Emmanuel in a world that is not safe: A sermon for Christmas Eve

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Christmas Eve 2023

Luke 2:1-20

 

Emmanuel in a world that is not safe

 

What I remember most vividly of our first moments together are his perfectly round head and the clarion cry that belied the smallness of his body.  Isaiah, my youngest son, came into the world on a Sunday morning and, as he continues to do, made his presence known.

 

It snowed on Saturday night, the night preceding his birth – a thick, Spring snow.  And Jen went into labor, before we were ready, twenty-three days in advance of Isaiah’s Annunciation due date. 

 

That Sunday evening we sat in our hospital room with our newborn baby.  And, in that strange mix of exhaustion and euphoria, we looked out the window, a few stories above the nearby park.  The oaks had not yet turned green.  It was early in the month of March and the snow still fell, though now gently.  Like in a snow globe, as it begins to settle.  And for a moment, on the other side of birth, with our baby swaddled and sleeping, one could almost be convinced that the world beyond that window, appearing in that moment so peaceful and still, was safe.

 

In the same way that a nativity scene can convince us that the ancient world into which Jesus was born was safe.  Ceramic donkeys and serene shepherds, and the peaceful look on the face of the new mother.  And that holy baby: happy in the hay.  And a solitary star shining through the pitch black night.  The nativity scene is cozy and still in a way that causes our hearts to ache. 

 

Because it feels so safe.  So peaceful. And our world just never seems to be.  But if then, if for that moment, maybe now.  And so for a few winter weeks, each year, the dusty scene gives us some kind of delicate hope. 

 

And yet the world into which Jesus was born was far from safe.  The Emperor measured success in conquests and kept the peace through violence.  The pregnant mother passed under the shadow of roadside crosses on the way to be registered.  The peasant father led his burgeoning, but fragile, family to Bethlehem because he had no choice; like the generations of occupied people, he did what he could to keep the boots of the tramping warriors off his neck. 

 

But soon the boots would trample Bethlehem.  Because the local king, the one called Herod, brandished a sword in Christmas.  He caught the gleam of the sparkling star in the reflection of its blade.  And he thought nothing of erasing an impoverished infant.  It was just the way of the world; the king was prepared to kill for power.  And he tried, but this time he failed. 

 

The baby Jesus was born, born into a dangerous world.  Where nothing was safe.  And no one was safe.  Not even God. 

 

The snow fell softly.  And our baby soundly slept.  But we knew that the world outside was not safe.  And that it would never be safe.  Our baby would have to wear his soft skin into that rough place beyond our window.  And, out there, his skin would acquire scars, as would his little heart.

 

In some places on this planet tonight, the bells ring; in some places, bombs fall.  The prayers for peace clash with the rage of the nations.  Once again the earth celebrates Christmas in an age of war.

 

Still today, so many years after the angels sang a song of peace, the land of Jesus continues to be rocked by violence.  Families stumble in the shadow of death.  Children struggle to survive.  Babies are still threatened.  The world is not safe, even in those lands we name holy.

 

Is not and never has been.  But the timeless miracle of Christmas is that this is world God entered, to be with us.  God saw the ugliness of our world and refused to turn away.  God found reasons to hope caked in the messiness of our many contradictions.  God studied closely the fatal flaws of our nature and was absolutely overcome with love. 

 

So much love that God decided to make a home here, far from the comforts of heaven, in a world that is not safe. And to enter in the most dangerously tender way possible: God wore soft skin into this rough place.  And, found that in this world, no one is safe – not even God.  The happy baby in the hay still has scars.

 

And yet is still completely taken with us – is still overcome with love: for the scarred and scared people of this planet. 

 

I do hope that one day this world will be safe, that wars will cease, that the promise of the angels and the dreams of God will come true.  I do hope that one day the poems of the prophet will be realized, the ground carpeted with broken burdens, the fire fueled with the retired boots of relieved warriors.  I do hope that one day I will look out the window and see the gentle flakes alight on a peaceful planet.

 

As a parent, I pass that stubborn hope on to my children – a fragile inheritance, to be sure.  I send them each day into this beautiful and terrifying world equipped with little more than ancient dreams – dreams of peace and hope and salvation. 

 

I know the world into which they go it still not safe.  But God knows that too.  And so God walks with them.  And in this embattled Christmas world, God will hold them when they shake with tears and will kiss their precious wounds and will light a star when they are lost in the darkness and will share scar stories with them so that they know they are not alone out there.

 

This world is not safe, but don’t be afraid.  This wild world really is saturated in divine love.  And haunted by an old Christmas promise called Emmanuel – a promise that God is with you, a promise that you will never be alone in this life.