Scripture can be found here…
Christmas is for children.
That’s what we tend to think, anyway.
Christmas is a time when, no matter our age, we are invited to let our eyes see as children see, and in that seeing, everything is turned to wonder.
Take something simple, like a Christmas tree.
I love my Christmas tree, but, as an adult, I think of the tree as work. Getting the tree. Hauling it home in a car that was not designed with large conifers in mind. Getting it in the house, with minimal damage and mess. Getting it into the stand in such a way that it will not fall over and break anything. Putting the lights on! One year I had a tree whose needles were less like the soft blanket of a forest floor and more like the things medical technicians use to take blood. The process of putting the lights on literally spilled blood. And just setting aside the time to do it in a season that is already filled with so much busyness adds to my attitude: the tree is work.
But then, when it is evening, I switch the lights on, and something magical happens. I’m seeing it with the eyes of the child.
And seeing it that way? Magic. The beauty of the lights as they glow on a dark December night. The images that adorn it—angels and stars, spinning globes and shiny glass fruit, delicate birds intricate little wreathes. And then there’s the fragrance of the tree, which for me, is cinnamon and pine. I sear, they should do research into bottling that smell as a mood-enhancer.
And… have you noticed how a Christmas tree is like a treasure trove of your memories? This construction paper star, made by your child when they were seven. That salt dough angel, made by you the year before your eldest was born. Those fabric doves (or are they pterodactyls?) given to me by my mother, the first year I had my own apartment, and my own tree.
Christmas is for children. That’s what we tend to think, anyway.
But, in truth, Christmas—the celebration of the birth of Christ—is a story very much about, and by, and for adults.
It begins with a potentially life-shattering announcement to a young woman, that her world is about to be turned upside down by an entirely unforeseen pregnancy.
It continues with the uncertainty that comes when the man you were planning to marry is not the father of your child. In one of our Sunday School classes, our young people asked the very pointed question: Were Mary and Joseph really married, or were they dating, or were they in the friend zone? A question in search of a mature understanding of a story in which we don’t mind glossing over the details in the presence of children.
The birth takes place on the move—the young girl is not at home with her mother, which would be the traditional and most desirable place for her in those days. Instead, she is traveling with her husband to fulfill the demands of the Emperor, who needs a good count of people, especially those pesky religious minorities that despots like to keep track of, so that they can monitor their whereabouts, and keep them in line, and, of course, tax them.
And even though the strong tradition of the time is one of hospitality, the young couple have trouble finding a place to stay, because the census has resulted in crowding. They end up in something like a barn or a cave, because the only cradle available is a feedbox for cows and donkeys.
Maybe there was a midwife, or maybe the only help the young, first-time mother had was her husband, a carpenter, presumably with no experience birthing babies.
So, it’s a story of birth that comes surrounded with anxiety, and fear, and the exhaustion of travel, and without the comforts and reassurances of home.
Not a children’s story, not yet, anyway.
And then there are the whys and wherefores.
Why a Messiah? And what is a Messiah anyway?
A Messiah is someone who is anointed, chosen by God for a specific act of rescue and leadership. You don’t get a Messiah unless you need one, badly. And the people needed one, alright.
I’ve already mentioned the Emperor. At the time of the birth of Jesus, his official name and title were: Imperator Caesar Divi Filius Augustus. This means, literally, the Emperor, the Son of the Divine, the Majestic One. Emperors were thought of as gods, and this Emperor—embraced that wholeheartedly.
This was bad news for you, if you were a Jew living in Roman-occupied Palestine. Your religion was suspect if it pushed back on the idea that the Emperor was the son of God. Your worship was scrutinized. One false move, and a legion of soldiers was sent to your town, to contain your insolence. You own king, to the extent you had one, was just a puppet of the Roman government.
Just listen to the words the young mother sings when she finds that she’s pregnant, and God is definitely involved.
You, Lord, have shown strength with your arm;
You have scattered the proud in their conceit.
Casting down the mighty from their thrones,
and lifting up the lowly;
You have filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty. ~ Luke 1:51-53
And listen to what is at the heart of the promise of the angel-messengers to the shepherds:
Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace, and goodwill among people. ~ Luke 2:14
The people needed a Savior. They needed a Messiah.
But there was another reason, one that was more existential.
The people needed to see God, in the flesh.
It is so easy to think of God as far away, up there, in heaven. But according to scripture, we live in a world that is God-soaked, from the beauty of a bare tree in front of a rose-colored winter sunset or a frozen river covered in crystalline designs, to the images of God we see walking around every day—for, of course, we are all made in the image and likeness of God, we are all made to be reminders to one another of God’s existence.
But we forget.
The prophets try to call us back. Again and again they do. There are prophets, today, begging us to see and honor the image of God in one another.
But we don’t see.
And so God’s ingenious solution was to become present among us in a way that was new and undeniable, to be newly visible in our midst. God came into this world as the newborn child of poor parents on a tiring journey, far from home.
God chose to be among us in a way that would tell us, irrefutably, that God sees us. Sees our joys and delights, and our struggles and suffering. Not only does God see: God knows, God joins us in it. God knows what it is, to be born a helpless baby, and to grow into a child, and then an adolescent. God knows what it is to learn, and to work, and to be hungry, and to hurt.
God knows what it is to be a sexual being. Look, if that is not true, the incarnation is a farce, it’s pretend, it’s a mask God wears. Either God enters humanity with us or God doesn’t. If God becomes human, God enters into the fullness of human experience.
God is with us.
Christmas is very much for grown-ups, because , in it, God comes to save us by showing us, once and for all, that God’s love for us has no boundaries, no limits.
Hang that on your Christmas tree.
And yet…
If Jesus comes among us as a child… and if Jesus tells us, many times and in many ways, that we must become like children ourselves to enter into this project that Jesus calls “God’s kingdom,” or “God’s reign…”
It might just be that Christmas is for children, too. Especially.
Christmas is for children, because it is children who can teach us wonder.
(Isn’t God coming as a baby wonder-full? Don’t you wonder at it?)
Christmas is for children, because it is children who can teach us unconditional love.
(Aren’t they the quickest to forgive? Don’t children give us a thousand second chances?)
Christmas is for children, because it is children who can teach us trust—in twinkling stars, and singing angels, and one another.
Christmas is a time when we are invited to let our eyes see as children see, and in that seeing, we remember: God is with us.
Thanks be to God. Amen.