Sermon from December 24, 2023 + Christmas Eve + Pr. Michelle Sevig
O’ little town of Bethelem, how still we see thee lie above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by. Yet in thy dark streets shineth, the ever-lasting light, the hopes and fear of all the years are met in thee tonight.
For many of us, this beloved carol has framed our image of Jesus' birth—a quiet, still night. The sky filled with holy darkness, but a beam of everlasting light shines a spotlight on the scene with Mary cradling Jesus at her breast and Joseph standing lovingly by her side. In the little town of Bethlehem, all hopes and fears come together and are met in the Christ Child.
Tonight, the real town of Bethlehem is quiet and still, not because the whole scene is being recreated, but because Christmas is canceled. That’s right, the whole town has become quiet and still. Maybe you’ve seen the headlines too or watched the segments on a morning news show. Church leaders in Bethlehem and across the Holy Land have decided to mute Christmas celebrations this year due to the ongoing Israel-Hamas war.
Typically, Bethlehem–a Palestinian city of about 30,000 people in the Israel-occupied West Bank–is jammed with more than 3 million visitors coming from all over the world to celebrate the birth of the Messiah. Marching bands and carol singers and dancers and fireworks would fill the city with loud cheer and festive energy. Thousands would pack the Church of the Nativity. Instead, the streets are dark and hushed.
The Evangelical Lutheran Christmas Church in Bethlehem created a manger scene this year that has drawn a lot of attention worldwide. Instead of the traditional manger scene, the church made a mound of broken stone and concrete to represent the ruins in Gaza, and on top of the rubble, placed a baby Jesus wrapped in a Palestinian keffiyeh.
The pastor of the church, Munthar Isaac, said in an article in the Christian Century, “The words people once associated with Christmas were Santa, tree, gifts, carols—all “romanticized” traditions from the West,” Today, he thinks of words from the Christmas story of the Bible: Caesar, census, massacre, and refugees in Egypt.
“The Christmas story,” he reminds us, “is about God in human form, present with people in their suffering.” He pointed at his church’s Nativity scene, at baby Jesus in the rubble, and said, “That’s how Christmas is celebrated here.”
This year Pastor Mueller and I decided to do something similar with Holy Trinity’s creche to what the Lutheran church in Bethlehem did with theirs–placing Jesus amid the rubble and ruins–calling to mind the ruins of war, houselessness, migrants seeking refuge, and all the places of suffering experienced throughout the world. Hopefully, the redesigned creche helps us to ponder the birth of the Christ child in a new way this year, to jolt us out of our sentimentalization of the Christmas story and discover once again that Christ is born for us, in the midst of suffering, pain, and hardship.
God chooses to enter into the messiness of real life. The birth of Jesus is not limited to a historical event in Bethlehem some 2,000 years ago, because Bethlehem is more about life than location. And the sweet baby Jesus asleep on the hay must give way to a vision of God who is wide awake, present among us, concerned and involved in every aspect of our life. Jesus is born into the shadows, the fears, and the brokenness of our world.
Each one of us could name the Bethlehems of our own lives. Stories of times when we were helpless and life was fragile. Times when we were lost, without hope, and the world seemed to have no room for us. Times when our lives and world were dominated by powers other than love, compassion, and mercy.
But we can also tell stories about a love stronger than death, stories of hope that overcame despair, and stories of light that made our darkness a little brighter. On this holy night, a weary world rejoices, because Christ is born today for you. It's an audacious claim if you think about it, that the birth of a baby, born to an unwed teen, in the ruins of a deserted barnyard could possibly matter to anyone. Yet here is the promise of the gospel: that God regularly shows up where we least expect God to be; and always for us.
I invite you to receive this blessing written by the Rev. Sarah Speed.
Beloveds, as you leave here tonight, you go out into a weary world–so speak tenderly. Do the good that is yours to do. Choose connection. Hold on to hope. And remember that Christ took on flesh for you. You are God’s beloved. So go rejoicing. The world needs it. Amen.