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Regardless of the size of a town, it is important for the residents to have a sense of civic pride. Zionsville has a brick street and a quaint nineteenth-century village that makes us proud. Indianapolis has the Motor Speedway, the Colts, and the Pacers all representing the presence of professional sports in this town. It seems that in America these days no major city can consider itself "major league" and "first class" without such professional sports. Every year the mayors of the competing cities in the World Series or the Super Bowl usually bet some symbol of their civic pride against the opposing city. This belief that cities need to have professional sports has led one city after another to use public tax dollars to build fabulous new stadiums to keep their teams. In recent years the citizens of many of these cities have begun to question the wisdom and legitimacy of using public money to fund private professional sports. The Twin Cities may lose their baseball team because they have refused to be blackmailed by the Twins. Many of my relatives in Wisconsin are still complaining that their tax dollars went to build the new Miller Park for the Brewers. It's easy to get cynical about professional sports in this kind of world. "Civic pride" seems to be nothing more than a way to shame the public into coughing up more money for millionaire players and owners.

That is probably one of the reasons why I have always been a fan of the Green Bay Packers. It is not only because the Packers are from my home state but because here is a team that represents the "little guy." The Packers reside in the smallest town in America to have a major sports franchise. Green Bay has only a little over 100,000 people. In addition, the Packers are the only professional sports franchise in America that is owned by the fans, the people of Wisconsin, and not a rich and powerful businessman. When the Packers play an opponent, it symbolizes more than just one team against another. It is small town America against the depersonalized big city. It is the little guy versus the big guy. It is David versus Goliath. It is the underdog against the rich and powerful.

This desire to support the underdog and the "little guy" is reflected in today's First Lesson from the prophet Micah. Micah was a prophet from the countryside. He was anti-big city and never hesitated to criticize the corruption of the big city, Jerusalem. Therefore, we should not be surprised that he seemed to take great delight in reminding the Israelites that the future, great Davidic King, the long-awaited Messiah who would finally restore David's kingdom in all its glory, would not come from Jerusalem. Rather he would come from that little hick town of Bethlehem. Sure, David had been born in Bethlehem, but Jerusalem was his city. Jerusalem was the city that symbolized the great achievements of his reign and not the little town from which he came. But Micah loved the underdogs and the little guys and he was convinced that the future Messiah would be an underdog and not a big shot. He would come from "you, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah."

The same theme is portrayed in today's Gospel. There we see that this Davidic King would continue to reflect God's partiality for the little ones, for the underdogs. In today's Gospel, Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth to tell her the good news of her recent pregnancy and impending special birth. While there, she sings that song that has captured the imagination of Christians for centuries, The Magnificat. In that song she sings joyfully of what God is going to do through the one now in her womb. Through him God will continue his partiality toward the little ones and underdogs. Through him (Jesus) God will continue to reverse the world's pecking order and its understanding of greatness.

He has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
-- Luke 1:51-53


In this season of Advent we are continually reminded that these hopes of both Micah and Mary were fulfilled in the birth of Christ. However glorious we might want to make our celebration of Christmas, the biblical narrative of these events continually reminds us that the birth of this great Davidic King took place in the little backwoods town of Bethlehem. Even more, the Messiah came as a baby, as a little one, as one of the least of human beings, born in the most humble and ordinary of circumstances. Today as we conclude the season of Advent and enter the holy days of Christmas, we are reminded that God made his entry into human history as "one of us." And ironically it was as a "little one," not only as the babe of Bethlehem but as that ordinary carpenter's son from Nazareth, that Jesus had the power to change the world.

It is the seasons of Advent and Christmas and passages like this from the prophet Micah that remind us that the vulnerability of this little child reflects the unique power that the "little ones" have to change the world. The Christian Gospel proclaims that it is not the power and strength of muscle and intimidation but the power of love that saves the world. Love often looks weak and vulnerable. Love chooses not to coerce or strong arm but to lay aside its muscle in order to win the hearts and lives others. There is nothing so weak and vulnerable in this world as a baby. But yet it is a baby, this baby born in Bethlehem, the hick town, "one of the little clans of Judah," who has the power to change the world. This baby will eventually bring the powers of this world to their knees, melt their hardened hearts, and disarm their malice not with swords and guns but with the disarming strength of his seemingly weak love.

