Dec 25 ~ Christmas Day/ The Word Becomes Flesh and Moves Into the Neighborhood

Isaiah 52:7-10

Psalm 98

Hebrews 1:1-12

John 1 :1-14

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Christmas morning has a particular kind of honesty to it. The rush has quieted. The candles have burned low. Some of us are full of joy; some of us are full of grief. Some of us are surrounded by family; some of us are missing people we love. Some of us are relieved we made it here at all. Christmas Day isn’t only a celebration -- it’s also a revealing. It shows us what we carry.

And that is why I’m grateful that the Church, in its wisdom, doesn’t give us only the sweet and simple story today. Yes, we sing about shepherds and angels. Yes, we remember a baby in a manger. But the Gospel appointed for Christmas Day often takes us deeper: not just what happened in Bethlehem, but also what it means for the whole world.

“In the beginning was the Word … and the Word became flesh and lived among us.” Not visited among us. Not hovered above us. Not tolerating us from a safe spiritual distance. Lived among us. Which means God does not love humanity in theory. God loves humanity in skin. God comes, not as a superhero who swoops in to fix everything without cost, but as a child—vulnerable, dependent, needing warmth and milk and someone to hold him when he cries. That is not an accident. That is the point.

Because the Christmas claim is not that God is strong where we are weak. It’s that God chooses to meet us in our weakness—so we can stop calling our tenderness “failure” and start recognizing it as holy ground.

If you have ever felt too small to matter, Christmas is for you. If you have ever felt overwhelmed by the world’s cruelty, Christmas is for you. If you have ever wondered whether your life—your ordinary, complicated, imperfect life—could possibly be a place where God shows up … Christmas is for you.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” Notice what it doesn’t say. It doesn’t say, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness immediately disappears.” Christianity is not denial. The Gospel does not gaslight us. There is still war. There is still poverty. There is still heartbreak. There are still lonely people on Christmas morning. There are still systems that chew people up. There are still bodies that hurt and minds that struggle. There are still families carrying fractures that no amount of tinsel can hide. But the promise is this: that darkness does not get the last word.

On Christmas Day, God doesn’t give us an explanation for suffering. God gives us presence within it. And that presence changes things—not always in a loud way, not always in the way we want, but in a way that is real. Because when God becomes flesh, God declares that we matter. That the material world matters. That food and shelter matter. That dignity matters. That the safety of children matters. That the lives of migrants and refugees matter. That Indigenous lives matter. That Black lives matter. That trans lives matter. That people who have been pushed to the margins of religion and society are not a problem to solve—they are beloved.

This is not a political add-on to the Gospel. This is the Gospel: The Word becomes flesh and moves into the neighborhood. And if God moves into the neighborhood, then faith can’t be a private hobby. It can’t be only an interior feeling. It becomes a public way of living—an insistence that our neighbors deserve what God has always wanted for God’s people: daily bread, safety, belonging, and a future.

That’s why the angels don’t sing to emperors. They sing to shepherds. That’s why the good news comes first to people working the night shift. That’s why the holy family is not sheltered in comfort but placed, from the beginning, among the precarious. Jesus is born into an occupied land, under a violent empire, into a family that will soon be displaced. Which means: if you are looking for God, you don’t have to climb up to heaven. Look in the places where people are trying to survive. Look where someone with tired arms is holding a newborn. Look where someone is making a meal stretch. Look where someone is grieving. Look where someone is choosing compassion when cynicism would be easier. That’s where God is.

And then John says something almost unbelievable: “To all who received him … he gave the power to become children of God.” Not “the perfect.” Not “the certain.” Not “the ones who never doubt.” To all who received him. Which means that the Christmas invitation is not: “Get your life together and then you can belong.”

It is: “You belong—so come home.”

Christmas is God saying, in the clearest language God knows: “I am with you. I am for you. I am not giving up on you.”

