Jesus Arrives In The Midst of Disaster

Christmas Eve Sermon

The Rev. Sara Warfield

Scripture: Luke 2:1-20

I wonder how many of us hear this gospel story in the voice of Linus? After all, it is the climax of A Charlie Brown Christmas, it’s the moral of the story. It comes when Charlie Brown is at his lowest. He’s picked a miserable little stick of a Christmas tree for the play he and his friends are putting on, and Lucy and company have given him no end of grief for it. “Boy, are you stupid Charlie Brown,” they say, laughing at him. “You’ve been dumb before, but this time you’ve bit it.”

“I guess you were right, Linus. I shouldn’t have picked this little tree,” Charlie Brown says. “Everything I do turns into a disaster. I guess I don’t really know what Christmas is all about. Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?”

This is when Linus launches into the Gospel of Luke. “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.” I, for one, always hear that particular line in Linus’ sweet voice.

And honestly, it’s the perfect response to Charlie Brown and his dejection, his seeming failure, his disaster. Because this whole gospel is a series of disasters, of things gone wrong, of messes that no one wants to be in but everyone has to deal with.

It starts first of all with Emperor Augustus calling for everyone in Judea to be registered. It’s a census. But the emperor doesn’t send out his people to go door to door and get the demographics he wants. Instead, he demands that every man return to his family’s ancestral home and be registered there. For Joseph this meant going to Bethlehem from Nazareth where he and Mary lived—a 90-mile trip that would probably take four days if they’re rushing. An inconvenience under ideal circumstances. But circumstances are not ideal, because Mary is nine months pregnant, due any day now.

Now I’ve never birthed a child myself, but I want to ask the women who have given birth: what would it be like to walk, or even ride on a pack animal for 90 miles at the end of your third trimester. The waddling, the many trips to the bathroom, the general discomfort of a now nearly fully grown baby pushing against every organ in the vicinity? Partners, do you remember what that time was like?

But the demands of the Roman Empire do not take these things into consideration, so Mary and Joseph are forced to go. And because Joseph cares about Mary and her safety, they don’t rush. They stop whenever Mary needs to.

So it probably takes a little bit longer to get to Bethlehem than they planned, and once they get into town it’s packed with travellers also coming to be registered. Guest rooms are all taken, inns are all filled up. I’m so sorry, the innkeeper tells them, there’s not an inch of space available.

And just as the innkeeper closes the door and they step out into the cold night, Mary goes into labor. So Mary and Joseph make do. They find a drafty barn where animals keep themselves warm at night. Joseph dumps out the feed in a manger, a trough the animals eat from, and they create a makeshift cradle. He gathers some hay in a pile for Mary to rest on and tears a cloak they’ve brought along in strips to create swaddling for the baby that’s going to arrive any moment now.

Can you imagine? You’re not in a hospital, not even in a bed under a solid roof. The wind is blowing cold and the floor is packed dirt littered with scattered hay and animal droppings—and you’re about to give birth, or you’re about to watch your partner give birth.

And let’s not forget that birth itself is messy and often dangerous under the best of circumstances. There’s blood, there’s tearing, there’s placenta. Mary is crying out as she pushes and Joseph waits and frets as he does his best to help.

Now I know no one wants to think about placenta on Christmas Eve, but if we’re being honest it’s part of the mess inherent to this story.

We’ve come to hear this story in the glow of church candles or Christmas lights with Silent Night or Away in the Manger playing in the background, but it’s truly a story of disaster after disaster followed by a mess.

Anyone who’s been listening in worship the past few months knows that our own St. Luke’s community has seen its own disasters. We’ve heard about the surprise diagnoses of and the long journeys through cancer. We know the deep toll that the darkness of this gray season takes upon many of our hearts and minds. We’ve wrestled with illnesses, injuries, and the facts of aging. We’ve lost spouses, siblings, and friends.

We see many people come to these doors—the vast majority of them immigrants who have had a breadwinner detained by ICE—looking for more help with rent or their electric bill or legal aid than St. Luke’s can give.

And then there’s Gaza, Sudan, Bondi Beach, Venezuela, Ukraine, just to name a few.

We are living through, surrounded by, and bearing witness to disaster after disaster followed by a mess.

Which are precisely the circumstances into which Jesus, our Savior, comes into the world. He doesn’t come into a peaceful country, he comes into a country occupied by the strongest military in the world. He isn’t born into wealth or power, he is born to a people on whose backs the Romans grow their own wealth, people who must tow the emperor’s line, walk 90 miles simply to be counted, if they want to stay out of trouble. He comes into this world homeless at least for this night.

The holy chorus of angels doesn’t sing to Emperor Augustus or Quirinius, the ruler of Judea, or to any high priest or other exalted person. The angels visit the shepherds, who are homeless themselves, who wander the land sleeping in tents. They are so insignificant to those in power that the Romans don’t even bother to count them.

And those angels sing to those shepherds:

Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom he favors!

This entire gospel tells us the story of who Jesus favors: those walking through disaster, those managing a mess, those who the world has ignored or forgotten.

So if you’re feeling devastated or confused or powerless or afraid or insignificant, Jesus is looking for you. That’s what Linus was telling Charlie Brown. Jesus is ready to arrive. To give splendor to a sad stick of a Christmas tree, to give comfort to every lonely soul, to give flesh to our skeleton hopes.

So on this night, let every heart—even the broken ones, especially the broken ones—prepare him room. Amen.