Sermon : No Better Place

 2025-05
Sermon preached at Church of the Good Shepherd, Federal Way, WA
www.goodshepherdfw.org
by the Rev. Josh Hosler, Rector
Christmas Eve, December 24, 2024
Isaiah 9:2-7 ; Titus 2:11-14 ; Luke 2:1-14-20 ; Psalm 96

On December 13, 1985, my cat Eowyn died of cancer. She was only five years old. And while my family had three other cats and a dog, Eowyn was my cat, and I was her human. As Eowyn was dying, my family was busily packing for a cross-country move that would take place the next month. It was the middle of my eighth-grade year.

I cried a lot in those days. My dad bought me a poster of the famous “Footprints” poem, which was new to me, and after the move I put it up my bedroom. And someone from church gave me a photocopy of a treacly poem called “Four Feet in Heaven.” I treasured that gift. I needed all the comfort I could get. I needed the ressurance that Eowyn’s five years on this earth were not merely a waste.

For even at that age, I remember making the agonized observation, through my tears, that “Eowyn was too good for this world.” I couldn’t fathom that a creature as beautiful as my cat could be allowed to suffer and die as she did. Where was God? Somewhere else? Somewhere far away from Eowyn’s suffering and my own? Was Eowyn in a better place now? Then why was she ever here to begin with?

I was 13 when Eowyn died. I’m 52 now. Has anything changed? Adulthood has only starkened for me the contrast between innocent life and brutal suffering. Apparently this is the way the world is. Genocide in Gaza. Brutality in Nigeria. Hopelessness in Ukraine. Authoritarianism in America: our livelihoods are now at the mercy of the tweets of billionaires. And in every place on earth, babies continue to be born: unsullied, helpless, crying out for love and warmth and comfort and milk. But they won’t all receive what they need.
 

The people who walked in darkness

have seen a great light;

those who lived in a land of deep darkness—
on them light has shined.

Has it really? How could we possibly tell? Shouldn’t there be evidence of this?

For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all.

Salvation from what? Certainly not from confusion, violence, hopelessness … these things are still with us. Everywhere we look. Or is this salvation reserved for our future? Maybe only after we die? That’s easy to imagine, but then, why are we living now? Could we possibly be given a piece of that salvation on this very night? A great light in the darkness?

What if divine salvation actually showed up in history?

Here’s some history for you—history also attested by other ancient sources. In the year 6 C.E., the governor of Roman Syria, Quirinius, took a census. It wasn’t actually taken during the time of Herod the Great, because Herod died ten years earlier, and his son Herod Archelaus was deposed by … Quirinius, who then held this census.

Anyway, Jews living in Judea at the time had strong opinions about census-taking because of their interpretation of certain passages of Torah—and because it would mean dealing in Roman coins that bore the image of Caesar Augustus. They saw this as idolatry. So a Jewish liberation group called the Zealots revolted. They were defeated, of course—then, and every time after.

Doubtless this episode was on the mind of the writer of the Gospel of Luke when he wrote about the birth of Jesus. He wrote a couple generations later, after the revolt that brought on the destruction of all Jerusalem. He didn’t get his dates and rulers correct, but we must forgive him for living in an era without Wikipedia or even school textbooks. The important thing is that Luke wrote about the coming of salvation into history—a different kind of revolt than the ones that kept failing.

When salvation finally comes to the world, what should it look like? A mighty general on a war horse? A charismatic politician blaming some group of “others” for your pain and promising to punish them on your behalf? Is that what salvation looks like?

How about acts of violence against the wealthy and powerful? Will that heal our society’s wounds? What if a group rises up in revolt? Do you hear the people sing? Will you join in their crusade? How has that gone in the past?

You have multiplied the nation,
you have increased its joy;
they rejoice before you
as with joy at the harvest,
as people exult when dividing plunder.

You know how it is, right? The joy among the people when dividing plunder? Oh, you don’t? Well, neither do I.

But the people of Syria do—today! What happens when the people do manage to overthrow the dictator? Will you help them build a new nation? Whose rules will it operate under? How will you make sure they’re the rules that you and your people agree with? What happens when that doesn’t work out?