It is no accident that the long-awaited Messiah makes his entry into the world as a little baby. It is a foreshadowing of the power of his kingdom. It is a foreshadowing of his coming kingdom's most glorious moment, his death on the cross. Love can be no more weak and vulnerable than that. Yet there is nothing else in this whole universe that has the power to change the hearts and lives of people so completely.

Now I want to tell you a story that portrays the amazing power of the "little ones," of a baby, to change the hearts and lives of people. It is not written by the prophet Micah. It doesn't even appear in the Bible. But it portrays a truth that is biblical. It could have been told by Micah. It vividly portrays the "regenerating power of the little one," of a tiny, vulnerable baby, to transform a harsh and hard world into a world of tenderness and compassion. In its own unique way, it portrays what it meant for God to be born in Bethlehem, "one of the little clans of Judah." It is a short story written by nineteenth-century American author Bret Harte, titled "The Luck of Roaring Camp."

The story takes place in 1850 in a rough and tumble mining camp in the California Gold Rush town called Roaring Camp. I suppose the place was called Roaring Camp because it was such a loud and rowdy place filled with characters who were crude and coarse.

The story begins when one day the camp was filled with all sorts of commotion and excitement. The whole camp was assembled before a crude cabin set at the edge of the camp. The miners were all intense and serious, mumbling something about Cherokee Sal. You see, Cherokee Sal was the only woman in Roaring Camp. And she was a coarse and sinful woman, a woman who was practicing the world's oldest profession among the residents of Roaring Camp. Cherokee Sal was a woman of ill-repute, a prostitute.

Why was there all this commotion about Cherokee Sal? Because Cherokee Sal was inside that cabin and she was in the midst of childbirth. It was not uncommon to hear about deaths in Roaring Camp. But births? This was truly an extraordinary occasion.

The men gathered outside that cabin didn't know what to do. They were shaken by this extraordinary event. One of the most gruff, coarse, and profane residents of Roaring Camp, but also one of its more prominent citizens, was a man by the name of Kentuck. He stepped forward and decided that another fellow by the name of Stumpy ought to play the role of surgeon and midwife because, it was rumored, he had a family somewhere in his distant past. Stumpy reluctantly consented and went inside to do his duty.

All the camp, approximately 100 men, waited impatiently outside. They were a rough, hard drinking, heavy smoking, gutter-talking bunch of characters. They had all come to make their fortunes in Roaring Camp. But now they were all mesmerized by this birth that was about to happen to Cherokee Sal. They waited all night, when suddenly near dawn they heard a sudden cry, the likes of which they had never heard before. Together they all jumped up and started shouting and yelling for joy. Guns were fired into the sky. A baby boy had been born. But sadly in the midst of all the pain, Cherokee Sal had died.

The men of Roaring Camp were fascinated with this newborn child. Curiously they all filed through the small one-room cabin to catch a glimpse of this strange, new life. Each offered the child a gift ranging from a silver tobacco box to a golden spur. Then came the coarse and rough Kentuck. Harte writes:

As Kentuck bent over the candle-box half curiously, the child turned, and in a spasm of pain caught at his groping finger and held it fast for a moment. Kentuck looked foolish and embarrassed. Something like a blush tried to assert itself in his weather-beaten cheek. "The d-d little cuss!" he said, as he extricated his finger, with perhaps, more tenderness and care than he might have been deemed capable of showing. He held that finger a little apart from its fellows as he went out and examined it curiously. The examination provoked the same original remark in regard to the child.

In fact, he seemed to enjoy repeating it. "He rastled with my finger," he remarked holding up the member, "the d-d little cuss!"

