Gift-wrapped In Swaddling Cloths
Sermon
Sermons On The Second Readings
Series I, Cycle C
When I was a kid, Christmas Eve was always the longest night of the entire year. I'm sure many of you remember it being that way too. Around the beginning of the month, my brothers and I would start keeping track of how many weeks remained, and then how many days, and finally, on December 24, we would start counting down the hours. It seemed to take forever for morning to arrive.
Of course, now that I've grown up and become the pastor of a church with four Christmas Eve services -- it's still the longest night of the year! However, I'm no longer quite as anxious simply to rush through it. On the contrary, I find myself each year experiencing moments where I am filled with such wonder and awe and overwhelming gratitude that I wish I could somehow push the pause button.
And when you think about it, on a holy and silent night long ago, time did stop. Or better yet, time split. Everything that occurred before this night we call B.C., everything afterwards A.D. They are two different times and two very different worlds. Which is why, in a sense, Christmas Eve becomes the eternal now, the time between the times. It is a moment that forever connects those very different worlds and makes them one.
But even more profound than that, what we celebrate tonight is the arrival of One whom we call Emmanuel -- the God who is with us. In ways that we will never fully comprehend, this tiny babe is with us because he's made out of exactly the same stuff we are, and also the same stuff God is, and he would not let go of either. With outstretched hands he held on to both, so that he could bring the two together. The Apostle Paul put it like this: "He it is who gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity and purify for himself a people of his own who are zealous for good deeds" (v. 14).
That is the message we proclaim, and if it doesn't strike you as being rather shocking -- maybe even a little scandalous -- then chances are you have not heard the message for what it is. God gave God's self for us. The high and lofty One became for our sakes lowly and helpless. The eternal and infinite One deliberately chose the constraints of time and flesh. The Father of all mercies put himself at our mercy. I know of no other religion bold enough even to entertain that possibility. Indeed, for other faiths, the suggestion that an omnipotent God might appear in such a vulnerable form would be considered sheer foolishness, or worse still, outright blasphemy.
Yet as I was reading the story just now, I didn't notice any of you squirming in your pews with dismay or leaping to your feet in disgust. Perhaps this story has become so familiar to us that we are no longer startled by it. Or maybe in an effort to make it less startling, we tend to overlook its revolutionary nature. Judging from most of the Christmas cards I receive, I'd say that our inclination is to romanticize the story of Jesus' birth. We picture a quaint, rustic stable somewhere out in the countryside. It's filled with well-groomed livestock and bathed in the warm glow of a lantern's light. Gentle Mary is sitting there, seemingly without a care in the world. Joseph stands beside her, one hand resting softly on her shoulder. The cattle are lowing, the poor baby wakes, but little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.
Now, come on. You might be able to sell that to Hallmark, but may I have a show of hands from all the parents of newborns who "no crying they make"? When my children were infants, they would sometimes cry half the night. (At least that's what my wife told me; I was usually asleep.)
Please don't get the wrong impression. This story is filled with love. All I'm suggesting is that it's not an overly romantic story. It starts out with a census. The entire empire is forced to relocate temporarily so that Augustus can take down names and hand out numbers. But mind you, it's not because he has suddenly decided to conduct a demographic study. Caesar could not have cared less about fair representation in the Roman senate. Registrations had only one purpose and that was to answer the question of whether there were enough soldiers in the army and enough shekels in the treasury. If the final tally didn't meet the emperor's approval, then you can bet that this edict would have been quickly followed by another: Round up the young men and raise everybody's taxes!
We may have pleasant memories of Christmases past, but not so for the people who lived through the first one. If you had asked any of them what they thought about this census, it's not likely they would have responded, "Oh, what happy times those were. We all got to come home for the holidays." Actually, what they would have said, you probably couldn't print on a Christmas card.
This is hardly a story of "deck the halls" and "fa-la-la-la-la." Poor Mary and Joseph can't even find a decent place to stay for the night. As you recall, there was no room for them in the inn. However, if this is Joseph's hometown, have you ever wondered why they would need to be looking for a hotel? Where are all of their friends and relatives? Why is no one willing to receive them?
I don't know for sure, but I'll venture a guess. Perhaps, given the circumstances of this pregnancy, they have been scandalized. Remember they weren't married at the time. The text reports that Joseph went to Bethlehem to be registered with Mary "to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child" (Luke 2:5, emphasis added). Maybe the reason they can't find a room in somebody's home is because they were not welcomed in anybody's home.
