God's Birth

Yesterday I began my second annual Christmas reading of St. Athanasius’s On the Incarnation. The introduction by C.S. Lewis is worth the price of the book alone – it contains a wonderful apology for reading old books as well as his most convincing account of ‘Mere Christianity.’ This latter teaching of Lewis’ is often misunderstood, taken for an invisible and cultureless Christianity that is akin to American evangelicalism. What he is really speaking of, I believe, is Christianity from the perspective of the outsider. Lewis never lost the ability to view Christianity from the vantage point of an unbeliever, and it is the foundational unity of all Christians, whatever the creed, confession, or lack thereof, that is behind his ‘Mere Christianity’:

“And that brings me to yet another reason for reading them [the Christian classics]. The divisions of Christendom are undeniable and are by some of these writers most fiercely expressed. But if any man is tempted to think – as one might be tempted who read only contemporaries – that ‘Christianity’ is a word of so many meanings that it means nothing at all, he can learn beyond all doubt, by stepping out of his own century, that this is not so. Measured against the ages “mere Christianity” is no insipid interdenominational transparency, but something positive, self-consistent, and inexhaustible.” (p. 6)

Lewis was therefore was not eradicating the divisions between the churches as theologically insignificant or meaningless, but rather ignoring them for his own spiritual benefit and ours, and particularly the benefit of the unbeliever. Polemical dialogue between Christians has a dangerous way of overtaking the believer or prospective believer who has a taste for theological reading, involving him in the niceties of schism and distracting him from the primary work of saving his own soul. Lewis knew that it’s best to leave ecclesiastical polemics to the saints, who are stronger than we and less likely to fall into errors of enthusiasm.

Which brings me to the book itself. On the Incarnation is, like many of the books in the New Testament, an adventure story, of a kingdom brought into ruin and disrepair by error and corruption and a Great Ruler who is troubled by the state of his realm. Driven to extreme measures by the condition of his people, he sends his son as viceroy. A suffering savior, a dying king, he rises triumphant from his battle with death to lead his kingdom into a promised land:

"For the solidarity of mankind is such that, by virtue of the Word's indwelling in a single human body, the corruption which goes with death has lost its power over all. You know how it is when some great king enters a large city and dwells in one of its houses; because of his dwelling in that single house, the whole city is honored, and enemies and robbers cease to molest it. Even so is it with the King of all; He has come into our country and dwelt in one body amidst the many, and in consequence the designs of the enemy against mankind have been foiled, and the corruption of death, which formerly held them in its power, has simply ceased to be." (p. 35)

“God became man, so that man might become god.” It is this dictum, so prominent in the early church, which St. Athanasius expresses with such immediacy. What Christ offers is not a clean slate but a transformation. St. Augustine speaks of this as “restoring the incorruption of the body.” It is Eden we are after, and Christ has cut a way back through the thick undergrowth of our sin and corruption, allowing us to follow after.

This is what’s so thrilling about Christmas: the divine rescue mission begins in a remote corner of the Roman Empire; the viceroy comes disguised in tatters to save his kingdom from below. Knowing the end of the story makes the beginning all the more exciting. The coming of the king, the entrance of the Son of God into the world in the womb of a virgin, is what St. Athanasius limns with such golden brightness.