Sermon: A Holy Christmas in Prison

Sermon. Christmas Day. A prison. 

This text was only loosely kept to. 

Luke 2.1-14

Thinking of the year now ending, we’ve had a lot of news! A lot of politics (about which I propose to say not one more word). And a lot of international news. This reminds us that, in this year as in all the years of our lives (however old we are), the world is only too full of wars, and violence, and terror, and militarism, of people being bombed out of their homes, pushed out of their homes, and of parents mourning their children, and of other needs and pains to many to number. Lord, have mercy!

However much news there is in the news, another news item always pops up around this time. Some journalist discovers – or pretends to discover – that the story of the birth of Jesus as we think of it isn’t actually what the Bible says, and isn’t actually what really happened. I think you know the sort of thing:

·       The Bible doesn’t say it was winter, let alone the 25^th day of December.

·       There weren’t three kings: they were more astrologers than kings, and no number is given.

·       There’s no mention of a stable. A manger – a feeding trough – yes, but not a stable.

All of these things are true. And – about the stable - there is another ancient tradition – an Orthodox tradition – which says that Jesus was born in a cave. (It was and is natural to feed animals in the many caves in the hills around Bethlehem.) And others say that animals were regularly kept in the back part of the house. So the story of the birth of Jesus is about how it wasn’t in the best room but round the back, where the animals might be.

Does it matter? I suggest it does not matter. The point is surely what the text as we have heard is says: “there was no place” for him. Jesus, Gd with us, comes into the world, and finds there is no place, no room for him. There is no comfort. There’s no cot. There is no grand and planned welcome. It happens away from people’s attention and care.

Bluntly, my brothers, it can be good for us to hear this on Christmas Day. It is scarcely a secret – but let me name it – that we are (you are) in prison. You are away from the centre of attention and are. You are away from your families, friends, loved ones. You may feel there is no place for you. This may be a painful day for you. Again, you don’t need me to tell you this. I am not so much telling you as naming it, as a real and raw possibility.

But if what I am saying is right, we can even say this: you may be closer to the true Christmas story than those who are living it up, right now, than those who feel they have loads of room, and have their own place, that Christmas can take place for them on a grand scale. You are – you truly are - closer to the Christ-child, who came from highest bliss, down to such a world as this. It’s not for me to say whether you can have a merry Christmas. But I can solemnly promise you this: if you fully take this to heart, you can have a holy Christmas.

The one who came to us  – to be with us. To be with you. To be with human beings throughout space and time, yes. But also (so the Church has always taught) to be with you, you quite concretely, you quite personally, you.

I once heard a story of a young child who ran into his grandfather’s room in tears. He was inconsolable, tears and almost screams. “What is it?” Asked the old man. The child manages to say: “We were playing hide and seek, and no one came to look for me.” The grandfather too cried, in sympathy. That is it. He thought. That is the root-fear of all of us. That no one will come to find us. That we won’t be findable. That we won’t be worth finding.

But the promise of Christmas is that you are worth finding, you are findable and Gd Gdself, in Gd’s own Son, Gd made flesh, made human, made like you, is coming to find you. Gd will do what it takes – all that it takes – to find you. To find you, and enjoy your company.

I wish you a holy Christmas, and may you find that you have been found by Christ, born today.

Amen.