Thus, they end up in a barn, of all places, and a feeding trough (which I can't imagine would have been very sanitary) will serve as Jesus' crib. Both Mary and Joseph are cold, probably hungry, and certainly lonely. None of their family and friends even bothers to show up to celebrate the occasion of this new birth. Their only company that evening are a ragged bunch of shepherds who eventually stumble into the stable -- unshowered, unshaven, and unannounced. They are filled with all kinds of strange questions about the baby, and even stranger talk about a chorus of angels in the sky.
Mary is said to have pondered these things in her heart, but if you ask me, that's just a subtle way of suggesting that she didn't have a clue as to what to make of any of this. And of course, neither did Joseph. Once the shepherds depart, they are left to sort it all out by themselves. Even heaven falls silent. There are no anthems of divine assurance that drift sweetly down from above. No angels are sent to attend to their needs, or offer them supportive words of encouragement. You would think that Gabriel -- the winged obstetrician who had talked them both into this -- could have at least made a follow-up visit to tell them what to do next. But he and all of his celestial cohorts are conspicuously absent. The closing scene of this story is Mary and Joseph sitting alone with their baby, shivering in the night and trying their best to ignore the stench of the animals. It's not exactly Norman Rockwell, is it?
I hope I'm not spoiling your image of Christmas. However, the point is that even in the worst of times, even in the most unimaginable of conditions, God is still present. "For the grace of God has appeared," Paul tells Titus, "bringing salvation to all ..." (v. 11). That is the Good News we declare to the world tonight, and what is both Good and New about it is the incredible claim that, in Jesus Christ, we encounter this grace in person. Emmanuel means God-With-Us, not God-Somewhere-Up-There. Jesus is not a Christmas card from God that says, "Wishing I was there." Jesus is God's way of saying, "I choose to make your home my own."
It reminds me of an experience my wife and I had some years ago with our eldest daughter. Kathy struggled with colic as an infant and often had trouble going to sleep -- or more precisely, she had trouble staying asleep. She was fine as long as she was in our arms, but as soon as we laid her down she would start screaming. Being first-time parents and not knowing any better, we would na•vely rush to the crib, pick her up, and the whole exhausting cycle would begin again.
I remember one Saturday evening in particular, when I still needed to finish my sermon and little Kathy was not cooperating. My wife and I tried everything. We took turns holding her, rocking her, singing to her. At one point, I even preached my half-written sermon to her. (I figured that if it puts folks to sleep on Sunday morning, it ought to do the trick on Saturday night.) But it was to no avail. Finally, in desperation, I handed Kathy to my wife and said, "I'm sorry, but I've got to get some work done."
I sat down at my computer and started to type. The crying continued incessantly from the other room, and I could tell that my wife wasn't having much success. However, minutes later, the house grew suddenly quiet. I thought to myself, Will wonders never cease? How did she put that child to sleep? This I've got to see!
I tiptoed back to the bedroom to witness the miracle firsthand, and what I discovered was that my wife had crawled into the crib with Kathy. In effect, she decided to make our child's home her own. It was a humorous sight, I must admit, but as I watched the two of them, it struck me that that's not a bad image for Christmas. On a holy and silent night long ago, God came down from heaven and crawled into the crib of humankind. Only in this case, God took the unprecedented step of actually becoming the child in that crib.
According to Paul, God did this in order to "purify for himself a people of his own who are zealous for good deeds" (v. 14b). In other words, by becoming a baby, God did more than simply make a home among us; God also placed a claim upon us. And if you have ever cradled a newborn in your arms, then I suspect you know exactly what Paul is getting at. There is nothing quite so fragile, so delicate, so vulnerable and utterly dependent as an infant. Which is precisely why an infant summons something from us. During those first precious moments, as a baby begins to take in all the wondrous sights and sounds of life, we can't help but be taken in too. No one remains neutral in a maternity ward. A response is demanded. This tiny, helpless child is reaching up to us for warmth and protection, comfort and nourishment, and above all else, love.
