Gloria Dei Lutheran Church

Luke 2:1-20

A few weeks ago, the Gloria Dei staff went caroling to some of our homebound members, and then we came back for lunch and our annual white elephant gift exchange.  At the afternoon services, Pastors Javen and Lois used their gifts, a blinking Christmas tree headband for Pastor Javen and a stunning lighted necklace for Pastor Lois.  You know the kind, the ones with those big colored bulbs that people used to put on their trees.  They talked about light and love and the baby Jesus. The told the children how much they loved their gifts.

Under the light and truth of the Christmas star, I feel compelled to tell the whole story.  The necklace of lights so cherished by Pastor Lois had been mine.  I loved them.  I was joyfully wearing them when it was ripped from around my neck when Pastor Lois decided to steal.

Since then, two stories have emerged.  She claims it’s simply the rules of the game.  You get to pick a gift or steal someone else’s.  I say that love and compassion should be the rule of the game.  When you see that your sibling in Christ is deeply happy, resting so wonderfully in the love of God, do you rip that way, even though the rules claim that it’s legal?

Of course, I’m just—sort of–kidding. We did have a good time.  My resentment will diminish over time, and I will forgive as Christ has called us to do.

Luke sets before us two stories.  There is the decree of Caesar Augustus and the announcement of the heavenly chorus.

This is exactly the issue for Christmas.  Which story will be our northstar?  Which story will return us to our true selves?  Which story has the power to save us, in all senses of that word?

We all know Caesar’s story.  We live in it every day.  It’s decreed by so many of our institutions and our systems, our traumas and past failures. It’s the world of tyrants and dictators, and supremacy, and politicians who will win at all costs; it’s the world that loves the feel of a weapon. It’s the world where the “news” isn’t as much “great joy for all the people” but is designed to make us worry, get angry, and the click more.  Caesar’s world divides us, the “normal” versus the “different.”  The red and the blue. The worthy versus the unworthy, literally a world that is black and white.

I think we love Christmas so much because it’s mystery—the carols, the story of Bethlehem, the candles in the darkness—allows us, even if it’s for a moment or an hour, to put down the “weary world” and let ourselves rest in another story.  Like that child in the manger, we long to be held, loved for the vulnerable and needy people we are, cared for, fed with a mother’s love, tended by a good father.  We yearn to fall fast asleep and dream that God is building something better.  And we desperately need a bit of the heavenly chorus so that we can remember that death is not the end for us, or for our beloved relationships.  Tonight, we sing together.  Not one is forgotten.  Not one is left behind.

Maybe we’re naïve or in denial in these holy days.  But I don’t think so.  If this “other story,” the story of Mary and Joseph, the baby, the shepherds, the angels was just superficial wallpaper over the pain and suffering of the human life, it would have peeled away centuries ago.  Yet, here we are, telling it again because what we announce on this night, is that there is “good news of great joy for all the people.  To you is born this day in the city of David, a savior, who is Christ the Lord.”

As it turns out, Bethlehem is more enduring than Rome. Caesar Augustus rests in history.  Christ is re-born in every act of love and mercy, in every effort to healing and bring justice. The shepherds are more effective witnesses than spin doctors of the regime. The angels turn out to be history’s best army by packing song sheets. And a vulnerable baby proves to be more powerful than any president.

The call of Christmas is never to run away, but to be empowered to build, to restore, to forgive.  When we finally get it that we are loved, really loved by the God who made us, and the whole heavenly chorus that is cheering for you, you become able to love.  Free to let go of the shame or the judgments, free to embrace your idiosyncrasies.  God loves weirdos.  Free to put the wounds down, free to know that the deepest grief, often felt in these days, is the residue of love that never dies. Love begets love.  And God’s love is always embodied.  We were made to give birth to it.

So, perhaps, we have a decree for Caesar’s world:

We will welcome the refugee in the night and give asylum to the frightened.

We will welcome the crying child, and feed the hungry adult who can’t get it together.

We will take the coins that bear your image and joyfully build a contrast society.

We will make peace and take our erasers to your borders.

We will set free those imprisoned to prejudice and systemic injustice.

We will tell the exhausted that it’s okay to stop and rest.

We will tell “all people” that they are welcome to live the lives their bodies yearn to live.

We will little by little, just outside your purview, build a different world.

Look out Caesar:

Because our story doesn’t start with “in those days,” but “this day.”

This day God will be born again, a story that will prevail, just as sweet and just as powerful as that babe in the manger.