I preached this sermon at the 2023 Christmas Eve services at St. Anne Episcopal Church in West Chester, OH. The lectionary text cited is Luke 2:1-20.
All of us probably have a story or two about a Christmas gift that we received that wasn’t quite what we were hoping for. Something in the wrong size or style, maybe, or some odd item that we don’t know quite what to do with. It’s bound to happen at some point, of course, because we are all just people doing our best to know and to provide for one another, and sometimes we miss the mark a bit. That’s life. It’s ok.
But 4-year old me did not understand this quite as well. 4 year old me, I must confess, had a very particular expectation of what a Christmas present should look like. And so it came to pass that, when I was in pre-school, I had to learn a tough lesson during our classroom gift exchange.
I was only 4, but I remember it vividly. Every student brought in one gift to give, and they were all placed in a circle around the Christmas tree. And then, sort of like musical chairs, we all got in a circle around the tree, too, and when the music started, we started marching around it, and when the music stopped, whichever present was in front of us was ours to open.
Well, the music started, and off we went, and I was eyeing all the various packages and boxes under the tree, getting more excited by the moment. And then the music stopped, and there in front of me was a big box, beautifully wrapped, big enough to be a board game or a whole set of toys. I thought, this is looking good for me!
And then, all of the sudden—immediately to my left, the kid next to me swooped forward and grabbed that big present and ran off with it. I can still feel the indignity of it! And all the other kids grabbed their presents and ran off, too, and before I knew what to say or do, there I was, alone at the tree with the gift that the little thief next to me didn’t want.
It was a very small little box, wrapped in some crumpled paper.
And I stood there and opened it up and it was a tiny little plastic bear, the kind you could stick onto the end of a pencil.
I was FURIOUS. I will admit to you now that I stood there in my Christmas sweater and I cried sad, angry tears, and I refused to be consoled. Whatever had been in that big box was supposed to be MINE and now all I had was this stupid little plastic bear. My parents tried to tell me something about gratitude, but I wasn’t having any of that! I didn’t get it. Not then. Not yet. All I knew is that I thought I was going to get something big and shiny and instead I had this tiny, unimpressive little thing in my hands.
…
I think a lot of life is like that little plastic bear. We carry with us so many big hopes and expectations of what will be, what ought to be, what WE ought to be, and then the music stops and we look in front of us and instead we are only given what is, and we are who we are, and things might look a little dimmer and dingier and smaller than we imagined. Even Christmas, bright and lovely though it is, can feel like that, sometimes, depending on what we’re going through, what the year has brought (or taken) from us.
And when that happens—when plans fall apart, when we lose what is precious, when the world turns out to be a messy and complicated place where joy is sometimes snatched out from under us—well, maybe we all shed a few sad, angry tears in those moments, too. And that’s life. It’s ok.
But here’s the thing about Christmas, about the Christmas story, in particular—the one that we just heard retold a few minutes ago about the birth of a baby in Bethlehem, and the frightened shepherds in the field and the new mother pondering this strange, small gift she now cradles in her arms—here’s the thing about all of it:
It is good news for us precisely because it is unimpressive. Surprising, unexpected, even miraculous, yes, but on the surface, by all outward appearances, the nativity of Jesus is entirely unimpressive.
We forget this, too easily perhaps, because our traditions and our music and our associations with the holiday are all so beautiful and rich with meaning, as they should be, given that we know who Jesus turned out to be. But if we pay close attention to what is actually told in the narrative itself, the bare facts underneath the wrapping paper and ribbons, it’s a rather simple little story, that can be summed up like this:
A young, unwed mother gives birth in a tiny town of no great wealth or prominence. She is in crowded quarters because her fiance’s family is of modest means and so she has to place her newborn into a makeshift crib. A few ragtag men show up in the night telling a story about a strange vision they just had out in the fields. The family members, or whoever happens to be around, are surprised by this odd visit. Maybe they believe them; maybe they think the shepherds are off their rocker. We don’t really know. Then the shepherds leave. And that’s it.
The night is quiet, and the baby slumbers, and the world spins on.
No palaces, no proclamations from the king, no processions or parades or parties in the street, no big board games wrapped under the tree. From the perspective of any passerby in Bethlehem, the birth of Jesus is completely unimpressive. God is born and heaven unites itself with mortal flesh and the One who is mightier than any emperor is in our midst…and yet still the animals must be brought in from the cold and hungry mouths must be fed and everyone still goes to bed with backaches and unfinished to-do lists.
The coming of the Messiah is small: small like a child sleeping in the night, small like a little gift wrapped in crumpled paper, small like real life can be, all the average moments that are too easily overlooked in the quest for bigger brighter, more impressive things. And although the years go by with their ups and downs, and although sometimes we cry sad, angry tears and it’s hard to feel grateful for what we are left holding, still he comes in the night, still he waits for us look down and behold him. Still he invites us to appreciate the difference between grandeur and grace, and how those two things rarely resemble one another in this life.
This is the good news of Christmas: that God came into our midst in an unimpressive way because God works primarily through unimpressive, normal, struggling, imperfect people and places and things. Which means that, no matter who you are, no matter what you have done or not done, no matter who you love or how you have failed to love or how love has eluded you, no matter the doubts and the fears and the wounds you carry, no matter whether you are famous or forgotten, God still seeks to be born in you. God seeks to live and move and have his being in your ordinary, unimpressive, perfectly normal life.
And he is small enough, humble enough to fit wherever there is space. Wherever you can make a bit of room in your heart, he is content there—content to be the small, unexpected gift that will transform our understanding of everything if we will let him.
And if we do, then what we will see, as I could not on that Christmas long ago—clutching that tiny plastic bear—is that the things which will endure in our memories and in our hearts when all is said and done, the things that will teach us how God desires for us to live, how to be grateful and joyful no matter what, are the small, unimpressive things—the things that come wrapped in crumpled paper, the gifts we did not expect or perhaps even want, but through which God comes to us and abides with us and reveals the simplicity of his message: that love, though it be small and vulnerable, is the most powerful force on earth.
May tonight, and the humble story that we tell, and the humble lives that we have been given, come together as a sign to help us understand this love.
Because Christ is born on this holy night, unimpressively, with unimaginable grace, for you and for all. He has come to be with us, just as we are, whether you are laughing or crying, whether life has been a delight or a disappointment. He has come as the tiniest, most surprising and precious gift, waiting for you when the music stops, waiting for you to pick him up and behold the truth: that God is in the small things. That we will be saved by small things. That whenever you hold even the smallest bit of love in your hands and in your heart, you are holding him.
By Another Road 