Christmas Eve, December 24, 2023
1.
“He did not wait ‘til the world was ready,” says Madeleine L’Engle, “’til men and nations were at peace. / He came when the Heavens were unsteady, and prisoners cried out for release.” To me, this seems to be the good news, the healing word that we need most on planet earth. That this tiny child, this poor, defenseless baby, is born in the dark night, in a world at war, as so much violence, so much rage divides us. That this tiny child, this poor, defenseless baby, is God’s answer to the fears that unnerve our hearts. “He did not wait ‘til the world was ready, ‘til men and nations were at peace. / He came when the Heavens were unsteady, and prisoners cried out for release.”
For all the thousands of years of commentary on this story, and for all the preaching and pontificating that has arisen from these words, the message tonight is so simple that it humbles every one of us, the loud and the proud, the weak and the meek. This tiny child comes not to convert with doctrine or bluster—but to free our imprisoned hearts by the simple, improbable, unarmed power of Love. This defenseless baby comes to a world divided to open our closed minds with imagination and mercy. This child. This baby. God’s answer to the fears that unnerve our hearts, and God’s love song to a world unsteadied by despair.
And there’s one moment, then, that seems especially urgent this year; and it’s the one out there in the fields that night, where shepherds keep watch over flocks. And the Light shines upon them, and mercy shakes them from revery and angst, and something, someone like an angel calls out to them there. And you remember what she says, what the angel says to the shepherds in the fields? “Do not be afraid.” “Do not be afraid.” You see, friends, that’s the whole point. That’s the whole point of this child’s cooing in the manger behind the inn. That’s the one liberating message tonight for us. For you and me. For planet earth. “Do not be afraid.” “Do not be afraid.”
2.
Over these next several weeks, we’re going to see that predictable parade of presidential candidates, right here in New Hampshire, and I’ll hazard a guess that every one of them is going tell us to be afraid. Right? Every one of them is going to rehearse, in school auditoriums and town squares and neighborhood diners, a litany of people we should fear, and dangers to our faith and safety, and threats to our lifestyle and freedom. You know the drill. They’re going to tell us to fear immigrants invading from the south. They’re going to tell us to fear books that celebrate diversity and the many ways of building a loving life. They’re going to tell us, I imagine, to fear old age and old people and the fragility of an elderly mind. We’re going to get a heavy dose of all that.
But tonight, my friends, as we greet Christmas angels again, we hear a radically hopeful, delightfully joyful, resoundingly defiant “NO” to all that fear, to all that bluster, to all the ways it settles in us, and in our communities. No: we are not given to this planet to spend our years frightened of one another. No: we are not given to this good earth to spend our days despairing for the future. And no: we are not blessed with breath and voice and courage, only to rant at our differences, only to sneer at our diversity, only to arm up and train for war and defend our own ways at all costs. “Do not be afraid,” says the angel to the shepherds. There is so much more to life. There is so much life to be lived.
Tonight, in this dark December night, we see stars and light and beauty. Tonight, in the bracing and brittle breeze, we hear angels and anthems and hymns to joy. Tonight, in between all the words, in the faces of friends we love and neighbors we hardly know, we see hope and love and the promise of a world healed and redeemed. To all the world, to all the people, to the whole, wild, wonderful cosmos—to us is born this night, in the City of David, a child, a baby, a savior whose only name is Love.
You see, we are not given to this planet, you and I, to spend our years frightened and armed to the teeth. We are not given to this planet to apply our creativity, our energy, our minds—to building big walls, and engineering deadly guns, and making our sweet homes into mighty fortresses. No, no, no. We are given to one another to find in one another the beauty of this Bethlehem baby, the defenseless grace of his life, the power and courage of his teaching. We are given to one another to sing songs and break bread and do justice together. We are given to one another to beat swords into ploughshares, and spears into pruning hooks, and to make friends of our enemies and feasts where once we fought.
3.
So believe me when I tell you that this Jesus never once demanded that you worship him as King, or that you wear his cross as some kind of jewelry or symbol of distinguishing devotion. Believe me when I tell you that this Jesus never once insisted that only those who claim his name are worthy of God’s love or destined for heaven’s glory or any of that theological, ecclesiastical, doctrinal nonsense.
He is born to us again this night—simply and only that we might learn to love him; simply and only that we might choose together to wrap him in warm blankets and teach him the names of stars and birds. Jesus is born in the beautiful blackness of this winter’s night—simply and only that we might look for God’s sweet grace in the faces of children, and the weathered hands of old friends, and (yes) the strange and sometimes scary eyes of strangers too. “Do not be afraid.” This is his gospel. “Do not be afraid.” This is his gift. “Do not be afraid.” This is for you.
