Christmas Day, December 25, 2014 | 11:00 a.m.

Come and See

Matt Helms
Minister for Children and Families, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Isaiah 9:2–7
Luke 2:1–20

“Do not be afraid; for see—
I am bringing you good news
of great joy for all the people:
to you is born this day a Savior,
who is the Messiah, the Lord.”

Luke 2:10-11 (NRSV)

Before we begin this morning, I have somewhat of a sad confession to make, and I hope you will all be gracious enough to hear it: this is actually the first time that I’ve been to church on Christmas Day in several years. That’s the danger of being at a large church with several pastors, I suppose, but it still shocked me as I thought back and realized that Christmas Eve had become some sort of a liturgical finish line to the season of Advent for me.

This is, of course, one of the most beautiful days of our year—a freely extended invitation to come to Bethlehem and see—and I am grateful to each of you for being here with us. So to those of you who regularly attend this Christmas service, thank you for letting me get that truancy off my chest. To those of you who are here for the first time, welcome—and please know that you are not alone!

I also want to say a quick word of gratitude to our house staff, our musicians, our ushers, and to all of the volunteers who help make our Christmas lunch following this service possible. This time of year can be so demanding for schedules and other commitments, and I hope you’ll join me in thanking these folks after worship for the gift of service that they’ve given today.

Our opening hymn this morning said it best, I think: “O come, all ye faithful. O come ye to Bethlehem.” This day is a chance for all of us—people from different backgrounds, different jobs, or areas of the city—to gather together around this familiar story and to journey once more with our characters to that small manger in Bethlehem filled with hope and expectation. Christians throughout the centuries have sought not just to hear the story but to somehow become a part of it, from Francis of Assisi organizing the first live nativity in 1223 to numerous Renaissance painters depicting Jesus’ birth taking place not in Bethlehem but in their own cities. We can each picture ourselves there, traveling to be bystanders and witnesses to the birth of a child who changed our understanding of who God is and who God wants us to be.

So it feels appropriate, then, that at the start of the Christmas story every character in Luke, and later on in Matthew, begins on the move. Mary and Joseph set out from Nazareth towards Judea after the decree went out to register—a 100-mile journey that surely took days and possibly even weeks. Our shepherds were nomads by profession, leading sheep from field to field in a near perpetual motion, but they too are sparked into traveling. And later, in Matthew’s text, we read of the magi—typically understood as astrologers from an unnamed land to the east—who must have traveled several hundred miles to arrive at that small manger. In T.S. Eliot’s famous poem “The Journey of the Magi,” they remark, “A cold coming we had of it, / just the worst time of year for a journey; / and such a long journey / . . . At the end, we preferred to travel all night, / sleeping in snatches, / with the voices singing in our ears, saying / that this was all folly.” The biblical text is spare on exposition, as is typical of most writing at the time, but it’s not hard to imagine each of these characters arriving in Bethlehem tired, exhausted, and ready for it to all be over.

Perhaps that’s how we each arrive on Christmas morning after what has become the busied frenzy of Advent. Just as our biblical characters are each in motion at the start of the story, we each seem to be in perpetual motion once the month of December begins and perhaps even before. There is much to do—shopping to be done, cookies to bake, presents to wrap, and decorations to be put up. There are plays, pageants, parties, and performances. There are cross-country flights, family road trips, and getting our houses and apartments ready to host. My wife and I actually moved at the end of November, and even though we haven’t pulled out the nails left in the wall from the previous owners, we have our Christmas tree up and our decorations hung. Expectations about what makes a perfect Christmas are a powerful thing, and so we set ourselves in motion, waiting for Jesus to come in a manner that’s probably more akin to pacing than patience.

I love working with Children and Family Ministry at all times of the year, but perpetual motion is probably the best description I can offer of our December Children’s Chapels. There was unbridled excitement as we lit yet another Advent candle each week, and the energy in the room was palpable. Christmas was coming. Jesus was coming. And in that latent expectation, we all moved forward together—joining in carols and pageants as we waited for this very day.

