well-worn garb of a peasant carpenter. He came as Jesus, reaching out to hold our hands and put his arms around us so he can take us to meet all his friends.

 

Tom Lawson teaches New Testament, history, and worship at Ozark Christian College in Joplin, Missouri.

Stephen Lawson, now a PhD student in theology at St. Louis University, lives and works with The Lotus House, an intentional community associated with the Stone-Campbell Movement in a depressed area of St. Louis. Learn more at lotushouse.wordpress.com.