For all the boots of the tramping warriors
and all the garments rolled in blood
shall be burned as fuel for the fire.

Such violent imagery, mingled with patriotism and hope! Such glorious imaginings! But … is this what divine justice looks like? Winning a war—even a so-called “just war”? Where is divine mercy? Are we listening beyond our fears? What would it take to bring us into alignment with God’s wishes for our world? Perhaps Luke wondered this as he wrote.

A census causes chaos, and then, into the midst of this chaos, we hear the first humble cry of a newborn infant. Where? In Bethlehem, the city King David came from. Wait, what? Dig that symbolism! Where else would salvation come from? Is this our new king? Will he be the one to lead us into long-overdue revenge against our enemies?

“And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.”

All the beds are taken—no room for a baby. No room, no room. But babies are tiny. Anyone have a pack-n-play? No room, no room. How about a dresser drawer? No room, no room. How about a plastic bin? No room, no room.

OK, then … how about a feeding trough? The hay is warm, but we’ll wrap him up tightly to help him sleep.

The animals gather around, and here you can see the cartoon I’ve printed in your service leaflet, drawn by my own child Sarah several years ago. “Seems like they coulda found a better place.”

What if the baby is too good for this place? What then?

Then and now, harmless innocence is enclosed on all sides by cruelty. If we were reading Matthew’s gospel tonight instead of Luke’s, we’d immediately read of a plot against this baby’s life—and while this baby escapes, many others do not. King Herod (we imagine, were he still alive), might well act like the Egyptian Pharaoh of days twice as ancient. Wouldn’t he?

How many kings do you know who willingly surrender their power to someone else? Yet this baby will do exactly that. And that’s how we’ll finally know he’s for real.

But we’re in Luke’s gospel, so we’ll save Matthew’s story for another day. We’ll let the Magi from the East come straggling into town on the twelfth day of Christmas. We’re not there yet. Instead, we’re shifting outside of Bethlehem to the hills where shepherds are patiently—or maybe impatiently—waiting out the night.

What if something wondrous happened—something that convinced these rough, smelly men to leave 99 sheep on the hillside unprotected and come searching for … for what? A lamb? A lost divine lamb who has somehow stumbled into humanity, right into the animals’ breakfast?

Who among us would put our baby in a feedbox? Well, what if there was no better place? Refugee children sleep in tents and cells and cages, and while governments may be indifferent, their parents love them no less for it.

What if the baby is too good for this world? What could this mean?

Could it mean that there is no better place? That merely to exist, for any amount of time, is to reveal something truly wondrous to the world? That helpless innocence is indeed our original state, to which we must someday return? Could it be that even the mighty and murderous will be humbled and sing of God’s love, along with everyone who ever existed?

Could it be that God now sings of our love, because one night in Bethlehem two thousand years ago, God came into the world, and his parents fed him and kept him warm?

My cat Eowyn lived for five years and then died. Her suffering was not unique—but there’s never been another cat like her, and there never will be again. She was—she is—a glorious part of God’s world. And I’m sure that some of you are truly suffering tonight—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I don’t have all the answers.

The church doesn’t have all the answers. But we do have a bunch of stories—not just this one. Stories for every occasion and every hurt. We’ll keep telling these stories week by week, and all of us can gather around their warmth and listen and learn how to love like Jesus loves.

What better place could there be for God than the humility of the world God created? And what better place could there be for you tonight than the places these stories are told? For without stories, we would be merely sheep and donkeys and cows, nosing into a trough so we could fill our bellies and live another day. We wouldn’t think about what’s coming. We would be merely innocent belovedness.

But we are humans. And that means we lose our innocence. We remember the past somewhat and predict the future rather badly. We can never quite kick this feeling that we don’t fully belong in the only world we have ever known. As if there might be a better place.

But what if this is the Good Place? What if it has been made good by the one who has joined us in it?

I’m sure glad to be in this world with all of you tonight. I see here a great light shining on people who have walked in darkness. Open your eyes and see it. Open your ears and hear its stories. Open your hearts and give yourselves to one another with joy.

Hallelujah!

Merry Christmas!