So, what do we do with this? We do what Lutherans do: we let grace come first. We stop treating ourselves like a project God is reluctantly managing. We stop treating other people like problems to be fixed. We stop confusing God with the voice of shame. And we practice in a different way.

Today, maybe the most faithful thing you can do is small: Make room at your table for someone who might otherwise be alone. Text the person you’ve avoided because you don’t know what to say. Offer forgiveness—if it’s safe, and if it’s yours to offer. Give generously to a shelter, a food program, a refugee sponsor group, a harm-reduction ministry. Speak up when someone is demeaned. Rest—because you are not God, and the world’s healing is not all on your shoulders. Let your life be a little more tender, because God has dared to be tender with us.

Because here is the miracle of Christmas: God does not wait for the world to become worthy. God enters it and begins to make it new from the inside out. The Word became flesh. And the light still shines. Not as an escape from the world, but as hope within it. Not as proof that everything is easy, but as promise that love is stronger. Not as a sentimental story, but as a holy expression of grace.

Glory to God in the highest—and on earth, peace. Peace that is more than a feeling. Peace that looks like justice and welcome and real connection with God. Peace that looks like enough. On Christmas morning, God has moved in. Amen

Dec 24 ~ Christmas Eve/ Do Not be Afraid... I Bring You Good News of Great Joy

Luke 2: 1-7

Luke 2: 8-14

Luke 2: 15-20

John 1: 1-14

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Tonight, we gather in a world that is both beautiful and bruised.

Some of us arrive tonight bursting with joy. With hearts filled with excited children – and returning university students, and grandchildren to create a musical Christmas soundtrack, the comfort of tradition, the nostalgia of familiar carols, the warm presence of family. Some of us arrive tired, stretched thin, carrying grief that does not take a holiday, carrying worry that hums beneath the music. And many of us arrive with both at once—because that is what it means to be human.

And so, it matters—deeply—that the Christmas story begins the way it does. Not with perfect people in a perfect world, but with ordinary people under pressure.

Mary and Joseph are pushed onto the road not because it is wise or humane, but because the government of the day ordered them to do so. They were bound by a faraway decision that rippled into real homes and ordered them to uproot their lives unexpectedly and at the worst time. Just as the decisions of faraway tyrants and politicians have changed the course of our country and our world so much this year.

And, like many people forced to leave their homes and their countries around that same world each day, Mary and Joseph arrive in Bethlehem only to learn that there is no room. No room in the inn.

And yet—this is the miracle we celebrate tonight—God does not wait for the world to make room. God comes anyway. Not as an invading tyrant. Not with vengeful tariffs. Not ruling from a shining throne.

God comes as a baby—small enough to hold, fragile enough to need care, dependent on human kindness to survive. Christmas is not God commanding us from heaven, “Do better.” Christmas is God whispering into our lives, “I am with you.” And what’s more, “I trust you.”

And if God comes to us this way—vulnerable, tender, trusting—then the message is unmistakable: vulnerability is not shameful, tenderness is not weakness, trust is not a failure of courage. In a world that often seems to reward power and might, the Incarnation is God’s bold decision to be gently present with us. That baby in the manger is God saying, “I am here.”

And when the angels appear, they do not appear to the powerful. They do not appear to the people who can afford the VIP seats. They appear to shepherds who smell like sheep. Who work the night shift. Who live on the margins.

And that is where the good news travels first. The angel says, “I bring you good news of great joy for all the people.” Not for winners only. Not for those with tidy lives. But for all people. For everyone.

Joy is often a word that seems to fail us. It feels as if it can be misused—like a bandage slapped over a deep wound. “Cheer up.” “Don’t feel sad.” “Be grateful.” But divine joy is not denial. It does not pretend the shadows are not real. Divine joy translates into stubborn hope.

