Immanuel [Christmas Eve 2021 - Luke 2:1-20]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Luke 2:1-20

 

Immanuel

 

36 weeks and 4 days into Jen’s second pregnancy I returned home from a vestry retreat.  That night, as we slept, a snowstorm swept into Northwest Ohio and Jen, my wife, was awakened by contractions.  She gently and calmly roused me from my sleep to inform me that she was driving herself to the hospital, in the snowstorm.  I, of course, made a counter-offer, one that I thought was quite strong, one that she quickly and decisively rejected.  She was driving to the hospital convinced that she would return to our bed in a matter of hours with the diagnosis of false labor.  And I was to stay home with our two-year old because he was a terrible sleeper and why wake him for false labor pains.  And so, aware I was not winning this negotiation, I laid back down, phone in hand, resigned to await my wife’s promised return.

 

The contractions, it turned out, were not false; they were very real.  And not long after my very pregnant wife drove herself to the hospital in a snowstorm, I was up and making arrangements.  Fortunately, we had a plan, a good plan: I was to contact our neighbor and Jen’s mom.  Our neighbor would stay with our older son while my mother-in-law made the three-hour drive from Akron.  However, Isaiah decided to arrive much earlier than any of us – his parents, our doctor, and our neighbor – expected.  And so that night, the night in which labor was anything but false, our neighbor’s phone sat silently on her nightstand, ringer off.

 

And so while Jen laid uncomfortably in the hospital, now 36 weeks and 5 days into her pregnancy, I woke up members of my congregation in the middle of the silent night: one to stay with Oscar, one to lead the Sunday morning services (oh, did I mention, it was Sunday morning), and one to preach my sermon.  Sue, Steve, and Sam (I like alliteration, but swear it was a coincidence) never expected to play such significant roles in this birth narrative.

 

Our round-eyed, bald-headed baby boy was delivered, by some random doctor, who was pulled into our room at the last minute because our doctor was unavailable, another person unexpectedly dragged into our story, at 9:58 am, two minutes before the start of that Sunday’s 10am liturgy.

 

We had a plan; that wasn’t it.  But that little baby was not terribly interested in our plan – not on his birth day, not really now either.  Whether we, his parents, were ready or not, mattered very little; it was time.  And he arrived.  Three weeks and two days before the due date, Isaiah entered the world and changed our lives, for the better, forever. 

 

I’m not sure if Mary and Joseph had a birth plan; I’m not sure if that was a thing back then.  And even if it was, they were likely far too busy entertaining angels and trying desperately to convince their parents that God was actually the father to set one down.  But if they did, I doubt this was it: On the road, far from home.  No vacancy at the local inn.  Strange shepherds at Mary’s side instead of mothers and midwives.  A hard stone feeding trough for a baby bed.  Everything went wrong.  The conditions were less than ideal – actually it was a bit of mess.

 

But that holy baby did not wait for a better situation, or finer accommodations, or until all of the issues were resolved, he just came; he arrived despite the mess – in fact, he made his home right in the middle of it.

 

We talk about preparation so much in the Advent season.  But honestly if the Blessed Virgin Mary wasn’t ready for Christmas, what hope is there for us?  Christmas always comes before we are ready, before our hearts are fully open, before our lives are tidy, and while the world is still a wreck.  And yet, ready or not, the Christmas bells ring, and the baby is born, and the angels sing, and Mary treasures all of these things in her heart.  As if the whole scene isn’t a total mess.

 

And I’m not sure what it says about God that God seems pretty comfortable making a home right in the middle of our mess.  But I’m glad God is.  Because admittedly, I can’t seem to keep up with the mess.  I can’t seem to love well enough or be kind enough or stop trying to control everything.  I can’t seem to open up my heart wide enough to make space for a great big God and so God becomes as small as a baby and slips in through the cracks.

 

I hear this Christmas story every year.  About this God who comes into the world, and into our lives, who trades heaven to make a home in the messiness of life.  And so I know it, I know it well, probably you do too.  The truth is: this story is easy to know and hard to believe.

 

It is hard to believe that there is a love that finds a way into our lives and then refuses to leave – no matter how messy things get.  People call God by a lot of different names, but around Christmas sometimes they say Immanuel.  And I’m glad for that, because that is the God I need.  Immanuel: God with us – even when everything feels like it is falling apart.  Or really, especially when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

 

There are so many miracles in this Christmas story: a virgin birth and angels lighting up the skies and a star that leads a road trip.  But I am convinced that the most extraordinary miracle of the entire Christmas story is that God with us part.  That after the lights come down and the radio station returns to its Top 40 format and the tree dries out and the shepherds go home, God is still there.  And then just stays.  In our world.  But somehow even more importantly, in our hearts, in our lives.  And then just keeps staying: even when your heart is breaking…

and when you are too stressed out…

and when you say terrible things to the people you love…

and when you lose your faith…

and when you cannot smile…

and when you are crying alone in your room…

and when you lose control…

and when life is unfair…

and when everything goes wrong…

and when your lips can’t form a single prayer…

and when your grief and despair try to pull you under…

even when you can’t muster the strength to get out of bed in the morning. 

 

God is still there, lying right beside you, crying with you, also wiping your tears. 

 

I don’t know why God doesn’t shield us from the pain but I do know that God doesn’t leave us alone in our pain.  When our plans fall through and our hearts fall to pieces, God is found amongst the fallen things.  God called Immanuel: God with us. 

 

It is Christmas; Advent is over; and, sadly, we’re not perfect yet, actually nothing is perfect; in fact, it’s all a bit of a mess.  But the Gospel, the Good News, is that God does not wait for a better situation, or finer accommodations, or until all of our issues are resolved.  God arrives – whether we are ready or not.  And then, according to the Christmas story, the one that is so easy to know and so hard to believe, God makes a home, and stays, right in the middle of our mess.