Our energy levels and motion can’t continue forever, though. At the start of this sermon I joked about Christmas Eve being some sort of a liturgical finish line, but for many Protestant churches it really is true. We finally have a reprieve from the busyness of this season, and we relish the chance to take a quiet moment in the midst of our even busier lives. One of my favorite pieces of Fourth Church lore came from Sunday School several years ago: one of our teachers was asking their class what the four-week season that came before Christmas was called. “Advil,” one little girl replied. And maybe that’s what some of us feel like we need when it’s all said and done. But here, on Christmas Day, we join Mary and Joseph and the shepherds around that small manger, and for three short biblical verses, all of the movement stops. The shepherds share all that was made known to them by the angel of the Lord, and all who hear it are amazed. Mary treasured and pondered their words in her heart. And just like that, the shepherds are in motion again—returning back to where they began, to glorify and praise God for everything they had seen and heard. The account of the magi from Matthew is similar as well, except the magi are only with Mary, Joseph, and the child for two verses. After all of the traveling, planning, and preparation, the actual visit can read like a footnote in the wider story before everyone sets into motion again. And that’s why mornings like this are such a gift: we stop, like Mary, to treasure all of these words and ponder their meaning in our hearts.

There, nestled in the hay amidst the vivid and memorable characters that surround him, lies the greatest gift ever given. When we think of Jesus, we think of the ministry of his adult life: his teaching, his miracles, his death and resurrection—but this story contains a promise that is every bit as audacious as the resurrection story. This small child, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger, is Emmanuel—God with us. It is a paradox that defies comprehension: an infant with basic human needs who is nonetheless divine. Centuries of Christians have struggled to understand this, and countless pages have been written about it. And this is not the only paradox present in the story: the birth of the Messiah takes place in a manger. The one who will be worshiped as a leader, a king, and as God will be born outside the inn, surrounded not by nobility but by animals. What writer would claim this for their leader? And yet even before his public teaching ministry, it is clear that the baby Jesus reshapes our understanding of who God is and how God acts. The Messiah, the hope of the people, is nothing more than a fragile, vulnerable child.

Perhaps that is what left both the shepherds and the magi too stunned for words. It is hard to imagine that this small child could be the one Isaiah prophesied about when he said, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined.” And yet last night I was reminded once again of the power that a solitary, fragile light can have. After spreading the light from one single candle—the white Christ candle at the center of the Advent wreath—this entire Sanctuary was glowing even in the dead of night.

It has felt, at times, this year like our world has been walking in darkness. Every week there are news stories that remind us that not all is right in our world, and at times it feels ludicrous to suggest that one small, fragile child can change all of that. But that is indeed the paradox of our faith: to trust that from sharing that one small, fragile light, our entire city and world can and will be transformed.

We are invited each Christmas to come to Bethlehem and see, gathering around the manger once more, finding God in the child called Emmanuel, and then returning, glorifying and praising God for all that we have seen and heard. The peace and calm of this day, unfortunately, doesn’t last forever. Eventually we, like the shepherds and magi, must return to motion. Even Mary and Joseph were forced to flee to Egypt with their newborn child. And yet this motion is not a bad thing. In fact, it is exactly what we are called to. Christ’s light will not spread unless we, like the shepherds and magi, carry it forth. Howard Thurman, a famous author, poet, and theologian, put it like this:

When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers and sisters,
To make music in the heart.
(Howard Thurman, “When the Song of the Angels Is Stilled”)

Christmas doesn’t bring us to a liturgical finish line at the end of Advent. If anything, it is a sort of starting block. It is a chance for us to live out the light and love that the Christ child came to bring into the world all those years ago.

Both Luke’s and Matthew’s accounts of Jesus’ birth make that clear—this Good News we are given isn’t meant to be held on to, but instead is to be shared with all. We are called to live our lives so that people can see the image of God reflected in us, just as the shepherds and magi were able to look at that small, vulnerable baby and see Emmanuel, our God with us.

Come to Bethlehem and see—but know that we cannot stay for long. We revel in this quiet moment after a season of motion and busyness, but we know that our real work is yet to come. We are called, not just on Christmas Day but each and every day, to reflect God’s light and love into a world that desperately needs it. But we can only do so because we have paused for a moment to stand around the manger and to see and hear that small child’s promise to each one of us: that we are each known fully and unconditionally loved by God. To each of us, Christ is born this day—and what an incredible gift that is. Alleluia and amen!