Didn’t you just love the candlelit portion of our Christmas Eve worship? It’s so beautiful, what with all the candles glowing in the darkened sanctuary, and the people softly singing, and the church all decorated with the tree shining brightly up front. The luminous pools of candle light lighting up faces ardently worshiping the Word made flesh. It’s other-worldly. It’s as if we enter another world, an alternate reality, at that moment, so peaceful and serene—yet at the same time, so joyful and boisterous. It is very moving to me. Christ the Savior is born!
Something happened to me this past Christmas Eve, however. Sort of a revelation—a moment of clarity, or perhaps what may be better described as a moment of complexity. Because in this moment, I realized that, for all the beauty and peacefulness it includes, the birth of Jesus is also a moment that reveals the ugliness and violent nature of our world. Not that the world is all bad and going to hell in a hand basket. But that a certain “fallen-ness,” a certain “not-right-ness” does exist, and furthermore, it coexists with the good in a way that is almost impossible to explain, and equally as difficult to accept. And that this is at least a good chunk of the reason Jesus was sent to us. But let me tell you what happened to me Christmas Eve.
It really wasn’t anything miraculous, or spectacular, or even highly spiritual—at least not while it was happening—looking back on it I can read the hand of the Spirit into it, though. After all the candles were lit, and you all were singing Silent Night, I sat down in my place and began singing too. [Let’s set the tone for my story by humming Silent Night in the background.]
Like I said, I was sitting down, singing along with you, contemplating the mystery of the incarnation, and staring into the flame of my candle. And as I looked into that flame, the rest of the world kind of fell away. All my worries, all my concerns, all my regrets and shame—they all melted in the glow of that tiny fire, and ran away, leaving me feeling peaceful and happy. Full of the Christmas spirit. Peace on earth, goodwill to all, and to all a good night! Just staring at the flame. The flickering flame.
Then the singing came to its conclusion, and I took my place at the altar to lead the “Litany of Light,” which was based on a text from the prophet Isaiah. But as I looked down at the writing on the page, there was this candle-flame-sized blot on my vision—kind of like when someone takes a flash photo of you how you get a blind spot? I couldn’t see what I was supposed to say—it was as if my eyes were still stuck in that moment of peaceful bliss I had experienced. It was lucky I wasn’t driving a car or doing something like brain surgery right then!
Eventually, my vision returned to normal and I was able to finish out the service. And that uncomfortable but ultimately forgettable moment in time would normally have been relegated to the disposable memory pile, except that I got to thinking about it. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that there was something more to this tiny episode in my life—that being “blinded by the light” was actually meant to help me “see” something—something profound and deep. Only I could not for the life of me figure out what that might be.
Until I started to prepare for this week’s sermon by reading the appointed gospel. It is a story of unspeakable evil and violence and cruelty. It features lying and deceit, the killing of innocents, and the heart-rending anguish of mothers and fathers who have witnessed the death of a child. Juxtaposed as it is with the serenity of the stable and the shepherds and the babe, it’s almost as if it’s meant to repulse the listener—much as a gory part in a horror movie is designed to make you shut your eyes and stick your fingers in your ears.
Why, I wondered, is this story so casually tacked on to our lectionary right after Christmas? Couldn’t the powers that be who put such things together give us just one week of peace and good will, before clobbering us over the head with this gruesome story of infanticide? Coming so close on the heels of picture-perfect Christmastide, it seemed obscene!
Then it hit me, hard. Sitting by pondering the mystery of the incarnation, or reveling in the splendor of the Word made flesh are both fine things to do. For a while. But you shouldn’t gaze so intently and prolonged-ly at the lustrous nativity of our Lord that you become blinded by its light—blinded to the reason for that birth, both in our own lives or as a whole—congregation, nation, or world.
