Some of my earliest Christmas memories—the ones that really stick with me—are from church. We spent a lot of time at church growing up, and nearly every year, from as early as I can remember, our small little congregation held a Christmas pageant. Back in those days we were a church without a home. That is to say, we were a church without a building of our own. Instead we met in the auditorium at the local Seniors’ centre. It was such a gift.
Throughout the weeks leading up to Christmas, after church and before the ladies in the kitchen would slip me a cup of pearl tea—tea doctored with a lot of milk and a LOT more sugar—we would rehearse. Oftentimes the residents would come and watch.
The play, as I recall, wasn’t all that long, but it covered the main points. The angel visited Mary with a plan. She said yes to God, to this frightening task, to giving birth to the chosen one, this Jesus, this one the prophets called wonderful counselor, mighty God, everlasting father, and prince of peace. The one who would set her people, this one who would set all of us free.
As with most Sunday School renderings of this journey, we shortened the distance a bit. Mary didn’t have to cover the 145km from Nazareth to Bethlehem, and thank God for that.
The main focal point of the play, as I remember, is the moment when Mary and Joseph find themselves, having knocked on too many doors, having been turned away by relative after relative, innkeeper after innkeeper, lost and uncertain, feet exhausted and swollen, ready to give up.
And that’s when they stumble on the last inn. That’s when they meet the one innkeeper who has no room, but taking compassion on the young couple—so far from home, so hopeless, so exhausted, so pregnant—shows them to the stable. This place isn't listed in the Lonely Planet guide they’ve been carrying with them, but they give it a go. Wouldn’t you know it, it’s a hidden gem that will get written up in the next edition.
And that’s kinda the moment the story stops.
The wise men do make their way into the story somehow, compressing time and space, providing parts for some of the older kids to play. I didn’t notice that then, but that wasn’t the point. The point was then—as it is now—how God does the unimaginable to show up, to slow things down, to make sure we know that we are beloved—even in the most harrowing circumstances. And harrowing they must have been. In the shadow of oppression and war, in the shadow of famine and poverty and destruction, our Saviour is born.
As I remember it, I never got to take on any of the leading roles. Never Mary. Never Joseph. Never Jesus. I do remember dressing as a donkey though. I mentioned this to my mom this past week, and she’s pretty sure I was a shepherd, maybe a wise man one year too. As for me, I just remember the feeling of crawling around with floppy ears on my head, thinking this was pretty great. A lot less nerve wracking than a speaking part.
Thinking back on those days, it’s amazing what I do remember, even if it’s not all perfect. Each year we rehearsed the story of Jesus and his beleaguered parents overwhelmed by the journey. Their accommodations are less than ideal, but when Jesus is born, he has a lovely view of the stars.
What I never really noticed along the way is that there is no midwife in sight. No family member present. What I didn’t notice until much later was that they were returning to Joseph’s home town, and that not a single relative takes them in. They’ve come home, and there’s no place for them. Not even a third cousin to take them in. Was the rest of their family displaced? Are they ashamed of these teenaged lovers?
We may never know, but we do know this: Mary and Joseph are very much on their own without the kind of support they need. Who brought the clean water and towels? Who brought the swaddling clothes? Presumably it’s the innkeeper’s family that steps into this role. And here we have the first Christmas, a bit of a flop, really—a bunch of strangers working together to welcome this new life, this divine life, into the world.
At the birth of Jesus, the one whom we celebrate today, the one who is born to set humanity—to set all of Creation free—there is a whole menagerie of people (and animals) gathered there, but none that you might expect.
Perhaps we’ve heard the story so many times that we’ve come to take as obvious the appearance of the angels singing to the shepherds. We’ve come to expect that the shepherds find their way to Bethlehem. But how odd would it have been for the shepherds, for the innkeeper’s family, for Mary and Joseph, for Jesus himself, to have this ragtag group, these people, bearing witness to the birth of God With Us.
It’s an unlikely cast of characters. And yet here they all are, taking it all in, each one with their own backstories. Each one with their own joys and challenges.
Just like us. Just like you and just like me. Each of us with our own backstories. Each of us with our own joys and challenges. Our beliefs and our doubts. The places our minds are wandering in this moment. The people we’re worried about. The losses we’ve faced. Everything we’re striving for, our hopes and our dreams, and all of those prayers we’ve prayed to God, our prayers lifted to the skies.
