In the Name of our incarnate Lord.  Amen.

      “In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus…while Quirinius was governor of Syria…”  The most powerful and important man in all the world—and a functionary operating in a distant and pretty insignificant province with peoples under his authority that counted for practically nothing in the larger scheme of things.  Luke mentions these two because he wants to be sure we take in the time and place of the miraculous and cosmic events he is about to describe.

     Can we imagine Quirinius, still more can we imagine the great Caesar Augustus grasping that in a small town some miles distant from an insignificant people’s capital, something totally earth-shattering was occurring—and that event involved the birth of a child to in-effect peasant parents, even given the distant Davidic heritage of the ostensible father, Joseph?  That this man took his nine-month pregnant not-yet-wife on an arduous donkey ride from Nazareth all the way to Bethlehem?

     It’s hard for us to imagine just what the character of accommodation at the Bethlehem Inn might have been at the time, but it doesn’t sound grand.  But there is no room there, and the only place available to this unlikely couple is, in effect, a cave—a place where animals sought shelter.

     And who is it who witnesses these events?  Shepherds!  Shepherds were about the lowliest of the low, unclean, not-to-be trusted, of no account.  Yet it is shepherds who receive the angelic message and invitation to come and see the savior, wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.

     Could Quirinius have possibly imagined that, to the extent history remembered him at all, it would be because of some obscure, fantastical event about which he knew nothing?  Could the mighty Roman Emperor Caesar Augustus have imagined that he would be completely eclipsed by such a person born in such circumstances?

      At least one possible lesson we might learn from these simple facts is just this.  Perhaps on at least this night, instead of trying to relate this holy birth to the entire global scene of chaos and misery and injustice writ large, maybe we should try a different tack.  Maybe we should enter the mythopoetic world of this story and journey to Bethlehem with those simple shepherds, and see what we can see.  I know I need to stop the frantic running around, the cynicism and skepticism that has characterized so much of an Advent that was once supposed to be a time of waiting and watching and preparing.  I know I need to allow myself to stop. To really stop.  Instead of speaking, to listen.  Instead of demands and impossibly full agendas, to simply enter in, almost child-like, into the mystery that beckons on this holy night.  And then, maybe I can, maybe we can, discover the mystery and wonder of Christmas once more.

     It was none other than Charles Dickens who wrote, “It is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty founder was a child himself.”

     On this holy night, God comes to us and asks us to be with him.  To come to the manger.  To watch and marvel and wonder.  And all, absolutely all, are invited.  There is no exclusivity, no pretense, no tests to pass.  All are welcome.  Whether you are prepared a little or a lot, even if you are not prepared at all—which includes not just a few of us—we are all invited to partake of the story that is unfolding this very night.

     In God’s astonishing vulnerability, we are asked for our love, for our response, for our gift.  It is hard to be unmoved by a baby, especially a baby to whom we are related.  And just consider, our common humanity, of being created in the image of God, of sensing the presence of God not only far beyond ourselves, but also deeply within ourselves.  And these things tell us, if only we can receive them, that God cares for us, loves us, calls us.  And that babe in a manger is God’s seeking to evoke in us the loving, caring response that God most desires from us.

     We have the capacity, deep within us, of responding to that baby’s cry, of responding with more loving care than perhaps we ever knew we had within us, that we had to give.  And miraculously, our gift is accepted, it is received.  And our hearts, encrusted and cold and hardened as they are, have the possibility of easing up, of softening up, of warming up—and Christ can enter in once more.

     Can we, dare we, believe it, sophisticated and in-control types that we generally consider ourselves to be?  For much of Advent, I wasn’t at all certain.  Not this year.  No, it’s simply not possible, it’s altogether too much.  As a result, I so often kept the spirit at bay.

     But somehow, and year by year I know this sounds like a broken record, a day or two before Christmas, something happens, something breaks through the defenses, the fears, the craziness.  The inner verses of a hymn, a deeply human connection with people I care about, the miracle that day by day is the Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen.  Reflecting on the astounding gift that it has been to serve in this place.

     Any number of times in the last couple of days I have inexplicably found tears welling up inside me that came from a different source than anything I was consciously aware of.  Tears that needed to flow, to be felt and responded to, on a deeply human level, that I needed to pay attention to.

     I believe it was and is the spirit beckoning—with a gentle “let go, stop, relax, pay attention, breathe, breathe again, deeply.”  Breathe deeply again and become aware of the barriers, the walls I have erected, let go of the defenses I have created, that have kept so much at bay—and let Christmas come once more.

     And then once again I know that I am not irredeemable and beyond hope.  And our world is not irredeemable and beyond hope.  If only we will once again let Christ enter in.

     And so we have the possibility of the darkness breaking, the solstice passing, the light returning.  And there is once more the possibility of regaining and renewing a hope and a peace and a love even in spite of ourselves and all the reasons “why not” we can muster.  And tears of joy are possible even on this dark winter night in a world gone berserk.

     Deep within the human spirit lies a longing for something different, a recognition that the furious pace of our lives cannot be all there is to life.  Related to this, I believe that somewhere deep in the unconscious of all of us is the realization that new life brings new hope, new possibilities.  We may not understand the angels, manger scenes, wise-people, stars, and all the rest.  The story may be too fantastic for words—or careful analysis.  But in this crazy world, at least on this night, on some level, we sense in that new life in Bethlehem, there actually is some real hope, not just hope for that child, but hope for all who are touched by him.  For whatever inscrutable reason, God is made manifest in that little child.

     There is a little child in each one of us, again, if only we can stop long enough to be quiet, to be still, to be open and receptive, to listen, to hear—in the beauty of this hour.  That child, if only we give it a chance on this most holy of nights, begs us to recognize his or her cry—to realize that in love and vulnerability, the very spirit of God is present.

     When that child within meets that babe in a manger, that is when we know that things do not have to be the way they are, we do not have to be the way we have been.  We can be better; things can change; we can be transformed.

     If we sense something of the awe, the wonder, the hope that 2000 years of human history have seen in that Christ-child, then there is hope for us.  But it is a hope that can live only if we are willing to let it live, to kindle and care for and nurture that hope.  Parents certainly discover soon enough that the joy of new life, the excitement of birth, does not stop there.  It is quite clearly an ongoing thing that takes time and commitment.  There will be tough and very trying times. It is life-long.  But it is also life-giving.

     Christmas, finally, is not just a wonderful story of a miraculous birth, it is the proclamation of God’s loving and caring for this world and everyone in it.  It is God’s way of cutting through all the stuff that is thrust upon us and which we also create—all the stuff that keeps us from being all we are called and destined to be.  For God can cut through the cynicism, the despair, the callousness that surrounds and permeates all of us.

     Christmas, as our culture defines it, will be over by tomorrow night.  And that will be that for at least another year.  But for those of us touched the holy birth this night, this need not be so for us.  The story of our Lord’s earthly pilgrimage begins tonight—it most assuredly does not end tomorrow!

     If you sense any meaning at all in this Holy Night, I can promise you one thing for sure: that meaning can only grow and develop and take hold if you will let it, for we are not bludgeoned into acceptance.

     And although our culture ceases to care or acknowledge much after tomorrow, the church will follow this child, this Lord, through his epiphanies, through his life and ministry, his passion and death, his resurrection and ascension.  As the newborn babe grows into the Prince of Peace, so he beckons each one of us to follow in faithfulness and discipleship and love, in his community of faith, the church, which is none other than the body of Christ.

     May all the joys and hopes of Christmas be with each one of you this holy night—and forever more.  And a “Merry Christmas” to you all.

     Amen.