© 2022 Evan D. Garner
Audio of this sermon is available here. Video of the service can be seen here with the sermon beginning around 55:50.
Good news is hard to come by these days, isn’t it? Often, people in charge tell us that they have good news even though what they really mean is that they have news that is good for them. The boss tells us that profits are up, but she doesn’t mention that our Christmas bonus pales in comparison to what those with corner offices are getting. The White House says that inflation is slowing down and incomes are going up, but what about people who got laid off in the downturn and haven’t found a job yet? After the 6:00 p.m. service, Lora Walsh joked that the new $1.7 trillion omnibus spending bill now allows those of us with unspent money in a 529 college savings account to roll those funds over to a Roth IRA, which is good news…for some of us. But not everyone has the privilege of unused college savings, do they?
When it finally is our turn to receive some good news, sharing it with other people has become increasingly awkward. With all the illness and death around us, it feels unfair to tell other people that our latest scan was clear. We want to celebrate a long-awaited pregnancy, but we know that there are those around us who have lost children or who have been struggling for years to conceive. Our digitally connected lives make it hard to have unqualified good news because, by the time we post it on social media, we see someone else whose news is anything but good. And good news doesn’t feel good when the people we love don’t have good news of their own.
The awkwardness and incompleteness of selective good news is not a new phenomenon. Back in the days of Mary and Joseph, the authorities never missed a chance to proclaim the good news of the Empire in order to remind their subjects where that good news came from. After defeating his rivals Mark Antony and Cleopatra in the War of Actium in 30 BC, Gaius Octavius was hailed by the Roman Senate as Caesar Augustus—a title which means “the exalted one.” The Roman Republic had been plagued by civil wars for more than a century, but this victory ushered in a new age of peace—a Pax Romana that would last for two hundred years.
Under his leadership, the Republic became the Empire, and its Caesar became its god. In addition to being heralded as Augustus, the Emperor also became known as Savior and Lord, titles reinforced through imperial propaganda. The Caesar himself was not initially deified, but he instituted an imperial cult, through which the powers at work in him—Victory, Liberty, Security, and Peace—were themselves worshipped. It didn’t take long for the lines between the virtues and the virtuous to be blurred.
Every time his name was uttered, the good news of what the Exalted One had accomplished was proclaimed. And it was hard to argue with his success. After seemingly endless conflict, Augustus had ushered in a new age of peace. The Empire was growing. Large investments in infrastructure were being made. The glory of the capital city was being restored. The system of taxation was reformed, and Roman coffers were full. It was a time of seemingly limitless good news, but it wasn’t good news for everyone.
What did the Pax Romana mean for the residents of Palestine, the Roman province of Syria? What did God’s people, living under imperial rule, know about peace and prosperity? What did liberty and victory mean to them? Luke tells us that, in those days, Emperor Augustus issued a decree that all the world should be registered. It didn’t matter that the Jewish people didn’t think of themselves as his subjects, and it didn’t matter that Mother Mary was too close to delivering her child to travel anywhere.
If anyone had the power to command the whole earth to get up and move in order to be counted it was Emperor Augustus. His authority was unparalleled. His success was unrivaled. But what good was that for the people who lived in Bethlehem or Galilee or Jerusalem? That power and prestige made some feel secure, but those who scratched together a life on the edge of the Empire knew that the soldiers in their towns were not there to protect them but to safeguard the interests of Rome. So they prayed for a peace that could only come from God.
On this holy night, those prayers are answered. In the fields outside of Bethlehem, when the heavens are torn open and the angel of the Lord gives voice to God’s good news, God reveals a different vision for peace and prosperity: “I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” There is no small measure of irony contained in the angel’s words. This proclamation takes the form of something you were likely to hear from an officer of the state, but this is God’s rejection of any imperial proclamations. Our savior is found not in the city of the emperor but in the ancestral city of Israel’s king. This good news is not proclaimed to the rich and powerful but is meant for all people, starting with the lowly shepherds.
That’s the curious thing about true peace and prosperity. No emperor can provide them because they cannot be imposed from above. In order to be effective for all people, they must start at the ground and work their way up. Whenever human beings rely upon expressions of power to provide their peace, someone will always be overlooked. Whenever we put our faith in earthly accomplishments, whether they are our own or those of our government, there will always be a gap or a flaw. Someone will always be left out, and that someone could be us. When we are truly connected with each other in meaningful ways, we know that good news for a few is not good news at all.
But, in the birth of Jesus, God does something radically different. In this miraculous birth, God declares to all the inhabitants of the earth that God is providing what no empire can offer—a peace that is given to all people because in Christ that peace comes from the bottom up.
On this night, God not only comes to us but actually becomes us. God saves us by being born for us. God protects us by becoming vulnerable with us. When God takes our humanity upon Godself, there is no speck of our lives that is not completely given over to God’s transforming love. No part of us is immune to God’s salvation. There is no place, no border, no circumstance, no sickness, no battlefield, no assembly line, no living room, no church pew, no warming shelter, no hospital bed—there is no person or situation anywhere that is beyond the reach of God’s redeeming love.
On this night, the brightness of God shines within each one of us. In the birth of Jesus, all of us have been united inseparably with God. Our true peace comes from the gift of God that is inside of us—contained within our very nature. There is nothing that can take it away from us. It is delivered just for you and me. This good news is as real and personal as if the angel of the Lord had appeared to each one of us, and, because this good news is for all people, we can share it far and wide. This is the good news of Christmas.
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