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| The Flight Into Egypt by Jean François Millet, 1864. |
Christmas Eve
Luke 1:18-2:15
18 Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way.
When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived
together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. 19 Her husband
Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace,
planned to dismiss her quietly. 20 But just when he had resolved to do
this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of
David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in
her is from the Holy Spirit. 21 She will bear a son, and you are to name
him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” 22 All this took
place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:
23 “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall
name him Emmanuel,”
which
means, “God is with us.”
24 When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord
commanded him; he took her as his wife, 25 but had no marital relations with her
until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.
2 In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem
of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, 2 asking, “Where
is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at
its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” 3 When King Herod heard this, he
was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; 4 and calling together all the
chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah
was to be born. 5 They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been
written by the prophet:
6 ‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means
least among the rulers of Judah;
for
from you shall come a ruler
who is to
shepherd my people Israel.’”
7 Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from
them the exact time when the star had appeared. 8 Then he sent
them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when
you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.” 9 When they had
heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they
had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. 10 When they saw
that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. 11 On entering the
house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid
him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of
gold, frankincense, and myrrh. 12 And having been warned in a dream not to
return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.
13 Now after they
had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Get up,
take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell
you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.” 14 Then Joseph got
up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, 15 and remained
there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the
Lord through the prophet, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.”
Sermon: “The Rest of the Story”
the refugees,
slowly making their way to the border.
The man, stooped from age or anxiety, hurried his small family
through the wind.
Bearded and dark, his skin rough and cracked from the cold,
his frame looming large in spite of the slumped shoulders:
He looked like a man who could take care of whatever came at them
from the dark.
Unless, of course, there were too many of them. One man he could handle . . . two, even . . . but a border patrol . . . they wouldn’t have a chance.
His eyes, black and alert, darted from side to side, then over his shoulder, then back again forward. Had they been seen? Had they been heard?
Every rustle of wind, every sigh from the child, sent terror through his chest.
Was this the way? Even the stars had been unkind---
Had hidden themselves in the ink of night so that the man
could not read their way.
Only the wind . . . was it enough?
Only the wind and his innate sense of direction . . .
What kind of cruel judgment would that be, to wander in circles
through the night?
Or to safely make their way to the border only to find the authorities
waiting for them?
He glanced at the young woman, his bride. No more than a child herself.
She nuzzled their newborn, kissing his neck. She looked up, caught his eye, and smiled.
Oh, how the homelessness had taken its toll on her!
Her eyes were red, her young face lined,
her lovely hair matted from inattention,
her clothes stained from milk and baby,
her hands chapped from the raw wind of winter.
She’d hardly had time to recover from childbirth when word had come that they were hunted, and they fled with only a little bread, the remaining wine.
Suddenly, the child began to make small noises.
The man drew his breath in sharply.
The woman quietly put the child to breast.
Fear . . . long dread-filled moments . . .
Huddled, the family stood still in the long silence.
At last the man breathed deeply again
reassured they had not been heard.
And into the night continued Mary and Joseph and the Babe.
It’s not the usual Christmas story we hear, is it? Ann Weems’ poem The Refugees[1] reminds us that the first Christmas was more Aleppo than Hallmark nativity. God entering the world was and is a story full of chaos, fear and threat. But we choose not to remember those parts, focusing instead on the angelic choirs and the shining star.
Why don’t we want to remember the real Christmas? As you might expect, I have a theory. It’s the same reason we would rather cheer on Frodo in his quest to take the ring to Mordor than clean the bathroom. It’s the same reason we want to watch Jyn Erso steal the death star plans instead of watching the latest troubling news. It’s called escapism. We all long for an escape from both the horror and the humdrum of this life. This isn’t a bad thing – it’s a human thing.
When life gets too heavy, when the nights grow too dark, when we fear for the state of the world we’re leaving for our children and grandchildren, escape is seductive. And so, we imagine the fluffy (somehow sweet-smelling) sheep, the wise men with their glittering clothing and the child that never makes a peep. It’s a story that brings us comfort, an escape from all that troubles us, as well it should.
We should never discard this story, after all, as Madeleine L’Engle wrote: “Stories make us more alive, more human, more courageous, more loving.” But if we only ever tell this version of the Christmas story, we might forget the most important part of it all: that the incarnation – God With Us – was not an escape. Jesus wasn’t bored in heaven with the Creator and the Spirit, longing for a little earthly entertainment. No, the incarnation was a radical entering in. God breaking into the world, not waiting for it to all be calm and bright, but right in the midst of the chaos and the terror and the threat.
Yes, an angel came and told good news to Mary and Joseph that they were going to be a part of birthing God into the world. But less than a week later, another angel (maybe even the same one) came to tell them it was time to get out of Dodge, because Herod was afraid and angry, and when fear, anger and power are wedded, violence ensues.
The Refugee Redeemer fled with his family; God choosing to come in such radical vulnerability that he had to be carried in his weary young mother’s arms. Now, that’s not a glittery story. We don’t particularly want our children to act that one out.
But it is the other half of the Christmas story, nonetheless. And, at the end of the day, as enticing as escapism is, we do not need a God who escapes our troubles. We need this Refugee Redeemer, who came into the world at its most messy and unsettled, and still does. Who took the form of the most vulnerable among us, that we might never confuse power with holiness. Who longs to gather all the lost children home, and to defy the might of empire with the resilient hope of a single baby’s cry.
Yes, we want a God who helps us escape it all, of course we do. But we need a God who runs towards and not away from danger and distress. A God whose birth is more grit than glitter, more trial than tinsel.
This Christmas, let’s tell the whole story of Jesus. And then, let’s join him in entering into, and not escaping from, all the desperate, despairing places of this world, to proclaim that most essential of truths:
“God is with you. And so are we. You are not alone.” Amen.
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