That's part of what makes Christmas Eve so wondrous. For the rest of the year, we will speak of our need for God. But not tonight. Tonight we speak of God's need for us -- as shocking and scandalous as that may sound! In the worst of times and in the most unimaginable of conditions, God still chose to be with us. And even now, God is reaching up to us with outstretched hands. Because of all places, it is our lives that God has decided to call home tonight.
Of course, now that I've grown up and become the pastor of a church with four Christmas Eve services -- it's still the longest night of the year! However, I'm no longer quite as anxious simply to rush through it. On the contrary, I find myself each year experiencing moments where I am filled with such wonder and awe and overwhelming gratitude that I wish I could somehow push the pause button.
And when you think about it, on a holy and silent night long ago, time did stop. Or better yet, time split. Everything that occurred before this night we call B.C., everything afterwards A.D. They are two different times and two very different worlds. Which is why, in a sense, Christmas Eve becomes the eternal now, the time between the times. It is a moment that forever connects those very different worlds and makes them one.
But even more profound than that, what we celebrate tonight is the arrival of One whom we call Emmanuel -- the God who is with us. In ways that we will never fully comprehend, this tiny babe is with us because he's made out of exactly the same stuff we are, and also the same stuff God is, and he would not let go of either. With outstretched hands he held on to both, so that he could bring the two together. The Apostle Paul put it like this: "He it is who gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity and purify for himself a people of his own who are zealous for good deeds" (v. 14).
That is the message we proclaim, and if it doesn't strike you as being rather shocking -- maybe even a little scandalous -- then chances are you have not heard the message for what it is. God gave God's self for us. The high and lofty One became for our sakes lowly and helpless. The eternal and infinite One deliberately chose the constraints of time and flesh. The Father of all mercies put himself at our mercy. I know of no other religion bold enough even to entertain that possibility. Indeed, for other faiths, the suggestion that an omnipotent God might appear in such a vulnerable form would be considered sheer foolishness, or worse still, outright blasphemy.
Yet as I was reading the story just now, I didn't notice any of you squirming in your pews with dismay or leaping to your feet in disgust. Perhaps this story has become so familiar to us that we are no longer startled by it. Or maybe in an effort to make it less startling, we tend to overlook its revolutionary nature. Judging from most of the Christmas cards I receive, I'd say that our inclination is to romanticize the story of Jesus' birth. We picture a quaint, rustic stable somewhere out in the countryside. It's filled with well-groomed livestock and bathed in the warm glow of a lantern's light. Gentle Mary is sitting there, seemingly without a care in the world. Joseph stands beside her, one hand resting softly on her shoulder. The cattle are lowing, the poor baby wakes, but little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.
Now, come on. You might be able to sell that to Hallmark, but may I have a show of hands from all the parents of newborns who "no crying they make"? When my children were infants, they would sometimes cry half the night. (At least that's what my wife told me; I was usually asleep.)
Please don't get the wrong impression. This story is filled with love. All I'm suggesting is that it's not an overly romantic story. It starts out with a census. The entire empire is forced to relocate temporarily so that Augustus can take down names and hand out numbers. But mind you, it's not because he has suddenly decided to conduct a demographic study. Caesar could not have cared less about fair representation in the Roman senate. Registrations had only one purpose and that was to answer the question of whether there were enough soldiers in the army and enough shekels in the treasury. If the final tally didn't meet the emperor's approval, then you can bet that this edict would have been quickly followed by another: Round up the young men and raise everybody's taxes!
We may have pleasant memories of Christmases past, but not so for the people who lived through the first one. If you had asked any of them what they thought about this census, it's not likely they would have responded, "Oh, what happy times those were. We all got to come home for the holidays." Actually, what they would have said, you probably couldn't print on a Christmas card.
This is hardly a story of "deck the halls" and "fa-la-la-la-la." Poor Mary and Joseph can't even find a decent place to stay for the night. As you recall, there was no room for them in the inn. However, if this is Joseph's hometown, have you ever wondered why they would need to be looking for a hotel? Where are all of their friends and relatives? Why is no one willing to receive them?
I don't know for sure, but I'll venture a guess. Perhaps, given the circumstances of this pregnancy, they have been scandalized. Remember they weren't married at the time. The text reports that Joseph went to Bethlehem to be registered with Mary "to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child" (Luke 2:5, emphasis added). Maybe the reason they can't find a room in somebody's home is because they were not welcomed in anybody's home.
