Every summer, we hold a film series at Hickory Neck.  This summer, one of the films was movie called Children of Men.  The film is a dystopian film situated in London about a time in the future when the world has become infertile.  The youngest human, aged 18 has just died, schools and playgrounds are abandoned, a pall of grief and depression hangs in the air, and the world has become violent, unpredictable, harsh – with massive detainment camps of refugees and rebels fighting the government militia and civilians alike.  Into this setting, we meet Theo, a man who has lost hope and purpose, and we meet a young woman of color who would normally be in one of those detainment camps, who is secretly carrying the first pregnancy in over 18 years.  Theo’s world is thrown into chaos as he tries to get the young mother to safety so that the child will be able to live freely. 

In a powerful scene near the end of the movie, the mother has birthed her child in a dingy, rat-infested, crumbling room, and Theo needs to get her and the child to the safe haven.  But the crumbling building is overrun with rebels and a battle ensues as the military shows up.  In the din of violence and noise, the baby cries out, and all activity ceases.  Rebels hold their fire as they watch in reverence as the baby is carried down the stairs of the building.  The soldiers outside call for a ceasefire as the high-pitched cries they have not heard in almost 20 years fill the air.  Rebels, civilians, and soldiers alike stand in awe, many reaching out just to touch the baby and mother.  The awed silence is so palpable that even movie watchers hold their breath at this miracle.

I imagine that night from our gospel lesson was a bit like that breath-holding moment in Children of Men.   We know that Mary and Joseph are going to be registered in Bethlehem, but what we can forget is that Mary and Joseph live in a time of occupation – where taxes are extorted, registrations can drive folks from their homes, where rebellion against the state leads to death.  The mass movement of people for the registration creates another layer of chaos, leaving people jockeying for shelter, especially a couple so close to birth, and whose pregnancy is of a dubious nature from the beginning.  Even in the peaceful countryside where shepherds are just doing their work, a chaos of shocking news, a chorus from angels, and the blinding light of the glory of the Lord is shining in their normally darkened pastoral setting. 

And then, just like in that battle scene in the film, the shepherds arrive where the holy family have made due, and a whispered conversation leads to a stillness that makes you hold your breath.  But this stillness is not just about the miracle of life – no this stillness is about so much more – about a savior, the Messiah, who has been promised for generations who finally is here; about a promised peace in a world that has no peace; about promises for justice that Mary has sung about with her cousin Elizabeth, and now seems to be a reality.  Mary is so overwhelmed by the enormity of the moment that all she can do is ponder the words of the shepherds in her heart.

What is so unsettling about the parallels in this secular, dystopian film and the ancient biblical story is not just their similarities.  What is most unsettling is their similarities to our own time.  Our political landscape is just as unstable, conflicted, and threatening.  Our economic, mental, and physical health is just as unsteady.  And for some of us, our home life is a place of even more strain.  In so many ways, having ourselves a merry little Christmas feels like a stretch.  In fact, the very reason we may be here tonight – besides a family member telling us we had to come – is that we long for that moment of awe – that quiet, tremendous, encouraging peace that can only be found at the site of the Christ Child.  We want a word, or a song, or a meal shared that will leave us something to treasure and ponder in our hearts too.

That is what Christmas does.  Coming here tonight is not going to solve all our problems or the world’s problems.  In that movie, as soon as the child is out of sight, bombs and gunfire ramp up dangerously again.  At that manger scene, Herod’s paranoid tyranny means Mary, Joseph, and Jesus will have to flee to Egypt for safety.  And come January, we will have a transition in power in our own country.  But tonight, in this sacred space, we enter into a time of unfiltered joy.  We recall what matters most – the Savior born in a manger whose eventual salvation will give us meaning and purpose.  We lean into those gathered with us tonight – those who are family and friends, those who are fellow church members, and even those whose names we do not know – we lean into one another in this safe space of sanctuary, where none of the darkness outside can touch us – even if only for an hour.  We lay down any burdens on our hearts at the altar as we share a holy meal, fortifying ourselves for what comes next.  And we glorify and praise God, like shepherds who have seen a great light, and whispered holy truths. 

Now unfortunately, that tremendous gift, that sacred life-giving balm, is not without a price.  The price, is that we must leave this place, enter back into the dark of night, and carry on with life back out in the world.  Our invitation is to carry whatever light, whatever hope, whatever small sliver of praise and glory we find this night, and gift it to someone else.  To be like Theo, who refuses to allow the glory of a mother’s child to suffer; to be like shepherds, who share the good news of a Messiah; to be like your neighbor in the chair (pew) beside you, who is already thinking of someone who needs the gift of hope and healing who cannot be here tonight, but whom your neighbor will be sure to gift some of that love and peace to tomorrow.  Christmas is the Church’s gift to you this night.  You are Jesus’s gift to someone else tomorrow.  Amen.