Beautifully Strange [Christmas Eve - Luke 2:1-20]

The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Luke 2:1-20

 

Beautifully Strange

Cathedral of All Saints, Albany

 

The very first Christmas was tucked into, what might have been, the quietest corner of the world.  So quiet that it was almost like a little secret between God and a select few.  And the few were not social influencers or cultural heavy weights; they were not people positioned to start a buzz.  Instead, they were social pariahs, cultural leftovers: a young couple unmarried with child and some suspect nomads – people who didn’t matter.

 

And so, Christmas started as a whisper.  But, as you know, the secret got out.  Like a rumor that went viral. 

 

And so tonight, from this pulpit, I feel like I am telling you something you already know: this timeless story of a peasant baby who became the Savior of the world.  You could likely recite the details of this Lukan account without notes, off the cuff – because the old hymns have seeped into your soul or because Linus’ monologue is permanently imprinted on your brain. 

 

And it is a great story – some say, the greatest story ever told; it’s been called that.  This Christmas story has captured countless hearts and imaginations.  It has been passed down through generations.  It has inspired poems and songs, and animated seasonal specials.  The serene scene is set on millions of mantles – across the country and around the world.  This nativity story even inspired you to show up at church on a Wednesday.  You came even though you probably knew it would be almost impossible to find a parking spot.  Because of this story.  It is a powerful story.

 

One in which we can take comfort.  It has become, I think, a source of warmth against the chill of our times.  It cradles us in its tender nostalgia.  It makes us feel at home.  Though the events of our Gospel account transpired more than 2000 years ago, in a land far from here, in a tiny village of a vast fallen Empire, the story still feels stunningly familiar.  And in a way, it is – like maybe we were created to know it.  But that familiarity can easily cause us to forget just how beautifully strange this amazing story truly is.

 

The story is as strange as God inviting a graveyard shift of shepherds into your delivery room.  The first people beyond the intimacy of the family to welcome the Savior into the world were fresh from the flocks.  They were strangers.  And not strangers bearing gold, frankincense, and myrrh; those visitors would arrive later, and in another Gospel.  These were poor strangers, generally looked at with suspicion, engaged in dangerous, unenviable, though important, work.  

 

And they just stopped by to grab a glance of a peasant baby.  A baby who looked like other babies.  A baby who was the subject of a lot of cruel whispers.  A baby who was swaddled in scraps of fabric and resting in a feed trough.  It was not a glamorous scene.

 

And it was a miracle that they even found that baby.  Because, against all odds, the “Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord” wasn’t born in the palace of the Emperor Augustus; he wasn’t sleeping in the home of Quirinius, the governor of Syria.  He couldn’t even find a room at the local inn.  The angels who made the dramatic invitation had to leave the shepherds directions before they disappeared back into Heaven.  Because the entire situation was so beautifully strange they never would have found the baby without help.

 

In the beautiful strangeness of that night, those shepherds wandered away from their sheep.  It was a stunning dereliction of duty.  But they had to.  Because they had seen a sky full of angels.  And heard some really good news.

 

And so they left; they left everything that mattered, everything they cared about.  They left to worship a baby.  And that doesn’t even make sense.  Except on that one beautifully strange night in which worshiping the baby Jesus was the only thing in the world that made sense.       

 

Because in that tiny baby dwelt the fullness of God.  God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God.  Through him all things were made.  And here, utterly helpless, wordlessly crying for his mommy, wrinkled skin and balled up fists and bowed baby legs. 

 

And with so much pain in his future.  The hunger and temptations of the wilderness.  The angry crowds and the fickle followers.  The crown of thorns and the verbal barbs.  And the cross.  God knew how it would go.  And still chose Incarnation.  Came into the world in such a beautifully strange way.  Because to God it was worth the pain to be with us.

 

To be with you.  God, the one as vast as eternity, shrouded in the deepest mystery, longs to dwell in your heart, to be as close to you as your own heartbeat.  God, who lacks nothing, needs us. 

 

And that is what this beautifully strange story is all about: the incredible lengths God takes to be with us.  The Christmas story is a stunning love story – one that continues to echo through the universe.  And yet, it is as intimate as a secret whispered to your heart.  But also a secret meant to be shared.  Because this secret – the beautifully strange story of a God who chose a manger, a cross, and you – is, without a doubt, the greatest story ever told.