Hope is what happens when love shows up right in the middle of things as they are—not as we wish they were. Hope is what happens when God refuses to abandon the world, refuses to leave us. Hope is what happens when the innkeeper creatively finds room for Mary and Joseph, when the shepherds bravely answer the call, when we, ourselves, are that innkeeper and those shepherds.

“The glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.” Who wouldn’t be? Hope offered in the night of our lives can be terrifying. And once again, the angel’s response is not, “Get your act together!” The angel says simply: “Do not be afraid.”

This is the gift God offers at Christmas. To Mary and Joseph, to the Shepherds and to us. It is God saying, “I know the world you live in. I know what you carry. I know what you have survived. I am here.”

Christmas Eve is for the anxious, the grieving, the exhausted, the people who are doing their best and still feel as if it is not enough. Christmas is freely given. We don’t fix ourselves to become acceptable.

Whatever you carry—joy or grief, faith or questions—bring it to the manger. There is room there, and here, among people who are also trying to do their best. For what the gospel teaches us again and again is that many people doing their best is all that is needed to change the world. In the manger, we are freed to try to do the good that heals the world.

Which is why Christmas is not only comforting. It is revolutionary. Because when God is born among the poor, the displaced, the overlooked, God is making a claim about where holiness lives and who matters. God is saying that nobody is beyond concern, no one’s need is invisible. Whatever you carry—joy or grief, faith or questions - bring it to the manger. There is room.

And if that is true, Christmas cannot stay inside these walls. It spills out. It becomes how we treat our neighbors. How we speak to and about people different from us. How we vote, how we give, how we welcome, how we work to change systems that still leave “no room.”

Remember, the angels do not say, “Good luck down there.”

They sing, “Peace on earth.” And they bring to us both promise and challenge.

In a few moments, we will light a single flame, and it will pass from person to person until the whole sanctuary glows. Such a small thing—a shared flame. And yet it is the whole Gospel in miniature: one light given, another received, neither diminished, growing into a collective fire.

This is Christmas, with all its tenderness, hope and courage: individual flames held by people doing their best, sparked by the gospel, shared yet never diminished, growing beyond our imagination.

May we all carry that flame with us, home tonight, and always.

Merry Christmas. Amen

Dec 21 ~ On the Threshold of Fear, Faith is Freedom / 4th Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 7:10-16

Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19

Romans 1:1-7

Matthew 1:18-25

Sermon by Pastor Joel

Recently we have been hearing the kind of headline that makes your stomach drop. Reports out of Sydney have described a deadly attack at a public Chanukah celebration at Bondi Beach—an evening that began with families gathering for light and song but ended in terror. And then, almost as moving as the tragedy itself, were the responses closer to home: rabbis and communities in Canada saying, in effect, we will keep gathering; we will keep lighting candles; we will not give in to fear—choosing light over darkness, even while grieving. 

We all know this kind of fear. Maybe not from that exact event, and maybe not from violence at our own doorstep, but we know the fear of being confronted by the unknown—of realizing how quickly “normal” can fracture. To be human is to learn to live with uncertainty. 

No one could know this kind of fear better than the woman behind today’s gospel. Mary’s situation could not be worse. In her world, she lives under layers of vulnerability and powerlessness. And now she is pregnant. And not only pregnant, but pregnant in a way that will invite suspicion, shame, and danger.

On top of all of this, she is confronted with news that will change everything. Not only does she have to tell Joseph that she is pregnant—knowing very well that he knows he is not the father—but she also has to speak words that sound impossible: that she was “found with child from the Holy Spirit.” Not an easy thing to say. Not an easy thing to hear. And it will no doubt change the direction of her life.

Joseph’s response is crucial. He could have reacted severely to Mary’s apparent unfaithfulness -- a reaction that could have led to her ruin. According to the law and the customs of the time, Joseph had the right to divorce her, and Mary could have faced public punishment and even death.

