CHRISTMAS HOMILY: "This World of Wonders"

A Meditation on Luke 2:1-20

Christmas Eve, 2024
Refrain: "Mary Had a Baby" (Odetta)

1.

"One Dozen," Jennifer Braig

Maybe you saw this story, maybe even the video. But three weeks ago, on lands loved and revered by the Birdtail Lakota Nation, halfway across Turtle Island, eleven young bison were released into pasture for the first time in more than a hundred years. The Lakota call these siblings, these bison, “Tatanka.” And these Tatanka—eleven of them--were ceremoniously presented to the Birdtail people by a neighboring people, the Sioux Valley Nation. On a bright, sunny, cold December day, in about a foot of fresh snow. It had been a hundred years. No bison, no Tatanka running that land.

But three weeks ago—because of the generosity of one people to another—life returned to those snowy plains. What was lost, a hundred years lost, was found. And the grief of four, maybe five generations of Lakota was swallowed up in the raucous celebration of children and the pounding of hooves.

And you can watch this moment, this presentation, on this video. And it’s an amazing moment in which elders and children from both nations gather around the flatbed where these Tatanka are sniffing out their freedom and ready to rock and roll; and young Lakota and their elders are drumming and singing sacred songs, ancient songs of solidarity and praise; and then the gate is lifted. And the eleven bison, these great beasts, these Tatanka are set loose—including a sacred white female calf—on land their ancestors roamed for thousands of years, before their destruction in the 19th and 20th centuries.

To be honest, you really have to see this video, you have to hear the elders singing, the children whooping with joy and delight—and then the bison, these Tatanka, charging through the winter’s snow into fields they’ve believed in all along, but never once roamed. One big beast slips in a snow drift, and then rolls all the way over, scrambles to its feet, and charges again into the distance with the others. And the singing, and the drumming, and the whooping continues: a hymn to the healing capacities of the earth, and the renewal of lands and cultures and beasts that’s possible and promised in a world of wonders.

2.

Friends, let us be reminded tonight, this Christmas Eve, that despair is never earth’s last word, that violence is powerless in the face of love, and that devastated landscapes can be repopulated by tender commitments and faithful creatures. Faith isn’t an irrational belief in a supernatural power; it’s a life of hopeful tenderness, in a world that refuses to be defined by sadness and loss.

Could it be, then, that the Child born in Bethlehem comes into a world of wonders not to indoctrinate us, but to awaken within us all a fearless faith in one another and in God’s love? Could it be that Jesus—born of Mary’s courage and grace—Jesus comes into our lives not to shame us into kindness, but to sing us into new arrangements of joyful coexistence? We are not defined by our mistakes. We are not limited by the violence of our history. In the darkest days of winter, Jesus reveals the hidden promise in our hearts: we are made for revolutions of joy; we are designed for hymns of praise; we are called only to lovingkindness and justice, and tables of plenty shared by friend and foe.

I keep watching that scene out there in the snow fields of the Dakotas; and I’m struck by the possibility that it’s gratitude that liberates human hearts from despair and cruelty, that it’s gratitude that unlocks our God-given capacity for creativity and compassion, that it’s gratitude that welcomes Tatanka home again, and learns to share the earth again, and restores economies and communities to God’s desire again. We have wandered too freely and too fiercely from gratitude to grievance in this country. And we’ve paid a price for that. But tonight, an indigenous child—born amidst the beasts of his own time, sheltered from a violent empire, cradled by his parents: this indigenous child comes into our world of wonders not to intimidate us, not to indoctrinate us, and not to prove us better than the rest. But simply and only to make us glad. Simply and only to make us glad.

It is gladness, I think—and gladness born of grace—that inspires one people to gift another with eleven bison, with that kind of hope and joy. It is gladness---gladness born of grace—that moves a church like this one to open its doors as a sanctuary for immigrants threatened with deportation and worse. And it is gladness—not war, not violence, not apartheid—that will move beleaguered peoples of the world to cast side weapons and grievance, and turn instead to justice and mercy. Jesus steps off the pages of scripture tonight, and into our lives, to free us from shame, to liberate us from contempt, and then to reveal a whole new world shaped by gladness and grace. A world we can share. A world we can bless. A world we can build around God’s passion for peace.

3.

You know, and I know, that all kinds of uncertainty wait around the calendar corner. And we feel that uncertainty, we bear that angst in a thousand different ways. But let’s remember tonight that Jesus is born not in some perfect world, but at the very heart of all that befuddles and bewilders us. Yes, empires are cruel. And they’ve always been so. Before Jesus’s even walking, dictators ravage the landscape, seeking to destroy him and children like him. His parents are on the run. Migrants from the start. Scapegoated by nasty politicians working a bait and switch at their expense.

But this story, this Christmas story, is the story of gladness and grace. Not grievance and rage. In the here and now, in our own holy night, God is our companion, our comfort and our friend. And God’s promise of undying love is yours and mine, and indeed a promise made to all creation. You don’t have to work for it. You certainly can’t earn it. It’s a promise God makes to you, and to me, and to us all—one that frees from despair so that we may fully and boldly love one another; so that we may set side every grievance and imagine a reconciled world where enemies are neighbors at last, and neighbors one and all are siblings. A world where bison roam free on the plains, and children of God break warm bread at tables of abundance.

As we turn toward our love feast tonight, and the caroling we love and treasure, I hope you’ll remember that this story is not simply an old and tired tale, but always new and ever renewing the beloved community. While these lovely carols remind us of bygone days and cherished companions, they should also awaken in us a curious and lively sense of anticipation. For Christ is born in us—not to rob us of hope, but to conspire with us in joy. Christ is born in you, in me—not to make us nostalgic, but to make us glad and generous.

So let’s make this moment, this night, this celebration—the first celebration of a new year of resistance and resilience. Let’s meet the fears of 2025 with radical kindness, purposeful discipleship and daring hospitality. Let’s find in Jesus and in Mary the kind of wisdom that knows that despots like Herod rule for a while, but last not for long. Let’s commit ourselves to mercy in daily living and compassion amongst our neighbors and a tenderness of heart that refuses to give in to grievance and blame.

For the bread is coming round. And the sweet cider is the taste of the kingdom not just promised but right now, right here, at hand, in our hands. So let’s sing like our lives depend on it. And let’s drink to that.

Amen and Ashe!