Tonight—this night of all nights—the air crackles with anticipation and hope can penetrate even the hardest heart.
On this night, our children’s senses work overtime to drink it all in. They turn their heads in every direction as they wonder who it is they can hear singing with more joy than they ever remember hearing before. They gaze in amazement at the candle clutched in their hands. And they somehow understand in ways that words can never capture that something is happening in this place tonight—something that matters—and they are lost in the wonder of it all.
And they aren’t alone.
You can see it in other faces as well—faces which hint at the joy they remember from Christmases past, but that also shimmer with the glory that surrounds them now.
They see a candle in their hands too, and they join in as the voices that have sustained them for generations sing once more the song that draws each of us to this place tonight—“O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem….”
And once drawn here, we are swept into the amazing story Luke tells, a story that reveals not only the depth of God’s love for this world, but also the lengths God will go to save it.
Luke’s story begins with those classic words, “In those days….”
In those days…a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be counted—even people as insignificant as Mary and Joseph.
And like so many others whose lives were disrupted by a ruler drunk on power, Mary and Joseph make their weary journey to Bethlehem, and because there’s no room, Mary ends up giving birth in a stable. And she wraps this child that she loves in bands of cloth, and places him in the hay.
And just about then, Luke tells us, an angel appears to the shepherds out in the fields—just watching their flock—and they were terrified. But the angel had a message: “Do not be afraid! For see, I am bringing you good news of a great joy for all the people. For to you is born this day in the City of David, a Savior, the Messiah, the Lord.”
And suddenly the sky breaks forth in beauty as an angel choir sings the song we’ve been straining to hear ever since,
“Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”
It’s an amazing story.
But maybe you’ve discovered something else about this story. It’s not just amazing. It’s also absurd.
There’s a Christmas hymn in our hymnals that knows that well. It begins with a question: “Who would think that what was needed to transform and save the earth might not be a plan or army, proud in purpose, proved in worth? Who would think, despite derision, that a child should lead the way?”
That hymn understands the absurdity. Who would think that the way to save the world is through something as helpless as a baby, as vulnerable as love?
Well now that you’ve asked, nobody. Nobody. It’s just absurd to think that God would choose to save the world not by a display of power but by the subversion of love; not by the shouts of war but by the promise of peace; not by the scorn of violence but by the gentleness of a baby’s cry, as the vulnerable love of our God that enters the messiness of this world draws breath from a cradle of hay.
And there’s the struggle this night exposes.
On this night, as we gaze into the eyes of God’s love made visible in the child in the manger, something within us dares to hope that his is the way—his is the truth–his is the life—that changes, that saves, the world.
And swept into the wonder, we begin to imagine how even something this absurd is somehow true.
And then we exit the sanctuary, and we walk back into the night, and before we know it, the same old stories we had hoped were behind us sound once more, doing everything they can to convince us that love is not enough. That God’s way is no match for the powers of this world. And if we’re not careful, we’ll start to say the words as well:
We need more power.
We need more weapons.
We need more fences.
We need less enemies, and that means that to save the world, we need to eliminate all that threatens us.
And the way to eliminate our enemies is by killing them.
And maybe we’ll realize what Jesus meant when he said that it’s possible to save your life…but lose your soul.
Now I know there’s a lot going on in the world right now. And maybe you’re afraid. Or angry. Or perhaps you’ve just lost hope. Maybe it seems to you as if the darkness is darker, the night longer, the conflict never-ending.
It certainly felt that way to Jose Miguel Sokoloff. Growing up in the nation of Colombia, he had never known a day of peace.
His nation was engaged in a brutal and deadly conflict that had spanned five decades. His government had been fighting in a civil war with a group of rebels called the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia his whole life. Over those years, the war claimed 220,000 lives and displaced millions.
As the tide was beginning to turn in the government’s favor, but with no end to the brutality in sight, the president of Colombia, Juan Manuel Santos, decided to try something different. Rather than increase the military might—instead of seeking to destroy their enemies—he did something absurd. He had his military hire an advertising executive, Jose Miguel Sokoloff. And he was charged with producing something to get the rebels to stop their fighting and to come home.
In 2010, Sokoloff’s team launched what they called “Operation Christmas.” Under the cover of darkness, two Blackhawk helicopters carried two members of the advertising team, along with some Colombian soldiers, deep into the jungle. They found 9 trees scattered through the jungle that were at least 75 feet tall, and then they decorated them from top to bottom with extravagant lights. Each tree had a motion detector that lit up the tree when the rebels walked by at night. And another light activated to shine on a banner that had a message they never expected to see: “If Christmas can come to the jungle, you can come home. At Christmas, everything is possible.”
In response, over 300 rebels walked out of the jungle to come home.
The next Christmas, Sokoloff’s team got even more creative. They figured out that the rivers were the highways through the jungle, which prompted them to create “Operation River of Lights.”
They had people from all over the country write messages inviting people to come home. It was a call to remember that those on both sides of the conflict were human—with a need to come home or to welcome someone who did.
These messages were placed in small, round containers. Then, with the help of the military, they set the containers aglow and sent them down the rivers.
Can you imagine seeing the darkest part of the jungle being filled with light as over 7,000 glowing orbs floated past? Imagine the beauty of that moment.
Other campaigns took place as well. Soccer balls with messages from all over the country dropped from the skies, pictures of mothers holding old pictures of their children when they were young—their children now lost in the jungles and far from home. And beside those pictures hanging through the jungle was a mother’s message: “Before you were a rebel, you were my child. So come home because I will always be waiting for you at Christmastime.”
During the eight-year period of these ad campaigns, 18,000 rebel fighters came home, giving up their weapons, and soon a peace which seemed impossible, came to pass.
Do you remember that hymn I mentioned earlier? The one that asked, “Who would think that what was needed to transform and save the earth?” Well it ends like this: “God surprises earth with heaven, coming here on Christmas Day.”
And that matters.
The surprise of Christmas is that all things are possible.
It’s possible for the light to shine in the darkness and to believe the promise that the darkness will never overcome the light.
Of course, the world will tell us that’s absurd, which is why you and I are sent from this place to bear the light of God’s love into the world.
Jan Richardson, one of my favorite writers, wrote a book called Circle of Grace: A Book of Blessings for the Seasons. One blessing is titled “Blessed Are You Who Bear the Light.”
Blessed are you
who bear the light
in unbearable times,
who testify to its endurance
amid the unendurable,
who bear witness
to its persistence
when everything seems
in shadow
and grief.Blessed are you
in whom
the light lives,
in whom
the brightness blazes—
your heart
a chapel,
an altar where
in the deepest night
can be seen
the fire that
shines forth in you
in unaccountable faith,
in stubborn hope,
in love that illumines
every broken thing
it finds.
Earlier this week, a friend sent me a text that included some words by L.R. Knost. “I thought you might like this,” she said.
Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world.
All things break. And all things can be mended.
Not with time, as they say, but with intention.
So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally.
The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.
As Jesus said, “I am the light of the world.”
And he also said of us, “You are the light of the world.”
So blessed are you indeed who bear the light—the light which no darkness shall ever overcome.
Jan
Our dearest John-
Wonderful!! An exquisite sermon. I could hear your voice intonations and see your handsome face sharing God’s message to the people gathered there. I cherish having this.
Just read to Mom–“left me speechless. Made me feel tender and grateful. ”
Gods Grace and Love always to you and yours,
Jan