We can’t let the after image of that silent night block out our realization of the fact that there’s hunger out there, there’s homelessness out there, there’s disease and injury out there, there’s desperate longing for meaning out there, there’s people hurting other people out there, there’s crime out there, there’s war out there, there’s corruption, unbridled greed and the misuse of power out there, there is evil out there—out there, and, yes, there’s evil in here as well. In our hearts and in our souls. And if we are so caught up in the radiance of the Wonderful Counselor, Almighty God, Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace that we refuse to acknowledge that the titles “Suffering Servant” and “Crucified One” and “Man of Sorrows” also define the Messiah, then we are totally missing the whole point of the incarnation of our God in Jesus.
And what is the point? Matthew tells us right off in his birth narrative. The angel of the Lord comes to Joseph in a dream and tells him not to be afraid to take the pregnant Mary as his wife—that the child is from the Holy Spirit, and that he should name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins. Jesus’ very name defines his purpose—it means the Lord saves! And being a savior is tough, dirty, dangerous work.
From his very birth, Jesus is set in opposition to the powers that be. King Herod is thwarted by the magi, who return to their homelands without giving up the location of the new “King of the Jews.” So Herod, with cruel logic, sentences to death all boys two and under in and around
Fortunately for them—but what about those young boys? And their families? Couldn’t God have sent a dream to all the fathers of little boys and saved all of them? What did they do to deserve their fate? Other than being born at the wrong time in the wrong place? Well, nothing really—they are not guilty of any crime. The designation for the commemoration of their deaths even reflects this: their day, December 28th is called The Holy Innocents. Innocents.
Which is an interesting way to describe them. Because, as good Lutherans, we know what
And yet, in a very real way, they are innocent. Innocent by-standers. Collateral damage. In the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunate, unlucky, ill-fated. The victims of chaos and probability. The Holy Innocents are blameless when it comes to their situation.
And there are Holy Innocents all around us even today. The children of
We pray for such innocents each week here in church—if you look you will find them in the prayers of the people, and the names of those close to us you’ll find in the bulletin. And if you look deep into your hearts perhaps you will also find an innocent there. You. You, a child abused long ago. You, a man who has lost his soul mate. You, a parent who experienced their child ravaged by illness. You, entangled in a dangerous addiction. You, hiding at work from the brokenness of your marriage. Damaged souls. Broken bodies. Mangled minds.
Innocents. They’re there. But you’ll never see them if you’re blinded to their existence because you refuse to look away from the peace and glory of Christmas. You’ll not see their need, and you’ll not realize your own need. And even worse, you’ll miss the radical outpouring of grace that connects the light of Christ and the darkness of the world. And what is that connection?
You.
You are the connection between the promised peace of the new kingdom of God inaugurated in the birth of Jesus, and the reality of a world torn apart by sin and its consequences. You have been made whole and blameless by the cross of Christ. You have been comforted by the presence that saves. And you have been anointed in your baptism, and sent out with all the baptized as the body of Christ to nourish the hungry and heal the sick, to cast out the demons of prejudice and hatred, to advocate for and defend the marginalized, and to witness and proclaim the good news to those who have not heard it. With the breath of the Spirit upon you, you are the ones who bring the right time and the right place to the innocents, so that they might experience peace and grace even in situations that are evil and sinful. You bring it to them!
Many churches have the end-of-worship tradition of the acolyte relighting the candlelighter and after putting out the candles at the altar, and carrying that flame out of the sanctuary. Think about it. The flame symbolizes the presence of Christ in worship, so instead of ending with Christ “put out” until next week, he instead is carried out into the congregation, the community, and the world. To spread the light there.
That’s what I want you to do as believers—to carry the light of Christ to a world that needs it—even though it may react harshly to it. To return to the original metaphor—picture our candlelight service on Christmas Eve. But instead of sitting staring into the flame and hiding from reality in it, we first hold our candles high, so the world can see our Christ-light and be drawn to it. And then each of us peels off from the group, going out into the darkness to shine a healing light on the innocents we find there, to light their path to wholeness and well-being and peace. Reveling in the light, yes, but letting it bring us to new life in Christ, and lead us out to serve in the name of the one born on Christmas day!
And so as we hear at our service’s end: “Go in peace, your light has come! Thanks be to God. Amen
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