Thus, they end up in a barn, of all places, and a feeding trough (which I can't imagine would have been very sanitary) will serve as Jesus' crib. Both Mary and Joseph are cold, probably hungry, and certainly lonely. None of their family and friends even bothers to show up to celebrate the occasion of this new birth. Their only company that evening are a ragged bunch of shepherds who eventually stumble into the stable -- unshowered, unshaven, and unannounced. They are filled with all kinds of strange questions about the baby, and even stranger talk about a chorus of angels in the sky.
Mary is said to have pondered these things in her heart, but if you ask me, that's just a subtle way of suggesting that she didn't have a clue as to what to make of any of this. And of course, neither did Joseph. Once the shepherds depart, they are left to sort it all out by themselves. Even heaven falls silent. There are no anthems of divine assurance that drift sweetly down from above. No angels are sent to attend to their needs, or offer them supportive words of encouragement. You would think that Gabriel -- the winged obstetrician who had talked them both into this -- could have at least made a follow-up visit to tell them what to do next. But he and all of his celestial cohorts are conspicuously absent. The closing scene of this story is Mary and Joseph sitting alone with their baby, shivering in the night and trying their best to ignore the stench of the animals. It's not exactly Norman Rockwell, is it?
I hope I'm not spoiling your image of Christmas. However, the point is that even in the worst of times, even in the most unimaginable of conditions, God is still present. "For the grace of God has appeared," Paul tells Titus, "bringing salvation to all ..." (v. 11). That is the Good News we declare to the world tonight, and what is both Good and New about it is the incredible claim that, in Jesus Christ, we encounter this grace in person. Emmanuel means God-With-Us, not God-Somewhere-Up-There. Jesus is not a Christmas card from God that says, "Wishing I was there." Jesus is God's way of saying, "I choose to make your home my own."
It reminds me of an experience my wife and I had some years ago with our eldest daughter. Kathy struggled with colic as an infant and often had trouble going to sleep -- or more precisely, she had trouble staying asleep. She was fine as long as she was in our arms, but as soon as we laid her down she would start screaming. Being first-time parents and not knowing any better, we would na•vely rush to the crib, pick her up, and the whole exhausting cycle would begin again.
I remember one Saturday evening in particular, when I still needed to finish my sermon and little Kathy was not cooperating. My wife and I tried everything. We took turns holding her, rocking her, singing to her. At one point, I even preached my half-written sermon to her. (I figured that if it puts folks to sleep on Sunday morning, it ought to do the trick on Saturday night.) But it was to no avail. Finally, in desperation, I handed Kathy to my wife and said, "I'm sorry, but I've got to get some work done."
I sat down at my computer and started to type. The crying continued incessantly from the other room, and I could tell that my wife wasn't having much success. However, minutes later, the house grew suddenly quiet. I thought to myself, Will wonders never cease? How did she put that child to sleep? This I've got to see!
I tiptoed back to the bedroom to witness the miracle firsthand, and what I discovered was that my wife had crawled into the crib with Kathy. In effect, she decided to make our child's home her own. It was a humorous sight, I must admit, but as I watched the two of them, it struck me that that's not a bad image for Christmas. On a holy and silent night long ago, God came down from heaven and crawled into the crib of humankind. Only in this case, God took the unprecedented step of actually becoming the child in that crib.
According to Paul, God did this in order to "purify for himself a people of his own who are zealous for good deeds" (v. 14b). In other words, by becoming a baby, God did more than simply make a home among us; God also placed a claim upon us. And if you have ever cradled a newborn in your arms, then I suspect you know exactly what Paul is getting at. There is nothing quite so fragile, so delicate, so vulnerable and utterly dependent as an infant. Which is precisely why an infant summons something from us. During those first precious moments, as a baby begins to take in all the wondrous sights and sounds of life, we can't help but be taken in too. No one remains neutral in a maternity ward. A response is demanded. This tiny, helpless child is reaching up to us for warmth and protection, comfort and nourishment, and above all else, love.
That's part of what makes Christmas Eve so wondrous. For the rest of the year, we will speak of our need for God. But not tonight. Tonight we speak of God's need for us -- as shocking and scandalous as that may sound! In the worst of times and in the most unimaginable of conditions, God still chose to be with us. And even now, God is reaching up to us with outstretched hands. Because of all places, it is our lives that God has decided to call home tonight.