As we sing to one another now, as we pass around warm cider and homemade rolls, as we share smiles and hope and melodies of joy, I hope you’ll keep your minds open, your hearts open, your eyes open. For I dare say that there are angels hovering round, even here, even now. And I dare say that the gospel of Love is coming your way tonight, to take you by the hand, to release you from fears that do you no good, to bring you into the great and sacred circle of mercy, God’s mercy. That circle that has no beginning, and no ending, but invites us all to live freely tonight and sing freely tonight and rejoice freely tonight. For Christ is born. The Child of God is alive in you and alive in me. And Love is at home again in the world.
Amen and Ashe!
1.
For all the thousands of years of commentary on this story, and for all the preaching and pontificating that has arisen from these words, the message tonight is so simple that it humbles every one of us, the loud and the proud, the weak and the meek. This tiny child comes not to convert with doctrine or bluster—but to free our imprisoned hearts by the simple, improbable, unarmed power of Love. This defenseless baby comes to a world divided to open our closed minds with imagination and mercy. This child. This baby. God’s answer to the fears that unnerve our hearts, and God’s love song to a world unsteadied by despair.
And there’s one moment, then, that seems especially urgent this year; and it’s the one out there in the fields that night, where shepherds keep watch over flocks. And the Light shines upon them, and mercy shakes them from revery and angst, and something, someone like an angel calls out to them there. And you remember what she says, what the angel says to the shepherds in the fields? “Do not be afraid.” “Do not be afraid.” You see, friends, that’s the whole point. That’s the whole point of this child’s cooing in the manger behind the inn. That’s the one liberating message tonight for us. For you and me. For planet earth. “Do not be afraid.” “Do not be afraid.”
2.
Over these next several weeks, we’re going to see that predictable parade of presidential candidates, right here in New Hampshire, and I’ll hazard a guess that every one of them is going tell us to be afraid. Right? Every one of them is going to rehearse, in school auditoriums and town squares and neighborhood diners, a litany of people we should fear, and dangers to our faith and safety, and threats to our lifestyle and freedom. You know the drill. They’re going to tell us to fear immigrants invading from the south. They’re going to tell us to fear books that celebrate diversity and the many ways of building a loving life. They’re going to tell us, I imagine, to fear old age and old people and the fragility of an elderly mind. We’re going to get a heavy dose of all that.
But tonight, my friends, as we greet Christmas angels again, we hear a radically hopeful, delightfully joyful, resoundingly defiant “NO” to all that fear, to all that bluster, to all the ways it settles in us, and in our communities. No: we are not given to this planet to spend our years frightened of one another. No: we are not given to this good earth to spend our days despairing for the future. And no: we are not blessed with breath and voice and courage, only to rant at our differences, only to sneer at our diversity, only to arm up and train for war and defend our own ways at all costs. “Do not be afraid,” says the angel to the shepherds. There is so much more to life. There is so much life to be lived.
You see, we are not given to this planet, you and I, to spend our years frightened and armed to the teeth. We are not given to this planet to apply our creativity, our energy, our minds—to building big walls, and engineering deadly guns, and making our sweet homes into mighty fortresses. No, no, no. We are given to one another to find in one another the beauty of this Bethlehem baby, the defenseless grace of his life, the power and courage of his teaching. We are given to one another to sing songs and break bread and do justice together. We are given to one another to beat swords into ploughshares, and spears into pruning hooks, and to make friends of our enemies and feasts where once we fought.
3.
So believe me when I tell you that this Jesus never once demanded that you worship him as King, or that you wear his cross as some kind of jewelry or symbol of distinguishing devotion. Believe me when I tell you that this Jesus never once insisted that only those who claim his name are worthy of God’s love or destined for heaven’s glory or any of that theological, ecclesiastical, doctrinal nonsense.
He is born to us again this night—simply and only that we might learn to love him; simply and only that we might choose together to wrap him in warm blankets and teach him the names of stars and birds. Jesus is born in the beautiful blackness of this winter’s night—simply and only that we might look for God’s sweet grace in the faces of children, and the weathered hands of old friends, and (yes) the strange and sometimes scary eyes of strangers too. “Do not be afraid.” This is his gospel. “Do not be afraid.” This is his gift. “Do not be afraid.” This is for you.
As we sing to one another now, as we pass around warm cider and homemade rolls, as we share smiles and hope and melodies of joy, I hope you’ll keep your minds open, your hearts open, your eyes open. For I dare say that there are angels hovering round, even here, even now. And I dare say that the gospel of Love is coming your way tonight, to take you by the hand, to release you from fears that do you no good, to bring you into the great and sacred circle of mercy, God’s mercy. That circle that has no beginning, and no ending, but invites us all to live freely tonight and sing freely tonight and rejoice freely tonight. For Christ is born. The Child of God is alive in you and alive in me. And Love is at home again in the world.
Amen and Ashe!
