Christmas 2

Many folks have already taken down their Christmas trees and packed up all the decorations. Not too many people keep up the Christmas bling for all 12 days of Christmas, which culminates with the feast of the Epiphany on January 6^th.

This year, Epiphany falls on Thursday, a nondescript day of the week. We’re back at work. Kids will be back in school. We find Epiphany, the day the Magi finally reached Mary and Joseph and offered their extravagant gifts to the baby Jesus, is just another day. (Unless you’re a Greek up in Tarpon Springs, of course.)

Maybe there’s something about epiphany that makes us uncomfortable.

When the Magi finally reached their destination, what was the first thing they did?

They “knelt down and paid him homage” (Matthew 2:11). So, the first Christian worship took place on the Epiphany.

Now these wise guys were rich, respected, men. They were on speaking terms with the king. As astrologers, they were privy to the secrets of the stars, and the stars held the secrets to the universe. They weren’t even Jews. In this East meets West moment, the Eastern cults and traditions of the magi were far removed from the messianic traditions of the Hebrews.

Yet when they came into the presence of this little star-born baby, what did they do? They threw themselves down on the ground without hesitation. Think of that crèche you put away. Wasn’t at least one of the wise men kneeling? Here was one born to be “adored.”

Which reminds me of a Simpsons Christmas episode. In a parody of the nativity, Carl Carlson is a shepherd at the manger scene, looking down at baby Jesus.  He remarks, “I knew I’d like him, but I never dreamed I’d adore him.”

So what does “adore” mean? In its Latin roots it means to ‘reverence and honor.’ But it’s a much stronger word than the Latin venerari. It’s closer to the Greek proskunein, which means to “prostrate.” So to say “I adore Godiva chocolates” or “I adore Pierre, my French bulldog” is to say something almost sacrilegious. For to “adore” something is to go as far as we can go in worship and praise. You can glorify God, and praise God, and bless God. But when you “adore” God, you take the ultimate step.

And that step takes you downward. Matthew’s Gospel says the magi “fell down and worshiped.” You might call adoration a “full body” prayer. It’s a way of physically lifting up God by pointedly knocking yourself down a notch. Adoration means you’re on your knees and on your face.

We Episcopalians kneel – a lot. But it’s a perfectly-postured, straight-backed, kneel — and of course, on a nicely upholstered or even needlepoint “kneeler.” Our prostrating has become more of a posturing than an adoring. Our kneeling is more an action with attitude than an act of homage and humility.

Muslims are called to prayer five times a day. For the devout, prayer time is spent not only on their knees, but also in flat-out prostration, arms and forehead on the floor (or at least on their prayer rug). The mark of a pious, praying Muslim can be seen on the forehead. It is called a “zabiba” — a prayer bump, a worn, callused raisin-ish mark where head has met hard surface, five times a day, every day, year in, year out. For the pious Muslim, a life of continually praising God leaves its mark — on the body and on the soul.

Adoration is hard for us, because we don’t like to feel we’re not the one in charge. We like to be “pack leaders.” Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer,” is hugely popular and successful, not only because he gives good advice on dog training and obedience, but also because he encourages all dog owners to “take charge,” to be the “top dog,” to become the “pack leader.”

What do dogs do with their bodies when they acknowledge the one in charge? Their ears go back, tail goes down, head lowers. Sometimes they even get all the way down on their belly. They use their whole body to communicate their submission to the pack leader. And it is this unity in submission that enables the “pack” to work as one, to live together harmoniously. There is safety, security, and peace within the pack that acknowledges one true leader. When no one is in charge, there’s a constant battling for position, a persistent uneasiness, a loss of confidence.

You might call today’s Epistle Paul’s “prayer bump.” For in this passage Paul offers a lengthy prayer of adoration for the gift of being “in Christ.” It is wholly through God’s initiative and actions, through God’s “good pleasure” and “glorious grace,” that those “in Christ” become adopted children and participate in the divine “inheritance.” Paul’s adoration is for his adoption: he prostrates himself for the privilege of being an adopted child of God.

Being a child is not an “in charge” identity. Being a child means being dependent upon a parent for everything. Being a child means trusting that a parent will take care of you. Being a child means trusting someone else to do what is best for you, provide for you, nurture and love you.

Paul embraces this identity as a divine dependent. He extols this identity as adopted children of God. You can feel his forehead bumping on the ground, again and again. Once we were abandoned, alone, parent-less, and purpose-less. But then faith brought us to a new family “in Christ.” God offers a way to live in, a truth to live by, a life to live for. The purpose and the plan are “to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.” The way, the truth, and the life are found “in Christ.”

God is in charge. God’s presence is with us in Christ through the Holy Spirit. We don’t have to be fearful. We don’t have to keep “proving ourselves” day after day.

We’re all part of a large, growing, extended family, a family that increases through the continual adoption of new brothers and sisters. There are no “biological” Christians. Our mission as adopted children is to bring in a new generation of siblings, not through procreation, but through adoration. And there are as many ways to “O Come Let Us Adore Him” as there are children in our family.

Living faith is all about adoration, not explanation.

When John Halgrim was fourteen years old, he was diagnosed with an inoperable malignant brain tumor.

Instead of trying to be “large and in charge” of his treatment, young John discovered there was a different path he needed to take. “I learned I needed to change my life,” he wrote in his journal. “I learned I needed to live my life through God’s eyes and not my own. I learned that I had been asking him for so much more than I had been giving him.”

What came to John Halgrim was the conviction that he should find a way to do something to give back to God. While in the hospital, John learned about the Make-A-Wish Foundation, the organization that tries to grant the wishes of dying children. John’s thought was that the Make-A-Wish people might help him with his wish.

The folks at Make-A-Wish were used to requests for being on the set of “America’s Got Talent,” wishes for tropical vacations, wishes to meet famous movie stars, pop singers, and presidents. They were unprepared for John Halgrim’s wish. He said, “I want to open an orphanage in Africa.”

As the Foundation tried to figure out how Make-A-Wish could help make John’s wish come true, others began to hear about John’s situation.  As word spread, the funds began to flow in from churches and other organizations.

One day John’s uncle came by with the architectural rendering of the front of the new orphanage. Across the top of the drawing was the name of the building: The John E. Halgrim Orphanage. No longer able to speak, John was still able to grin and give an enthusiastic thumb’s up. A few weeks later John Halgrim, age 15, died.

Exactly one year later John’s mother drove up in front of a new simple concrete block building rooted in the midst of a crowded neighborhood with crumbling apartments, and ripe with the sights and smells of poverty. But inside were 60 neat wooden beds, a clean kitchen, and a common room for Sunday services. It was a safe haven, and the first home the children who would live there had ever known.

As John’s mother looked at the unimposing building, she thought about how often she had prayed for a miracle for John when he was sick. She realized that, maybe now, that miracle had arrived.

So what is the Christian equivalent of a prayer bump, a zabiba? It rises from a life of true adoration, not an outward callus on the body. A life of faith is a life of adoration, a life of constant Epiphany. Venite, adoremus.

That orphanage was John Halgrim’s prayer bump: a testimony to his life of adoration.

Do you have a prayer bump?