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