“In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus…”
Once again, we hear the familiar story from the Gospel of Luke; its cadences roll over us like an old familiar song, helping us to settle into our celebration of this holy night. As we listen, we conjure up images of Christmas pageants we’ve attended or been in, of children in makeshift costumes, forgetting or blurting out their parts. As we listen we may find our imaginations wandering elsewhere, to the historical record or to the rather different story in the gospel of Matthew and asking ourselves how it all fits together. Our questions and cynicism may keep us at a safe distance from the story, blocking our emotions, staving offi its power.
Our human tendency is to ask such questions; and since the Enlightenment our scientific and historic curiosity has so examined this story and stories like it, that we may not be able to approach it with the wonder and imagination that it demands. It starts at an early age—at our 4:00 pm service, I invited the children to come forward to sit around the creche. We talked about it, I asked them what they saw and didn’t see. One of them wondered why it was a cave and not a stable. Well, the answer is, there’s no stable mentioned in the story—a manger, but no stable.
For it is a story that, in spite of its clear references to historical events—a census taken under Caesar Augustus, among others—exists outside of time and history, in eternity. It is our story, as it is the story of countless generations before us; a story steeped in tradition and symbol, radiating out through history and culture, shaping our imaginations, our hopes, our faith.
It’s a story we know, its familiarity a comfort in challenging times.
But for all its significance and symbolic power, for all its seeming timelessness, Luke roots the story firmly in time: “In those days, a decree went out from Emperor Augustus…” And in so doing, he brings us square up against the historical realities humans faced in the first century, and the realities we face today. A census in imperial times meant one thing—to determine population and to levy taxes. Luke presents it as something of imperial whim—the whole world bending to the impetuous decision of an autocratic ruler; impulsively and arbitrarily forcing the movement of whole populations across boundaries. Sound familiar?
What matters in all this, in the makeshift accommodations, in the forced relocation, in the angelic appearance to the shepherds, is that it all takes place among the most vulnerable, the most marginalized. God intervenes in history, God makes Godself present in history not in the centers of power, in Washington, Beijing, Moscow, Silicon Valley, or Rome, but in an obscure corner of the world, among the poorest and least significant, in the unlikeliest of places, among the unlikeliest of people.
Allusions abound in this story. The shepherds, out with their flocks feeding on the grass of the fields, find the infant Jesus, lying in a feeding trough. Even more poignantly, Mary wraps the infant Christ in bands of cloth. At the end of Luke’s gospel, another Joseph, of Arimathea, will wrap the body of the crucified Christ in bands of cloth for his burial. It’s not just that God becomes flesh among the most marginalized and vulnerable; the enfleshed God—Jesus Christ shares in that weakness and vulnerability. Christ is that weakness and vulnerability.
But even in that weakness and vulnerability, there is beauty and power. Just as the angels announced Christ’s coming to the shepherds, an announcement that would be more fitting in a temple or palace than in a pasture with grazing sheep, so too would angelic presence accompany Christ’s resurrection.
It’s easy to look past the weakness and vulnerability and to focus on the glory and power. We humans like flashy things—bling, swag, the images posted on social media by influencers; the strutting models and a-list celebrities; the new gilded age of billionaires and techbros.
We want to look past the weakness and vulnerability of our fellow humans, whether it’s the unhoused people on the streets of Madison, the victims of horrific war in Gaza, or desperate refugees and asylum seekers on our borders. We want to forget about all those people caught up in a healthcare system that cares only for profits, and not for people. We want to downplay or ignore our own weakness and vulnerability, we hide it behind bluster and bravado, or stoicism.
On this night, gathered here in this place, to celebrate Christ’s birth, to sing the familiar carols, to experience Christ’s presence among us, not only in a manger, in a stable in Bethlehem, but in the bread and wine of the Eucharist, the body and blood of Christ.
We see Christ in the manger, we see Christ in the bread and wine, fragile, vulnerable, weak. We bring our own vulnerability, our sins and shortcomings, our broken bodies, our broken relationships, our broken lives. In our weakness, we see Christ’s weakness; in our weakness, we find Christ’s power, Christ’s grace and love.
In a century when we have seen and known such great horror, in a year when there has been so much suffering—Gaza, Ukraine, hurricanes and floods, school shootings across the country and most recently here in Madison. In a year when we have seen spiraling hatred—antisemitism, white supremacy; a year when climate catastrophe threatens, we bring with us, this night all of our fears and anxiety.
Here to this place, to this manger, to this altar. We bring it all to Christ, to the infant, to the body broken; the baby in the manger, the body on the altar. And as we come, he is with us, in our suffering, in our fears, in our doubts.
Like the shepherds we come, in our terror and amazement, as the glory of the Lord shines around us. Like the magi we come, bearing what gifts we may have. And at the manger, at the altar, we kneel, in adoration and worship, to see the Christ Child, to see our Lord, to receive his grace and mercy, to be embraced by his love.
My friends, as old as this story is, as familiar as it is, its power to move and change us remains as strong as ever. Whatever you have brought with you today, whatever joys and griefs, fears, anxieties, doubts, this story, this child, our God can heal you, give you strength, courage, and hope. Our God is with us, in our suffering, our God is with all those who suffer across the globe and throughout history.
The child born in Bethlehem, the Christ who was crucified, raised from the dead and now reigns in majesty, Christ comes among us, enters our hearts and our expectant world, offering grace, mercy, and peace to all. May our lives be filled with his presence and may the world come to know his saving grace and boundless love.
Merry Christmas!
Preaching Grace on the Square 