December 24, 2025, Christmas Eve
On this holy night, we gather to hear again a story so familiar that it almost risks becoming tame. We know the words. We can picture the scene. The decree from the emperor, the journey to Bethlehem, the manger, the angels, the shepherds. We have heard it since childhood, sung it in carols, and seen it painted and performed so many times that it can feel gentle, quiet, and safely sentimental.
And yet, when we slow down and really listen, this story is anything but tame.
Luke begins the birth of Jesus not with shepherds or angels, but with empire. “In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered.” This is not a neutral detail. It is the sound of power asserting itself from the top down. Augustus does not know Mary’s name. He does not care that she is pregnant. He does not ask whether the roads are safe or the journey is too hard. His word simply goes forth, and people must move, comply, and bear the cost.
That tone feels familiar.
We know what it is like to live under decisions made far away, by people who will never meet those most affected by their choices. We know how power can become abusive, how systems can grind down the vulnerable, how the poor and the powerless are often the first to suffer when authority is exercised without compassion. The Christmas story begins not in a calm, candlelit stable, but in the shadow of an empire that counts people not because they are beloved, but because they are taxable.
Mary and Joseph travel because they have no choice. They are displaced by imperial decree. In that sense, the Holy Family are refugees before the child is even born—forced onto the road, vulnerable, exposed, hoping simply to survive the journey. When there is no room for them, it is not because Bethlehem is heartless, but because systems rarely make space for the poor. Those with means find shelter. Those without improvise.
And so, the Son of God is born not in a palace, not even in a proper home, but in a place meant for animals. The Word made flesh is laid in a feeding trough. This is not an accident. It is revelation.
God does not enter the world from above, but from below.
This child is born into a world already marked by fear. We know from Matthew’s Gospel that before long, this birth will provoke violence—brutal violence—when those in power, threatened by even the rumour of a rival, will prey upon the weakest and murder the innocent. That, too, feels hauntingly familiar. Even now, children suffer because of the fears and ambitions of adults. Even now, the innocent bear the cost of cruelty, war, and indifference. Even now, power is often defended with brutality.
And yet, Luke dares to tell this story as good news.
Not because the darkness is denied, but because it is met.
Into this night—this night of empire, displacement, fear, and fragility—God sends angels. Not to Caesar’s court. Not to the halls of power. But to shepherds, keeping watch over their flocks by night. Shepherds were not romantic figures in the first century. They were poor, marginal, often mistrusted. They lived on the edges, literally and socially.
And to them, of all people, the heavens open.
“Do not be afraid,” the angel says. Those words echo throughout Scripture, and they always come when fear is justified. “Do not be afraid, for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.” Not just for some. Not only for the respectable, the powerful, or the secure. For all the people.
“For to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”
Notice the language. Savior. Messiah. Lord. These are titles claimed by emperors. Augustus was called savior. He was hailed as lord. His reign was proclaimed as peace. And yet, here in a field outside Bethlehem, angels announce a very different kind of reign. A peace not enforced by legions, but embodied in a child. A lordship not rooted in domination, but in vulnerability. A savior not born into privilege, but into poverty.
This is where the hope of Christmas takes shape.
The angels sing, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors.” This is not a denial of conflict, but a promise that peace has entered the world in a new way. The Prince of Peace does not arrive by eliminating enemies, but by standing in solidarity with the least. From the very beginning, Jesus’ life reinforces God’s deep and abiding preference for the poor, the marginalized, the overlooked.
The shepherds go to see this thing that has taken place. And when they arrive, they find exactly what they were told: a baby, wrapped in bands of cloth, lying in a manger. Nothing impressive. Nothing powerful by worldly standards. And yet, they recognize that something has changed. They become the first witnesses, the first evangelists. They tell what they have seen and heard, and then they return to their fields, glorifying and praising God.
The world does not suddenly become safe. The empire does not collapse. The suffering does not instantly disappear. But hope has been born.
And that is the hope we gather around tonight.
Christmas does not promise us a life free from darkness. It promises us a God who enters it. A God who knows displacement, fear, and vulnerability from the inside. A God who refuses to abandon the world to cruelty and despair. In Jesus, God declares that no place is too poor, no life too marginal, no night too dark to be filled with divine presence.
For those who come to Christmas Eve carrying grief, exhaustion, or fear—this story is for you. For those who look at the state of the world and wonder where peace can possibly be found—this story is for you. For those who feel unseen, unheard, or pushed aside—this story is for you.
The child in the manger grows to become the one who blesses the poor, feeds the hungry, welcomes the outsider, heals the broken, and confronts abusive power with truth and love. His ministry will echo the message of this night again and again: God’s kingdom belongs to those the world forgets. God’s peace is not the absence of struggle, but the presence of justice, mercy, and love.
Tonight, we light candles in the darkness. Not because the darkness is gone, but because it has not won. The light shines, and the darkness cannot overcome it.
So let us, like the shepherds, go back into the world carrying this hope. Let us treasure these things in our hearts, like Mary, trusting that God is still at work in ways both hidden and profound. And let us dare to believe that the Prince of Peace, born in humility, is still bringing peace—real peace—into a wounded world.
For unto us is born this night a Savior.
And that is good news of great joy.