So here they are: two people caught in a moment of uncertainty. And anxiety. One that requires a time-sensitive response. Joseph likely ready to dismiss Mary quietly, Mary trapped by circumstances she cannot control. Both worried about the shame of public disgrace. Both struck by anxiety over a radical change in their lives. Both facing the uncertainty of standing on the threshold of a new life.

And then something amazing happens. God breaks into the situation and says: “Do not be afraid.” It is revealed to Joseph -- and even more profoundly in Luke’s telling, to Mary -- that God is with them.

This is the hinge point of our gospel lesson today. It is not about the mechanics of how it happened, or the arguments that try to pin down the mystery. The focal point is faith—and what faith does to a life on the edge of fear. Into this situation comes good news: that God has broken into our world, and the message is no longer one of fear, but of rejoicing.

In a sermon Martin Luther wrote on this text, he said that the three wonders of Christmas are that God became human, a virgin gave birth, and Mary believed—and that the greatest of these is that Mary believed. Mary and Joseph stood on the threshold of fear and change, and they were freed by faith.

People throughout the story of our faith -- from Abraham in Genesis to the shepherds in Luke, to John in Revelation -- were confronted by fear. And to each of them God’s response was the same: do not be afraid. As soon as they sensed that God accepted them and loved them, their fear subsided. God had given them freedom.

And that story isn’t over. It continues in each one of us. God seeks to give us the same freedom. We, too, stand on the threshold of new things—in our lives and in our world. We want to believe that our story—the story of a creator God, a loving and forgiving and redeeming God, a sanctifying and nurturing God—can still speak through each one of us. Even -- and especially -- in times of uncertainty.

When we sing in our sending hymn for today, “O come, O Wisdom from on high, embracing all things far and nigh: in strength and beauty come and stay; teach us your will and guide our way,” we are announcing our belief that God’s story in Jesus still has meaning and relevance and purpose.

And that is why those words from the news this past week landed so heavily: people who had every reason to retreat, to hide, to cancel, to go silent -- choosing instead to gather, to light candles, to sing, to say: we will not be ruled by terror; we will choose light. 

Because here is the truth: standing on the threshold of fear, we always have choices. We can meet fear with fear—tighten our fists, harden our hearts, close our doors, narrow our compassion. Or we can meet fear with faith—not naive faith that pretends nothing hurts, but courageous faith that refuses to let the worst moment define the next moment.

That kind of response does not come from binge-watching crime shows or doom-scrolling headlines. It comes from people like Mary and Joseph. It comes from the meaningful and relevant story of our faith—this persistent, stubborn message that, when we are most afraid, God speaks the words we most need: “Do not be afraid.”

We are gathered here today to tell and to hear a story—the story of God breaking into human history and into human lives. By coming together, we are saying that this story gives meaning to our lives and has purpose for our present and our future. We are saying that this story needs to be shared with others. We tell it in song, in laughter, in tears, in words and in actions.

For us today, it is told in the promise wrapped inside this gospel: Emmanuel—God with us. God with us in fear. God with us in uncertainty. God with us in shame and danger and disruption. God with us when the world shakes. God with us when we are tempted to retreat. God with us—calling us not to be afraid of the barriers and impediments to participating in the reign of God. God with us—calling us to do miracles of courage and love.

Is not our life of faith itself a miracle—a sign of what is yet to come? As we live in God’s grace, in openness to God’s forgiveness and love, we become a sign for others. Is not our living—no matter how small it may seem—part of the network of communication God is spreading across the face of the earth? That we should live by grace. That we should show love. That we should come with the words “fear not” to lives closed in on themselves, barricaded by fear and anxiety, trapped by anger and doubt.

In the Bible, the message “Fear not” is heard over 600 times—more than enough for each day of the year. Enough for each day we wake up to headlines that unsettle us. Enough for each day we stand on the threshold of change.

Do not be afraid. Rejoice in the gift God gives us this Advent: not the promise that nothing will ever go wrong, but the deeper promise that God will not leave us alone when it does. 

Amen