Xmas Eve, take 2

So, this is the second little meditation I've written for my services on Christmas Eve. I anticipate writing two or three more before I get it right. I'm so out of practice writing messages that it's scary -- I think my pastor's five year old could write better. I'm missing something in my message; I just haven't figured out what, yet. Anyways...

IF you've ever picked a book off the New York Times best-sellers list for fiction, chances are you've picked up a mystery – a book where a central element of the plot revolves around a missing piece of information – the identity of a character, an object – is left out by the author. In fact, most works of popular fiction are essentially mysteries, even those we classify as suspense, thriller, or even romance. We like being able to put things together so that they make sense – often, if something doesn't make sense we dismiss it out of hand, or in a tremendous feat of mental gymnastics we alter some the information we have available to make a conclusion ‘fit'.

I think that even in the midst of our own Christmas story lies four mysteries, one of which is the heart of our own Christian faith.

The first is a mystery of time. You may have heard of the debate that goes on as to when exactly Jesus was born – some authorities say about 5 BC; others state that his birth was around 4 AD. Most agree that it was NOT in the year 1. There's even debates as to whether or not Jesus was born on the 25th of December (or a close approximation) – the Eastern Orthodox tradition celebrates Christmas on January 6th; some traditions teach that Jesus was more likely born around March or April. Augustus reigned till about 14 AD; but Herod only till about 4 AD. Timekeeping 2000 years ago was sketchy, at best.

The second is a mystery of place. Luke records that Joseph came from Nazareth, to which his family had probably been sent as part of a forced resettlement twenty years earlier. He went to Bethlehem, because he was of the house of David, the royal house of Israel. Luke records here that "there was no room for them at the inn" - but that's a pretty curious event. How many here tonight have travelled to an ancestral place (even Edmonton) and called a relative out of the blue and been given a place to sleep? Our families now aren't nearly as closely-knit as those of 2000 years ago. So why couldn't Joseph find some lodging for himself and his very pregnant wife?

Thirdly, in this story there's a mystery of space. There's angels flying around all over the place, buzzing shepherds. If the shepherds were terrified, it was probably somewhat tempered by the irritation that someone was disturbing their peacefully slumbering flocks. It begins with one angel, to brings to them the good news of the Messiah's birth, and right on their heels comes a heavenly chorus. Why all this fuss for a couple of illiterate bumpkins? Nowhere else in any religious text do we hear of the birth of a Savior being told to a group of farm hands. It's simply not done. Divine announcements usually come in the form of smoke and fire and shaking on the tops of mountains (read Exodus 19 for a good account), not choirs of angels serenading the salt of the earth, solely for their own benefit. So why these people?

The fourth mystery here, the final one, is the central aspect of our Christian faith. It is the mystery of the Incarnation. As the angel told to the shepherds, "to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ, the Lord". Why? This is the ultimate mystery, the one that defines our faith. Jesus, who was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary, came to us in a stable, a Messiah covered in the blood and sweat of labour. And that's not all.

As Paul wrote to Titus about twenty years after the Resurrection, "the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all". To all people. God Incarnate was born to the poorest of the poor. If there was a baby born tonight, in the back alley behind the Mustard Seed Street Ministry, we may understand the revulsion of those circumstances. It's not like the guidelines for salvation hadn't been handed down already from generation to generation. People then, like ourselves today, simply ignored them when it suited, and used them as a bludgeon to terrify and oppress those who held different opinions. Part of the mystery of the Incarnation is that it is that Savior, Jesus Christ, who "gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity and purify for himself a people of his own who are zealous for good deeds".

True to our Lutheran Confessions, we believe that we cannot by any effort of our own attain salvation from our sins for ourselves. Yet we still try. We take the Bible, which is the manger that cradles Christ, and fashion it into a cudgel that we then use to judge and scourge those we think are unfit. But the message remains the same, even as it did to Paul and his disciple Titus – that Christ gave himself for us to redeem us from our sin in order that we might turn in love to our neighbour.

At Christmastime, God came down to us. There is nothing we can do to accept that love – nothing at all because we cannot refuse love that strong. That love was willing to bear all punishment and not just die for us – but to live again for us. If we accept that our relationship with God is made right by the actions of Jesus, who we call the Messiah, then we are free to turn to the good works that benefit the whole people of God. This is what defined the early church, and what will define the church of our future.

Every year we gather together to celebrate this time. We try to blot out the tragedies that have followed us through the year. That's our mystery of this time: why do we try to hide from God things that God already knows? Yes, that baby was born in a manger to the tune of a thousand angelic voices. But he was also born in pain, and in suffering, and in the midst of times of despair and death. Why? Because we need to know that God is with us, and perhaps the hardest thing for us to understand is the love of God – the love that knows no boundaries, not even death, and never leaves us, even though we may try to leave God.

May we, who have gathered here tonight, leave this place with the love of God in our hearts, aware of the mysteries of our faith, content that we will never fully understand – and grateful that we may abide in that love, and share it with our neighbours.