Christmas Eve, First Lutheran Church of Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y.
We are so consumed by the joy of this wonderful night that we sometimes forget that terror was the predominant reaction of the people who lived it.
I’ve never been a shepherd but I can almost feel what it was like for them on that night of nights.
On one bleak mid-winter night long ago, I was walking on a deserted beach in England. A fellow airman and I, both teenagers, had just dropped off our dates after a not entirely satisfying evening. We had less than an hour to catch a train back to the base so we walked quickly on the brightly lighted beach.
Suddenly, everything went black.
I was terrified. Had I suddenly passed out? Dropped dead? I could see nothing. I could have used an angelic voice telling me to fear not but all I could hear was the rapid breathing of my companion.
“Oh, yeah,” my friend said with a slightly shaky voice. “I forgot. The beach lights are automatically shut off at midnight.”
“Of course,” I said. Our eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and we walked on.
But I never forgot the fear I felt that night.
And this night I try to imagine what the shepherds felt when they had an opposite experience: when the comfortable darkness that surrounded them became blinding light. Of course they were sore afraid. And so, I surmise, were the sheep.
Angels scare people. That’s why they announce themselves with an abrupt “fear not” while they wait to see if people will require a change of underwear.
And make no mistake: in the presence of God and the angels, it is good to be terrified. The shepherds are encountering the awesome power that breathed the universe into being and human beings are ill equipped to comprehend it.
Whether God speaks to you in a still small voice or in the roar of angels, it’s terrifying. Even when the news brings “great joy for all the people: to you is born this day … a Savior, who is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:10-11) Still trembling with both fear and joy, they make their way to the manger to behold the miracle. “So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger.” (Luke 2:16)
And what else did they find there? A cozy refuge from the capriciousness of the world? A tender scene of motherly love?
Possibly. What did Mary have to fear?
Well, quite a lot, actually.
As we have seen, the fact that she was unmarried and with child created grave dangers for her. She was literally saved by Joseph, who, thanks to the intercession of the angel, stepped in to marry her.
But there were other things to fear. In first century Palestine, the infant mortality rate was 40 to 50 percent. Even knowing that the child in her womb was of God, Mary would be aware that half the women she knew lost their babies. This must have weighed on her mind as she and Joseph made the rough journey to Bethlehem.
And what else was there to fear?
Mary was a first-time mother who birthed her baby alone, far from her mother, far from experienced women who could tell her that it was normal for a baby to cry, and burp up, to fill his diapers with a yellowish mess.
Some women here know what Mary was experiencing. A little over a year ago, we watched from a distance as our youngest daughter in Atlanta gave birth to a healthy baby.
Separated from her mother by more than 700 miles, our daughter felt devastatingly alone. She and Martha were on the phone at all hours as our daughter asked desperate questions. Was she doing the right thing? Should she let the baby cry herself to sleep or pick her up and cuddle her? Was something wrong if the baby cried? Was something wrong when she stopped crying? Was our daughter was doing something wrong? “I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” she said, weeping.
Martha flew to Georgia for a week so our daughter and her wonderful husband would have the support they needed. Gradually our daughter’s anxiety subsided. Martha assured her that there was no such thing as a perfect parent. “Be a ‘good enough’ parent,” she said. “That’s all we can do.”
A year and two months later, our daughter is a self-assured, loving, and nurturing mother to her toddler, who is already running around the house. Like all mothers, she quickly learned how to be a “good enough” parent, and now she stands ready to support and advise other new mothers.
We celebrate all our daughters who have had the experience of being mothers for the first time. We feel their joy. We celebrate God’s love and miracles of new life.
On this night of nights, we also celebrate the miracle that Mary brought into the world.
But as we gaze on her pious and contented face in a myriad of manger scenes and art, we remember that her placid surface may well hide a myriad of fears and anxieties.
We may never understand all Mary went through to deliver the savior unto us. But we rejoice that she went through it with faith and courage.
“My soul magnifies the Lord,” she said, “and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”
Tonight in carols and candles, our spirits also rejoice in God our Savior.
We rejoice in those who were not deterred by their fears from bringing this holy night to the world.
Happy Birthday, baby Jesus.
And Merry Christmas to all.
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