Sermon for Christmas Eve - Luke 2:1-20

Christmas is back this year, thank goodness. After basically sitting it out in 2020, things feel much more festive. We are grateful for every chance to be together, from family gatherings to holiday work parties. I’ve noticed that my neighbors have put up more Christmas lights this year, including a couple of Griswold-level displays. And I have to say that several of you have been overachieving in the Christmas cookie department. Maybe you’ve been watching all those holiday baking shows. My social media feed has been full of the most spectacular Christmas confections I’ve ever seen. A friend posted a photo of bell shaped sugar cookies, covered with a gorgeous ruby red glaze with perfect white icing edges, along with the obligatory humble brag about a first attempt. I suspect that if I tried to make them, they would turn out less like the Great British Baking Show and more like that show Nailed It. That’s the one in which amateur bakers try to recreate top-level treats and end up with hilariously misshapen results. But kudos to all the bakers out there, and to the decorators and the party planners, for ringing in the holidays with extra cheer this year. 

I mean, things are still weird. Those of you who have been in communication with Santa know that even he has had supply chain issues ahead of tonight’s sleigh ride. And, of course, with Omicron upon us, we have to mask up and be careful in crowds, including here at the church. I listened to a preaching podcast the other day, in which two pastors discussed their plans for Christmas Eve. Their tradition is to give everyone a candle and dim the lights for “Silent Night.” I kid you not, they spent several minutes debating the level of risk involved, with open flames near all those highly flammable paper face masks (pulpitfiction.com). I think that sums up Christmas 2021, in all of its glorious imperfection.  

Which got me to thinking about what we might hear differently in the Christmas story tonight. What can we notice if we embrace the imperfection of it all? For a moment, imagine letting go of perfect Christmas cookies and those illusive family gatherings where everyone enjoys every moment together and the teenagers magically stop fighting. Imagine letting go of the holiday pressure to feel joyful over and above whatever actual emotions currently weigh on your heart. And while we’re at it, imagine letting go of the perfect Christmas tableau we have in our minds of the holy family on a silent, holy night, with only a few gentle animals to keep them company in the stable, and a soft glow around them. The classic stuff of nativity sets is the Instagram version of Christmas, but the real Christmas was much less meek and mild and far less perfect. 

There’s a good reason for that, actually, and it has to do with how we fit into the story. Martin Luther once asked, “What good would it do me, if Christ were born a thousand times and if this were sung to me every day with the loveliest airs, if I should not hear that there was something in it for me and that it should be my own?” (pulpitfiction.com) It’s the imperfections of the nativity that assure us that the Christmas story is meant for us. The Christ child came not to reward a perfection we can’t achieve, but to fill our actual lives with divine grace.

The nativity scene in our minds is lovely, and you can hold onto it if you want to. But if you are curious about the messiness of the real Christmas, the details are fascinating. For example, it’s likely that Mary gave birth not in quiet privacy but in the middle of some family’s living room surrounded by a somewhat random crowd. I am sure this was not her birth plan. The Greek tells us that the guest room was full. Given the cultural practices of the day, it’s likely that the family would have brought Mary and Joseph into the main room of the house, where yes, there would have been a manger.  People brought their animals in at night. And also, who would send a woman in labor out to the barn and without help? The implications of this are important. Jesus came not in isolation but in the midst of messy but radical hospitality. Luke’s message is clear: the messiah was born in a humble home full of ordinary people like us. He was born far from the palace of Emperor Augustus in more ways than one. 

You may still have your doubts that the Christmas story is for you. God knows that we are all too aware of our own imperfection to imagine that God came to be with us. This is precisely where God’s brilliance is clear. If Jesus had been born in a palace, we’d have no reason to believe that he came for us ordinary people. And if his birth had happened according to some carefully made birth plan that didn’t involve a census, dislocation, and relying on the hospitality of strangers, we’d have no reason to think he cares anything for our messy lives. It’s exactly in the rougher details that the true grace of the story comes through. Emmanuel came to us as part of God’s love for us. And God made sure that we would get that message with the most extraordinary sign, a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

But because we do keep missing the message of grace, God had a plan for that, too. Consider the angel, the one who said, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.” Angels speak in King James English, obviously. If you’re like me in how you picture this part of the story, the angel was up in the sky, also with that soft glow. But in the Greek, Luke tells us that the angel came and stood in front of the shepherds. Generally speaking, when angels appear in the Bible they are described as enormous, fiery, and completely overwhelming. Imagine one standing right in front of you. And then the multitude showed up. What I’ve always pictured as a choir of angels singing softly in the sky was more like an army of overwhelming divine beings, completely filling the fields with their glory all around the terrified shepherds. To say that God wanted to make sure the shepherds got the message would be an understatement. They ran to find the baby, their savior, who was there with Mary and Joseph just as the angel promised. It was a sign they couldn’t miss.

I suppose any good Christmas message should include a word about safety. Be careful this weekend and don’t let your face mask get too close to any candles. And any good Christmas message needs some hope and joy, too. If life happens to feel messy these days, remember that tonight’s joy doesn’t come from a picture perfect holiday cookie or an ideal family gathering. In this place, the pressure to achieve those things is off. God can see right past the Instagram version of our lives to the real one anyway, which is the one God actually works with. The true joy tonight comes from the angel’s good tidings of great joy, tidings meant for us and which we really can’t miss. For unto us is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.