When I had the opportunity to walk the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, an ancient pilgrimage across Northern Spain a few years ago, I shared stories and pictures from that journey with this congregation. One of the conversations I had when I got back, was with someone who marveled at how, in every picture, I just seemed to have a smile or joy on my face, even if it was clearly a hard day, of which there were many. To which I responded, “Well, Gretchen, I didn’t post the pictures of me crying on the side of a mountain.”
Every time we tell a story the best and worst parts tend to get sanded down just a little bit. The abundantly glittered Mary and Joseph’s around this time of year don’t quite capture the brutal “crying on the side of the mountain” moment for the Holy Family that we hear about in Luke’s retelling. But I wonder if we let our imaginations run if we can picture this holy night and what we’re missing when we listen to the story of the birth of our Lord.
Because the unfortunate reality of the world today is that it does not take much imagination to set the political scene. God was born into a harsh political reality as the governor of Syria ordered a decree, demanding the Mary and Joseph return to Bethlehem. And while they didn’t have to go through the heavily armed border checks that one must go through to enter Bethlehem, a city in current day Palestine, it was no easy journey. In what must have felt like anxious waiting days to be counted by the Roman authorities before they could return home, Mary gave birth and there was no room in the inn.
Mary gave birth. It is a simple line with a lot of harsh edges sanded down by the retelling of the story. Now, I’ve never given birth myself, but I understand it is messy and painful and holy and powerful. Mary gave birth and there was no room at the inn. And just as giving birth is something I’ve never done; I’ve also never been so excluded from shelter and housing that I’ve had to stay outside or be homeless for a short or long period of time. Mary gave birth and there was no room at the inn. When we start to hold out the story of the birth of our Savior it is much harder to let it be shiny and sparkly with its rough edges and dark corners.
But I don’t think most of us are here tonight because of a smooth, well-worn, and sanded-down version of the Christmas story; I think many of us are here because we know that underneath the glitter and meek and mild baby Jesus lying with sheep and donkeys is this very real and raw story of humanity that has survived. There is something within us that longs to hear the truth that the angel proclaimed to the shepherds as they were in the vast and wild darkness of the fields as the angel proclaimed, “Fear not! I bring good tidings of joy for all people.” At our core, I believe that this is what we long to connect with in the Nativity of our Lord.
The hope of the story of Mary giving birth and there being no room in the inn and the shepherds being scared in the darkness only works when we let it keep its bumpy edges. We do ourselves a disservice when we sand down the prickly and hard-to-hear story of Jesus’s birth, because I guarantee you, Mary and Joseph and those shepherds in the field felt fear and loneliness and overwhelm. I believe the reason the Christmas story is so compelling all these years later isn’t because of the marketing budget or Christmas movies or all the nostalgic things, but because of the hard edges and dark corners of the Nativity story. It connects deeply with the reality of many of our lives; for those of us who desperately need to hear and believe the angel when they say it is joy and that it is joy for all people.
Mary gave birth to the Messiah, and although there was no room in the inn, God still chose to come to the dark corners of the manager, to be God with us, Immanuel. On this holy night, we celebrate God coming into this world. We celebrate God coming into the dark and unseen corners of our lives that feel unworthy or as vulnerable as giving birth in a barn. We mark this holy night with songs and praise and Holy Communion, after which, we will share the light from the Christ candle. The clergy will pass the light to those on the ends of the pews, and you’ll pass it along, and as the lights dim, I ask that you pay attention to how the light grows. When we dim the lights, the lights on our candles will seem brighter than possible, and this is the sort of hope that Immanuel brings into this world.
It is not a hope or a light that denies the darkness, but one that is so abundant and transformative that it must be shared. My friends, God is not born into this world to simply be the reason for the season, but rather to upend systems of oppression and power. God is not born into this world just so that we can celebrate his birth and death, but so that we can learn how to kindle a sort of impossible hope that we see in Mary and Joseph in the dusty barn. And God is not born into this world just so that we can claim Christ as our Savior, but so that we can claim the joy the angel promised the shepherds through the love and liberation about which Christ preached.
The Nativity story is a messy one, maybe always so, but this year especially, I hope you can lean into the hard edges and dark corners of Christmas, because this is where the light is meant to shine and the space where hope can really grow. The calling of this hard edge, dark corner Christmas is to kindle the light and to let that hope grow like the newborn Christ child lying in the manger wrapped in swaddling clothes with his family around him. Immanuel, God with us, all of us hard edges and dark corners and all. God is with us all. Thanks be to God.
A sermon delivered on Luke 2:1-20 to the people of Christ Episcopal Church in Bowling Green, KY on Christmas Eve 2024.
The featured image is from Kelly Latimore.
Becca Kello 