And yet here we are together, witnesses to the greatest story ever told, the story of the God who loves the entire cosmos so much, that the infinite comes to be born amongst the finite. The transcendent God of Creation enters vulnerably into time and space, to live and love and suffer and embody peace and hope. Here on earth. In the person of Jesus, God invites us to play a part in this unfolding story of divine self-giving love.
This last month, as a congregation, we’ve been writing our prayers on stars. Taking the time to reflect, to listen, and to name those people and situations that are on our hearts. And each week, we’ve added star after star to the sky. These prayers have been lighting our way towards Bethlehem. Stars lighting our way towards Jesus’ birth. Towards this moment.
Maybe it’s the images from the James Webb Space Telescope this year, those overwhelming images of stars and galaxies far away, but I’ve been thinking a lot about the stars. And how they—in some small way—have borne witness to all of these mysteries. The mystery of God born amongst us, in a small stable in a town far away, a mere two thousand years ago.
I’m sure the stars have a little chuckle every time we mention how long ago that feels.
From this vantage point, I look out on the vastness of space with awe. The vastness of the stars, the vastness of the multiverse, its immensity, and I stare in wonder, although glad for a warm home and a warm bed.
I recently read an interview with William Shatner, Captain Kirk from the original Star Trek, a show I grew up watching with my dad. In the interview, Shatner talks about his experience of actually travelling to space at 90 years of age, after decades of playing the role of a space captain.
Here’s what he says:
“I thought I would experience a deep connection with the immensity around us, a deep call for endless exploration. I was absolutely wrong. The strongest feeling that dominated everything else by far was the deepest grief that I had ever experienced.”
Shatner’s grief, of course, is for a planet facing unprecedented destruction. It’s for the species that are dying, the climate that is shifting, for the wars and ways in which we do harm to one another and to the planet. He looks out on the vast expanse of interstellar space, seeing only darkness. Aware of the current state of affairs on our planet, there’s a longing, a yearning for home. He goes on:
“I understood, in the clearest possible way, that we were living on a tiny oasis of life, surrounded by an immensity of death…I saw the deepest darkness I could have ever imagined, contrasting so starkly with the welcoming warmth of our nurturing home planet.”
Back on this tiny oasis of life, down in the stable, with a menagerie of people and animals gathered around, this unlikely cast welcomes this new life into their midst. Even as the baby lies there, eyes wandering from face to face, trying to gain focus, trying to make sense of all that he sees, all that he will see.
And in the distance, bright lights. Stars to light the way. Stars shining upon him. Shining for him. Shining for you. Shining for all of us. Stars that remind us of the immensity of the universe, the vast expanse beyond. Stars that rest over a stable, stars that will lead the magi towards Jesus. Stars that, from the comfort of earth, point the way home.
And this moment. This sacred, holy moment, is a love song from the Creator. That in the midst of all that is happening in the world. In the midst of all that is happening in the universe, God chooses not to be hidden in the vast darkness beyond, but to make home amongst us, on this tiny oasis of life.
God shows up. God always shows up. And we are witnesses to these things. We are witnesses. As are the stars. And the angels. And the innkeeper. And the shepherds, the sheep, and even the donkeys.
And here’s the thing that I’m learning. There are no bit parts, there are no extras in the drama of God’s unfolding story. We may be shepherds or wise women. We may be parents or children. We may be sheep, or donkeys or ninety-year olds who’ve seen a thing or two.
Whoever we are, we all have a part to play. And that’s the invitation tonight. Like the shepherds, the invitation is to bear witness to what we have seen. Like Captain Kirk, we may boldly go, but when we return from all that we have seen, the invitation is to make known how precious life on this little oasis happens to be. Returning to our communities, our relationships, our lives, making known all that we have seen and experienced.
So may we, having encountered the Christ child, praise God for all we have seen, all we have heard, all we have experienced, may we join in the care of one another and this tiny oasis—our communities and this fragile earth—knowing that we don’t travel this road alone.
For indeed, as it is written in our scriptures, as it is written in our hearts, as it is written in the stars.
God is with us.
