Gloria Dei Lutheran Church

Luke 2:1–20

Beloved Ones in Christ, Merry Christmas and welcome to Gloria Dei. It’s so good to see all of you; those who are back after a long time; those of you who are here for the first time; and those of you on the livestream, which I know are many beloved ones who can’t be here but are always with us in spirit. Welcome, and Merry Christmas.

When I moved to Minnesota from Georgia, I was sure that winter would include shimmering northern lights—and possibly a moose in our front yard on a snowy evening, posing for our Christmas card. I gave up on the moose pretty quickly. But the Northern Lights—people promised, you’ll see them.

So I set alarms for 3 a.m. I listened to confident forecasters. I made plans to drive out of the city. And usually? The alarm got turned off. Or it was cloudy. Other times people insisted it was happening, but all I could see was a pale haze. A friend who grew up near the North Shore promised, “One night, we’ll jump in the car and drive up north. You’ll see them for sure.” He still says that. But we’re busy. Bedtime is creeping embarrassingly earlier, and we now have chairs with a button on the side that brings up the footrest. Once something like that enters your home, it’s likely the sign that your days of late-night adventuring are simply something to ponder.

So when, on November 11, there were reports of unusual activity on the sun, I was not falling for it. The footrest was already at full extension. I was both watching television and scrolling on my phone when I saw a stunning photo

Insert image of Northern Lights on screen

posted by our closest Gloria Dei neighbors—several blocks away—taken in their backyard. Suddenly, I was upright. Well, not suddenly, I had to press the down button my chair, which does not have an urgent setting. I was, however, wide awake. Went out the front door.

Without my neighbors, who are also angelic singers in Gloria Dei’s choir, I would have missed it. It was spectacular AND it was possible to have missed it. The more I looked at it, the more the lights revealed themselves, movement that shimmered and danced, pinks and reds, purples and greens stretched from horizon to horizon. I crossed the street and took this picture.

Which is more vivid than the reality. But the picture does capture the experience of seeing them. I was mesmerized and took picture after picture, trying to hold on to it. I find myself returning to those images, astonished and blessed. I feel like I had a visitation from the sun.

I had given up on the promise, but the universe didn’t. At the right moment, all was revealed. Not after some adventure. Not far outside the city. But from my front porch where I live, on a Tuesday in November. Not even the Tuesday in November that has generated the fireworks, as well as so many promises.

But that IS exactly where Luke’s story of Jesus birth begins. Not with wonder in the night sky but with a decree. “In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus…”

Augustus. It means exalted, revered, set apart. It wasn’t assigned to him by those who evaluated his reign. He chose it for himself. He dressed himself up as God. His birth was announced as good news. His reign was called Pax Romana. But his decree meant displacement. Fear. People forced to return to places they had likely left because of poverty or violence. This was not “going home for the holidays.” It was power reminding people who was in charge. Registration means, “We know where you are; you cannot hide.”

Into that world, Jesus was born. Born into poverty and oppression, in a system designed to keep everyone edge and doubting themselves, where it is easy to forget the promise. With poetic irony, Luke places the most powerful man in the world at that time next to a refugee baby, swaddled into the feeding trough, nervously presided over by a family that must have been absolutely exhausted and so uncertain about what was next. A child born not into the glow of welcoming love, but into the flashlight glare of Roman police.

It’s still that way in s many places. The Litte Town of Bethlehem is Palestinian and in the West Bank behind many checkpoints. Tonight we’ll sing a verse added to the carol by the Lutheran pastor who served at Christmas Lutheran Church, who still lives there not far from the place where Jesus was born.

I’ve always wondered why Luke chose to include only one detail about what Mary was feeling. After the arrival of the shepherds, which must have terrified them when they heard the barn door creaking open, Luke says, “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.”

Was that the moment that Mary realized that there was something subversive,  holy, and hopeful happening. The story wasn’t over and its conclusion is firmly and clearly in God’s hands, not Caaesar’s, or any Augustus that would follow. Mary knew.

Pondering isn’t Christmas nostalgia. It’s prophetic hope in real life. It is knowing which decree is the truest one. It is holding, quietly and fiercely, to the promise of angels instead of all the decrees and notifications that say: You’re not good enough. You’re not lovable as you are. Your body is wrong. You go to the wrong school You shouldn’t live here.; You’re a failure because you couldn’t keep it together. You shouldn’t have tried an untested recipe for Christmas dinner. Every single one of us has a narcissistic little Augustus inside somewhere, who seems so all-powerful, often in the night. Tonight is the decree that Augustus doesn’t win. Love wins the day.

Out in the fields, shepherds are keeping watch. And suddenly, the sky opens.
Not an army of soldiers—a choir of angels.
Not power that limits—but a song that can be shared.
Another announcement. Another birth Another name.

It is their visitation by the Son.
And now they, too, have something to ponder—something truer than fear, shame, or silence.

So now, I don’t expect the northern lights tonight.
But here is what is true:

To you, this day: welcome.
You are loved more than you can imagine.
You have what you need.
And the story is not finished.

So tonight, go outside, or find a quiet place, stand still.
Maybe even on your front porch.
Let the eyes of your heart adjust.

It may not be this:

This was sent to us by a witness. I missed it. But someone saw it. And shared it.

You are now the witnesses. It IS all there. Love. All the time. For you. Today. Just as it was promised.

Glory to God in the Highest, and peace to God’s people on earth.