They want to point out that so many things the gospel writers, even Luke, who claims in the first 4 verses of his gospel, he is writing “an orderly account” so that his audience “may know the certainty of the things you have been taught.” And see, already, I have said something to quibble over, because the person writing probably was NOT named Luke, and may not have been the “Luke the Physician” who was a sometime companion to Paul, and may not even have been male.
Then there’s the argument over the dates—Jesus’s couldn’t have been born as late as 6 CE, and yet THAT is when Quirinius, the Roman governor of Syria, which included Israel, ordered a census. And the census didn’t require you to travel, because it was for purposes of taxation, and you KNOW the taxman always wants to know where you live to determine the tax you will pay. UNLESS, of course, Joseph owned property in the city of Bethlehem itself. Then he might have travelled to claim the city as his home, because the Romans reduced the taxes of urban dwellers up to 50%. And THAT possibility, my friends, shows just how much like all of us Joseph was—trying to get his tax bill reduced by hook or by crook. And by the way—there’s still five business days to get those last donations in the St. Martin’s so that you can take them off of this year’s taxes—don’t delay!
And then there’s the debate about the virgin birth (the word for virgin actually meant unmarried young woman). There’s even a charge that having shepherds come to the place where Jesus was born is meant to echo the births of great heroes in Roman legend, like Romulus, Oedipus, and Paris—to place Jesus alongside great, legendary leaders, despite the humble circumstances of his family, including his membership in a race of people who had been subjugated by Rome.
This is what happens when you let your head get in the way of hope. It keeps you stumbling in the darkness of hopelessness, as our reading from Isaiah reminded us from its very first words.
And it’s at this point that we have to ask ourselves what happens to people who let their heads throw up roadblocks to truths that they find uncomfortable—either uncomfortable because they are potentially bad, but also uncomfortable because they sound too good to be true. That’s a kind of uncomfortable truth, too. Just that phrase “too good to be true” smacks of past disappointments. No one, after all, wants to appear gullible, or naïve. No one wants to play the fool. So we close our hearts.
In our gospel today, the most amazing good news gets proclaimed in the most amazing ways. I mean, look at this cast of characters: emperors and potentates and angels and heavenly hosts! And look at the scenes: the bright lights of Bethlehem, hillsides shrouded in darkness, the dark skies being rent apart by blazes of iridescent light and the songs of angels more deafening and surreal than anything one would expect-- and I've been to a Journey concert. And look at all the traveling that takes place: from Joseph and Mary shlepping from Galilee to Bethlehem, and let me tell you, heavily pregnant women don’t even want to travel to the bathroom until they have to. Then there’s the angel descending from heaven to drop heavy pronouncements on the heads of stunned and frightened shepherds, shepherds who fight off lions, leopards, and jackals for a living, and so were not exactly prone to terror.
Disbelief, scoffing, delusion-- these are things that come from giving your head a lock over your heart. And if any of the main characters in our gospel today had led with their heads instead of their hearts, we would not be gathered here today. And let’s give our own hearts some credit for the fact that we ARE here, together, today.
What I am talking about goes beyond the calculations that have led some people to declare that they have a relationship with Jesus—those calculations, I mean, that runs along the lines of a wager, that goes something like this: “when I die, I don’t want to go to hell; to escape hell the preacher has said I have to say I believe in Jesus; therefore I will say I believe in Jesus to escape hell.” That’s one sad, fear-filled line of thinking, right there—death is never a good starting point for anything.
Jesus comes to us as an infant to remind us of that. Jesus does not become a vulnerable human baby to scare us about how we are going to die. Jesus becomes a vulnerable human baby to tell us and to SHOW us how to live—how to live a life full of wonder, full of hope, full of generosity, full of joy. Full of heart.
Maintaining an open heart is also one of the most dangerous and revolutionary stances you can take—and let us never forget that Jesus was a revolutionary, raised by his revolutionary mother Mary (and if you don’t believe me, listen to that Magnificat again carefully). Jesus wasn’t raised by a mother who said “Hm, let me think that over and get back to you” while she set up the mental abacus. Instead, he was raised by a mother who led with her heart, and who had the courage of ten strong men. She had courage, BECAUSE she had heart, and because she led with that heart when told she would do what seemed like impossible things.
There it is: right there after the shepherds have left most of their flock behind with a skeleton crew, after they’ve rushed into town and barged in on an exhausted couple with a fussy baby, barged in even without a casserole, even though they are complete strangers because they just have to see for themselves. And once they see for themselves, and then gotten finished unspooling their tale, what reaction do they get?
The gospel does not record or mention either Mary or Joseph responding verbally in any way to the story these strangers tell them—the same one the angel had told Mary, the same one Joseph had heard in his dream, What we hear as a response is this:
“Mary treasured all these words and stored them in her heart.”
Another translator put it this way: “Mary stored up all these things, trying in her heart to penetrate their significance.” Mary’s reaction does not come from her head but from her heart. Think about that. Then examine the possible truth and relatability of this statement in your own lives.
Where do you store the things most precious to you—the most precious memories of your past—the smells, sounds, taste and feel of a beautiful day, or a loved one’s laughter or caress or hand at the small of your back? Do you store that in your head? Or in your heart?
That statement that Mary stored up these precious encounters in her heart is an invitation to all of us. Jesus has come into the world to find a home in our hearts—each and every one of us. To be our light in the darkness. To be our hope, which calls us to have faith in things we have not seen. But then-
Jesus calls us to let our hearts guide us—to live with Christmas hearts each and every day—hearts filled with wonder, hearts that are open to the possible rather than guarded and shut tight.
A Christmas heart is an open heart. Only when our hearts are open can they be filled. And not just filled, but filled to overflowing. So that we too can be the light of Christ for those who go through day by day without hope, without heart. To show us how to live—really live—with courage and dignity and compassion. So that we can be hope for others.
Amen.
Preached at the 7 pm Christmas Eve Choral Eucharist, December 24, 2021, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church.
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