When our girls were very small, our favorite book was Goodnight Moon.  We read that book so many times, I could have recited the book to you from memory.  “In the great green room there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of – the cow jumping over the moon…”  I read to our girls to calm them for bedtime, but truth be told, the cadence of a familiar book calmed me too.  Reading Goodnight Moon for the hundredth time became like taking a deep, steadying breath.

The same thing happened to me this year as I heard tonight’s gospel.  “In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered…”  As I kept listening, I could feel my body physically relaxing, my breath slowing, and a sense of peace and comfort settling in me. 

In all honesty, the reaction is a bit strange.  Nothing about Luke’s birth narrative is all that soothing.  Governments are forcibly moving people, accommodations are extremely cramped, childbirth in such conditions is anything but luxurious, we are transported to far off fields with the smells and discomforts of tending animals, and angels are sharing wonderful, terrible news, and mysteries are being introduced that delight and terrify.

So why in the world did my body have such a viscerally peaceful reaction to these familiar words despite the discomforting story?  Because Christ’s birth happens in the middle of disruption, chaos, shame, and messiness is perhaps the reason why the story is so comforting.  Our lives have been full of disruption, chaos, shame, and messiness these last few years.  Whether it was the global upending of a pandemic, economic and political upheaval, the denigrating, objectifying, or persecuting of other humans, or something closer to home – like death, divorce, job loss, or even lost sense of purpose, there is something tremendously familiar and contemporary about this story.  Of course, the government is causing disruption and chaos.  Of course, Mary is laying her baby in a manger.  Of course, strange, dirty men are interrupting an exhausted family in the middle of the night.  “Of course!” is the exclamation we have all assumed of late.

The “Of course!” though is not why we are here and is certainly not why my body heaved a sigh of relief.  What causes that relief is the “And…” of our scripture.  And, God came among us in the form of a child.  And, angels came and sang stunning songs of reassurance, promise, and deliverance.  And, strangers became friends and praised and pondered this magnificent God.  We came here burdened with our “Of course!”s.  Maybe the cookies burned before you got here.  Maybe there were some tempter tantrums in the car – or before you even got in the car.  Maybe the storms are cancelling the plans of you or your loved ones. 

And, you are here, hearing a familiar, reassuring story.  And you are among others just like you – who long for peace, comfort, and joy.  And you will be fed at the Eucharistic table, a food more glorious than the best roast beast!  We are here for our “and…” tonight.  But not just for our own sense of peace – we are here for the “and…” that God gives us to take out into the world.  And, hearing the story of the Christ Child reminds us of our bountiful blessings.  And, singing familiar songs reminds us of what really matters in life.  And, having reconnected with a community of believers, we are given a chance to go back out into the world and be harbingers of peace, shepherds of joy, caregivers of love.  That is the gift of this familiar story tonight.  You will likely experience some “Of course!”s on the way home tonight or in the coming days.  But now you have your, “And…”.  Amen.