Advent started with a Bible study. It was actually the week before Advent, a very good place to start, and the study was with the young adult group at church. We did inevitably talk about Advent, about waiting and the words of the prophets foretelling Christ, about consumerism, and about the New Testament accounts of the first Christmas. Which prompted me to ask: what is troubling about Christmas for you? I expected to open the typical virgin birth kettle of worms, but no one mentioned it. So I pushed a little bit, wondering aloud if maybe the non-parallel nativity accounts were at all feather-ruffling. But the group was nonchalant. No specific Yuletide troubles to be reported.
Now, I don’t want to convict the young adults’ Bible study group in any way, shape or form. I think that, had I been attending rather than leading the Bible study, I would have reacted very similarly. As leader, I was trying to set an expected cat among the pigeons. They dodged it, and happily discussed other issues. But the whole thing did get me thinking about the process of literary reconciliation.
We have four gospels, ostensibly accounts of the life of Jesus. Three are quite similar—Matthew, Mark and Luke. John is written with a different vocabulary altogether. It is poetic theology as opposed to literary fiction. John tells the story of the birth of Jesus in theological dualistic terms: darkness and light, flesh and word. But the three similar texts—that which we call the Synoptic Gospels for their parallel relationships—differ enormously when it comes to the nativity details.
Now, we are all sophisticated readers and can understand that different things are important to different writers, and all the nuance that entails. But really, if we are dealing with biography, surely the dramatic events of the nativity should be included in all of the accounts. I mean really. These are stories with angels, for heaven’s sake. Quite literally. Why on earth do we have such dramatic differences? What do we do with the differences?
Here’s the run down for you, in case this year’s lectionary readings (which are exclusively Matthew) have blurred the issue:
Matthew: We hear about Joseph and his angel visit, and about the wise men. Dreams and heavenly advice from the masculine perspective.
Mark: Omits the nativity story. I find this odd. Yes, he’s trying to write a succinct account. But why leave out the angels? They are a pretty spectacular part of the story.
Luke: More angels, but this time from Mary’s perspective. And we also get the shepherds and their angels. And Mary pondering all these things in her heart. And the wonderful songs, too. Luke has a poet’s heart. More Ondaatje than Copeland.
Judging from this evidence, perhaps it is best to consider this not as a question of four different accounts, but as two, Mark and John playing, as it were, different literary games altogether.
But then I get tripped up on terminology. These two gospels—Matthew and Luke—are synoptic gospels. Synoptic means to see with one eye. But here, we aren’t. That’s a misnomer. We are seeing with two. Christmas is about stereo-vision.
We are used to the idea of stereo sound—music designed with a left and right channel. The term “stereo” comes from the Greek word of “solid” and stereo sound is more complete. Stereo-vision works on the same concept. As our eyes are separated by approximately two inches, we see everything from two slightly different angles. Our brains, receiving two similar images, fuse them to create one. And we see the world with depth and solidity.
This is hardly a new discovery. The Victorians were fascinated by stereo-vision and created stereographs, presenting two slightly different photographs or printed images side by side. Stereographs and 3D images postdate 2D photography by only about a decade.
Here’s an early example from the Ontario Archives.
Looking at the two images side by side is like playing spot the difference. Your eyes go back and forth trying to find the subtle shift between the two images.
When viewed through a stereograph, the two images become joined into a single three dimensional image in much the same way that our eyes naturally function. But with a stereograph in the living room, everyone’s family holiday can be experienced in three dimensional reality. Stereographs were considered “philosophical toys” because they made you think differently about the ways in which we see the world.
So, what if we look at the Christmas gospel stories in a similar light? What if we stop playing spot the difference and think instead about the differing nativity accounts as philosophical toys? And ones that grant us the ability to see depth.
I know that this doesn’t solve the issue. This perspective doesn’t answer the questions raised by historical considerations or give us one authentic picture of what the first Christmas was like. But it might help us as we read these different stories together. Not as biblical scholars, but as passionate readers of the New Testament.
We can’t squint to make Matthew and Luke report the same thing—they are telling different stories. But by reading them together, we see that together they set the parameters for the kind of world the gospel occupies. The multiple stories of multiple angels demonstrate that this is a world where people’s decisions have large and eternal effects. It is a world where God invites, and people need to respond.
Now, where to find a stereograph to put under the tree…
Do you think that a 3D television might count as a philosophical toy, too?
