Christmas is for Broken People

It was a not-so-silent night, and I doubt that all was calm. It certainly was a holy night— holy means different, and different could mean “weird,” right? And it was technically bright, but mainly to the shepherds who were scared out of their wits by that angelic host.

So, no, I don’t think, “Silent Night, Holy Night” is a fair telling of what really went on when God came into the world. And now that I’ve deconstructed your mother’s favorite Christmas carol, let me cut to the chase: The night we sing about— but only after Thanksgiving— and celebrate on December 25th, was not what we so often make it out to be: quaint, soft, white—like a Thomas Kinkade painting or one of those Precious Moments angel figurines. If you can find it in a Hallmark store, it’s probably not Christmas. Rather, when God came into this world, it looked entirely different from what our brains are ready to imagine.

It was gritty and tense. There was political intrigue and social stigma. Honestly, it looked like something a lot of us wouldn’t buy, but it is nevertheless is something we all desperately need.

Here’s what I mean:

The 1^st century Church tells us that when the time was exactly right, God entered into his own creation through the uterus of a thirteen-to-fifteen-year-old peasant girl— a young woman who described herself as “one of humble estate.”

She was also, with her people, under the rule of an oppressive Empire who taxed heavily and had the tendency to crucify anybody who stood in their way. So, like any good Jewish child, she grew up with resistance in her heart and an expectant hope in God’s Messiah to deliver them from their invaders. That she submitted to God’s request and found herself bearing the long-awaited Messiah in her womb, only added kenneling to that inner flame. Her response to what God was doing is the Magnificent (Luke 1:46-55), which I have heard compared to Rage Against the Machine: “…[God] has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty!” (exclamation mark is mine)

By the way, this is the kind of woman who raised the second person of the Trinity— a radical who might have been crucified if the Romans caught wind of her speech.

But maybe that should be for another post. 

When Mary was very pregnant, she and her new husband were forced to travel to Bethlehem by Rome in order to be taxed for money they didn’t have.

They must have just reached Bethlehem when it came time for her to give birth because they hadn’t yet found out a place to stay. After all, she and Joseph were unwanted migrants. They felt the humiliation of going door-to-door, begging for shelter. As a last resort, they found a barn and decided it was better than the roof they didn’t have.

The God of the Universe was literally born homeless, and it was an entirely human birth. There was screaming, writhing, bodily fluids. It was insanely stressful for everyone involved, and yes, it smelled (contrary to our nativity scenes, the Wise Men didn’t bring frankincense and myrrh until later).

The One who Christians believe will have the most glorious throne in all creation was not placed in a crib, but a manger— a feeding trough, the thing that animals eat out of! Luke the historian seems to emphasize this little detail— he mentions it three times in a very short space (Luke 2:7, 12, 16). And we got to ask ourselves why? Why is this so important?

It is because, as Mary proclaimed, God has come into the world to fill the hungry with good things.

In our familiarity with this story, we must never lose sight of its context. Rome is crucifying. The Zealots are revolting. Wicked rulers are making vulnerable people all the more vulnerable. The injustice and desperation are insurmountable.

And here is Mary, holding the solution to all of it in her arms, placing him in a manger, as God’s offering to us all.

This is Immanuel— God with us. Not to be stated matter-of-factly, but with a sense of gravity: God with us.

Not with us in a cute way that gives you warm fuzzy feelings, like when you’re holding a puppy.

But with us in the sense that he did not shrink back from the muck and the mire of our world, but dove right into the midst of it all.

With us in that he identifies with us in our pain, our sense of loss, our disappointment after unmet expectations.

With us, especially those of us who fall below the poverty line, and are barely able to get by, who are running from home and being denied shelter— those of us who are relegated to the underbelly of an Evil Empire (That God comes into the world as a poor person is incredibly intentional, and we must never forget that).

Here’s what I’m getting at:

Christmas may have been really important to us growing up— that’s how it should be! Nothing written here would be to discredit the nostalgia we feel when we think back on putting ornaments on the tree with our families or walking down the stairs early in the morning to open presents. There very well may be a lot we got right about the Christmas story, and shouldn’t do away with (Christians need to get the idea out of their heads that if they’re not completely right, they’re not right at all).

But have we come to a place where we can champion a real, radical, flesh-and-blood Christmas? The kind of Christmas where God is with us, empathizing with our sorrow, getting his hands dirty, inspiring us to allegiance and action?

I need a Christmas story that meets me in my pain. I need a Christmas that is not an escape from, but a response to, all of the suffering that is going on in the world. Not a Christmas that is domesticated and easily marketable, but one reminding me that God’s love is danger close.

Because when Christmas is just around the corner, and my friend is in a casket covered with flowers and tears, I need a Savior who took on flesh like mine, and who will be at the graveside weeping with me.

When our relationships are falling apart, or our children are going prodigal— when we have done our best, and it wasn’t good enough, we can take heart, for God has come into the world to put himself in congruency with us, sustain us, and lead us towards the future that he has secured for us through his obedience, humiliation, and exaltation.

We must never forget that even in the joy of what we call Christmas, there is the enthymeme of Simeon: “…and a sword will pierce through your own soul also.” If Christmas were 100% light and joy, it would not be truly good, and would not be able to meet us in our human condition. And that desperately hopeful, inextricably human Christmas is exactly what we need.

Christmas is ultimate theodicy.

Christmas is the broken person’s holiday.

- Joshua Yochim