It is late at night, and it is dark outside, and it is raining. The feeble glow from my porchlights seems powerless to hold back the pressing gloom. A coyote wails somewhere in the distance. Winter is coming, and the night grows darker still.
The season of Advent is almost here. Last week, we gathered the family and put up a few holiday decorations in an act of self-care, indulging ourselves with warm turkey stew, eggnog, and a lot of Chex mix. Bing Crosby must approve because I hear his voice singing from across the house, proclaiming that it looks a lot like Christmas. Or it is beginning to, anyway.
I am thinking about the busy days ahead and, in preparation for December’s sermons and services, I return to the ancient stories about the birth of Jesus. They are familiar: shepherds watching their flocks by night, angels singing o’er the plain, wise men arriving from the East, a young and very pregnant couple desperate for lodging, and a newborn baby laid in a manger.
We know these stories well, but they read differently this year. Beneath the glitz of tinsel and synchronized LED lights, beyond the sanitized cuteness of pageants and manger scenes, tonight the Christmas story reads less like a children’s bedtime tale and more like a protest anthem. There is nothing particularly peaceful on these pages.
The plot of the Christmas story is one of revolution. The protagonists include an octogenarian named Zecheriah, Mary, the unwed teen mother, working-class shepherds, and visitors from foreign lands. Mary sings of the downfall of rulers, the elevation of the poor, the hungry being fed, and the rich walking away empty-handed.
It is the language of resistance.
Reading on in the depths of this night, I am struck again by the juxtaposition of the baby Jesus and tyrant King Herod. Such an innocent, helpless child born in a forgotten town, yet news of his arrival strikes dread in the heart of the imperial palace. The armies of the world are powerless to stop the movement coming to life in a manger in Bethlehem.
Who would have thought it? The imperial and religious systems, complicit in their lust for power and control, stride boldly through their kingdoms in arrogant pride. Foolishly, they think they are secure, but far from the halls of power a song of protest is stirring. Who would have thought their destruction would come at the hands of a pregnant teenager, a few shepherds, and foreigners following a star?
The pages turn and the protest anthem grows. The baby becomes a man who gathers a ragtag group of outsiders and outcasts, preaching a revolution of compassion and love. The poor will hear good news, and the oppressed will go free. He becomes a thorn in the flesh of the elite and a bother to the smug and comfortable. The light of Bethlehem will spark a movement that will change the world.
In this, I find some hope. The night is dark outside, but it has been dark before. Throughout history, tyrants and despots have risen and fallen but the spark of love has not yet been extinguished. As the flicker of flame in my fireplace casts light and warmth into the room, so does this divine light remind me that there is still goodness all around.
Perhaps the best part of this Christmas story is that it is about regular folk like you and me. Shepherds and young parents, fishermen and civil servants, carpenters and grandmothers took up the song of love and lived it, spreading the word that light was turning back the night. Up against empire came a ragged group of outcasts and outsiders who chose love, service, sacrifice and hope. Their protest led not to angry insurrection but to open arms of compassion to those who suffered the oppression of injustice in the land.
Sitting at my desk, I notice that night has given way to a foggy, rainy morning. I do not know what today holds, but I have reason for hope. It is time to pour some coffee, put on my warmest coat, and head into the day. There is much work to be done.
Award-winning columnist Dan Whitmarsh is a licensed therapist and pastor at Lakebay Community Church.
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