Kentuck was obviously moved by the experience. That night he walked back and forth in front of the cabin until he finally got enough courage to knock on the door.

It was opened by Stumpy. "How goes it?" said Kentuck, looking past Stumpy toward the candle box. "All quiet," replied Stumpy. "Anything up?" "Nothing." There was a pause, an embarrassing one, Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his finger, which he held up to Stumpy. "Rastled with it, the d-d little cuss," he said and retired.

Cherokee Sal was buried and Roaring Camp was forced to make a decision. What were they going to do with this baby? They didn't want to send him to another camp. They decided against getting a female nurse. No decent woman would ever come there anyway. And they didn't want any more of that other kind of woman. Finally, Stumpy agreed to do the job of raising the child. But in reality the whole camp pitched in.

Surprisingly the child thrived in Roaring Camp. For a while he was variously called "The Kid" and "Stumpy's Boy." Finally it was decided that the boy needed a name. It was decided to call him Tommy Luck because "luck" was something that was on the mind of every man in Roaring Camp. The men even decided to have a christening ceremony for "The Luck." In all seriousness someone played the preacher. There was even a choir. Stumpy announced the christening.

"I proclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the United States and the state of California, so help me God." It was the first time that the name of the Deity had been uttered otherwise than profanely in the camp. Tommy Luck was christened as seriously as he would have been under a Christian roof, and cried and was comforted in an orthodox fashion. And so the work of the regeneration began in Roaring Camp.1


An amazing thing then happens in the story. Roaring Camp is changed or "regenerated," as Harte puts it. The cabin is remodeled. The camp is cleaned up. Shouting and yelling are prohibited within earshot of the child. It is quite a change, especially for a place called Roaring Camp. Profanity is given up. No one is allowed to hold the child without a bath. Some even take to singing lullabies to put the child to sleep. The miners even begin to pick bouquets of wild flowers to adorn the "corral" of Tommy Luck. The camp is so intent on cleaning up its image that there is talk of building a hotel and inviting some decent families to come and live in the camp ... for the sake of "The Luck."

But in the spring of 1851 tragedy struck. A sudden flash flood arose and washed away part of Roaring Camp, including the cabin where Stumpy and The Luck were living. Stumpy was eventually found downstream -- dead. But there was no Tommy Luck. The men of Roaring Camp thought all was lost, when suddenly a relief boat arrived from downstream carrying a man and an infant nearly exhausted. Rushing to the boat, they saw old Kentuck lying there, cruelly crushed and bruised, almost dead, but still holding tight in his arms -- The Luck of Roaring Camp. As they looked at this pair, they thought that the child was dead. One said, "I reckon he's dead." But Kentuck opened his eyes and said feebly, "Dead? Yes, my man, and you're dying, too." A smile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. "Dying," he repeated, "he's taking me with him. Tell the boys I've got Luck with me now." And the strong man, "clinging to the frail babe as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy river that flows forever to the unknown."

Tommy Luck, a little newborn baby, changed the lives of old Kentuck and Roaring Camp. Bret Harte calls it "regeneration," being born again. I call it an example of the power that the "little ones," the least and the most insignificant, a baby born in Bethlehem, "one of the little clans of Judah" have to change and transform lives.

On this fourth Sunday in Advent we look forward to the birth of a baby, not laid in a cigar box but in a manger, born not in the backward town of Roaring Camp but in the little and insignificant town of Bethlehem. This baby didn't just save the town of Roaring Camp from its crude and rowdy ways but saved the world from its sin. This baby was not just the child of Cherokee Sal but the child of an unwed, teenaged mother. And this child didn't just bring good manners and civility to a crude bunch of miners. He brought light to a world shrouded in darkness.

It is amazing, this regenerative power of such little ones. Can you imagine it, babies changing people's lives? But that is what God is up to in this child, just a baby, from "one of the little clans of Judah."


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1. Bret Harte, The Outcasts of Poker Flat and Other Tales (New York: Penguin Books, 1961), p. 107.