Image: The Nativity at Scrovegni Chapel by Giotto
As a kid, Christmas was magical. The run up to the big day, full of anticipation for what Santa might bring! I remember lying awake, hardly able to sleep, listening for Santa’s footsteps. And then, getting up at 5 the next morning, perched on the couch like a greedy little gremlin, waiting for my parents to get up so I could tear into my loot! Later in the day, we would go to Grandpa and Grandma’s house (my dad’s parents) to enjoy Christmas dinner. Somehow, Santa had known to stop there too!
But when I left childhood behind, the magic faded a bit. There’s a word I think my generation coined, but it’s in use among older Gen Z-ers too: “adulting”. As in, behaving in a way a responsible adult would. When you have to start adulting during Christmas, some of the early magic often goes. How will I buy those presents for everyone? What does Uncle Charlie want this year—he’s so hard to buy for! How much money do I have left on that credit card? Add to that the griefs and stresses that often accompany this time of year, such as the loss of loved ones or fears about the state of the world, the nation, or our families. Those fears are especially poignant for some of you this year. For many of us, this isn’t the hap-happiest season of all. It’s often the most nostalgic one—where we look back and remember a happier time.
Now, nostalgia isn’t necessarily bad. Warm memories of days gone by can help us be grateful for what we’ve enjoyed. Healthy nostalgia can help us maintain connections with our families and friends. But sometimes, nostalgia can get us stuck. We can be so stuck in how things used to be that we can’t live in the present moment, let alone look ahead. I’m not talking about ordinary grief or sadness or frustration—all those feelings are normal, especially this time of year. I’m talking about being mired in the land of misery, with no hope, unable to move forward.
But if you’re there, you’re not alone. Many people in Isaiah’s Judahite kingdom or Mary’s occupied Palestine felt mired in hopelessness, too.
When Isaiah wrote, the tiny kingdom of Judah had its back against the wall. They were pressed in by foreign invaders, about to lose Jerusalem. Things looked pretty bad. But in the middle of this great darkness, Isaiah sang about a new reality breaking in, not as wishful thinking, but as a reality so certain it could be referred to in present tense. “For to us a child IS born,”—not “will be born,” but “IS born”. And some 700 years after Isaiah sang this song, that child was born in the middle of another dark time. For certain powerful people in Rome, it was the beginning of a golden age, but for most people, the times could be summed up in the line from “Won’t Get Fooled Again” by The Who: “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.” Whoever was in charge, oppression, exploitation, and domination continued. The world’s deep darkness continued.
But in the middle of that darkness shines a great light. A great light in a most unlikely place: a feeding trough in a small Judean town.
Luke’s Gospel heightens the contrast. He lists the great man of the age, the one who established the Roman peace, the general, conqueror, and first citizen Caesar Augustus. The Roman peace, of course, had a cost—heavy taxation and humiliation. Both come into play in this census.
Luke tells us the Holy Family must travel to Bethlehem. Bethlehem, the hometown of the great king David. But David was long dead, his dynasty destroyed, his descendants scattered. Forcing Joseph and his family to travel to Bethlehem is another poke in the eye to a once great people. It’s as if Caesar is saying, “Where is your great king now? Where is your savior now? Where is your God now?”
But the Savior of humanity is born that night, as a member of an oppressed people in a colonized land. He is born, not to a princess, but to poor Mary. And his birth is proclaimed not to Caesar, not to Caiaphas, and not to Herod, but to the humblest people imaginable: shepherds guarding their flocks. And in contrast to what we see on Christmas cards and hear in carols, shepherding was not a romantic profession! It required long hours away from their families, caring for a bunch of smelly sheep! These are the first to hear of the little Lord’s birth. Right away, Mary’s song—where God lifts up the lowly and casts down the mighty—begins to be fulfilled.
And with that fulfillment comes a break with what has been. Jesus’s arrival isn’t a case of “meet the new boss; same as the old boss.” His birth is the herald of something new; a new kind of realm with a new kind of ruler. In this little baby, the kingdom of God comes to earth. And in this little baby, all our sins are taken away. All the ways we hurt or destroy our relationships with God, our neighbors, and God’s creation are removed. Jesus isn’t the only one born that night. A new humanity is born along with him, washed in baptismal waters and fed with his very self.
And since we are broken with the old, oppressive, inhuman past, we can live well into his future, whatever happens. We are put under his realm, living lives, in words of the letter to Titus, that are “self-controlled, upright, and godly.” It was a dim time when Jesus was born. Times may be dim for many of you now. But we hold to this truth in Titus above all: “The grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all.” God strengthen us in this truth this Christmas season and always. Thanks be to God. Amen.
© 2024, David M. Fleener. Permission granted to copy and adapt original material herein for non-commercial purposes with appropriate credit given.