Feasting against the Darkness: a sermon

We’re all a little weary this year, aren’t we? Up until yesterday morning I’d imagined we’d have a good-sized gathering here in the church for tonight, and then the recommendation came down from the bishop that we consider moving to an online format, followed by a consult with Dr. Pierre Plourde, and so here we are. And we’re all still tentative, cautious, and ready to be attuned to the next health directives, perhaps a deeper set of limits.

Last year was the first time in my life that I wasn’t in church for Christmas Eve. Growing up my family had always gone to church on this night—sometimes to our home church, sometimes with my grandparents to Elim Chapel, sometimes somewhere else with family friends—and then when I hit university I began to attend here, active as a member of All Saints Church. Those late night 11pm Christmas Eve liturgies became part of the fabric of the season for me, and that continued when I moved to Toronto to attend theological college, and then beyond that in my early years of ordination. When we established saint benedict’s table in 2004 and began to share this building, we landed on an 8pm liturgy time, and that was my solid practice year after year last year.

You might remember that last year at this time we were in the midst of a pretty hard lock-down. The vaccines were not yet in circulation, and things felt rather overwhelmed. We could have five people present in the church to live stream—two musicians, one streaming tech, one assistant, and one clergy person. When I looked at the rhythm that Rachel and I shared at the time, it was clear to me that I should just cover the Sunday after Christmas, and that she should be able to be here for Christmas Eve.

So I was at home on my own. I had bread and wine set out for communion, candles burning, the Christmas lights on, an order of service set out on the dining room table where I would sit, and the liturgy began. It was fine in that online sort of way, but not nearly the same thing as being together in the church. When the service was over, I hosted a social time on zoom, and again, it was fine. Just fine, but strangely out of joint with what every part of my being wanted to be doing on this night.

And now, after being able to gather together since mid-July, we’ve once again had to move back to the online format. The latest variant is more able to spread, and we’re not yet sure how long our hospitals will be able to hold up, so the little group that is here is masked, distanced, and cautious. Much as I’m happy that we can do at least this much, I am more deeply aware tonight that all is not well in our world.

But you know, if you turn to this great Gospel reading for the evening, Luke flags the fact that all was not well in that world either.

“In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered.”

Who is was in charge of their world? Emperor Augustus. And what has Augustus determined? That all the world—or at least the part of the world that he ruled— should be registered. Counted, for the purpose of taxation. And how is this to be done? By having everyone travel home to their ancestral homes.

And so it was.

“Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David.” 

That sounds rather grand in a way, doesn’t it? Joseph was descended from the house and family of David, the greatest king that the people had ever had. But it wasn’t grand at all, but just rather complicated. He and Mary live in Nazareth, which was about 140 kilometres by road from Bethlehem, so no small journey on foot or with a donkey. She’s of course pregnant, making the journey all the more arduous and even dangerous, but as Luke tells the story, the Empire has issued a dictate, and there was no way around it.

Not only that, but while Bethlehem might have been his ancestral home, it clearly wasn’t a familiar place to them, and so the best they can manage is to get permission to stay in a stable, amidst the animals. Oh well, at least it is warm, and a space can be carved out to sleep. We’ll deal with the census in the morning, and start back home again.

“While they were there, the time came for Mary to deliver her child,” which was probably the last thing either of them had hoped would happen. “And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger.” In a feed trough, which was the best they could do for a cradle.

I would imagine that the animals would have smelled the scent of that baby in the air, and maybe out of curiosity some of the animals might have tried to get closer, to see what was in the manger. Maybe Joseph shoed them away, but maybe—just maybe—that milk cow got close enough to breathe deeply of the scent of new life.

And then with exhaustion written on their faces they tried to bed down for the night, when a group of shepherds arrived at the stable door, with a wild tale of angels fuelling their insistence that they needed to see that baby. It was more than most of us could have begun to cope with, but in Luke’s telling, “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.”

Again, that’s all really quite lovely, but at the same time we need to keep the bigger picture in view. They’re far from home, resting now in a stable. The Empire is clattering its swords in the streets, preparing for the taxation that would surely follow the census. Power is in the hands of the Romans there in Judea and back home in Galilee, and while in Judea Herod the Great is theoretically king, the real power belongs to Rome. The Romans love to talk about Pax Romana—the Roman peace—but everyone knows how that has been both won and maintained.

You are at best, Mary, a vassal. Same with you, Joseph, and I suspect you are quite well aware of that truth. And Jesus—a baby—the same is true of you. Life is precarious and cheap under the Pax Romana. That was just true.

Yet as that child grew and became an adult, he would walk a different path. Where Rome ruled with an iron hand, he incarnated hope. Where Rome so easily destroyed life, he restored, healed, and fed people. Where Rome understood but one way of ruling, he told his extraordinary parables, and instilled hope and possibility in the souls of those who truly heard him. He, in a sense, lit candles in the midst of a very dark time, and feasted against the darkness.

So this night, gaze with your imaginations at that fragile newborn baby, and when we’ve finished up this online liturgy, light a few extra candles at home, feast against the darkness, put on some music, dare to laugh and tell great stories. Not in denial that this world still struggles under the weight of a pandemic, mind you, but as a resilient act of faith, comfort, and love in days that are unsure, in a world that, for all of its brokenness, remains a great and beautiful gift.

As best you can, have a blessed and happy Christmas season.