Luke 1:26-33; Luke 2:1-7; Luke 2:8-20
When my great-grandmother was a little girl, she and her sister had to attend the funeral of some relative who had died. It was a very solemn affair, of course, over a hundred years ago, if you can imagine it. It was a time when children were seen and definitely not heard, and a funeral was a very serious thing. Dead serious.
Have you ever got the giggles at a funeral? Well, as the story goes, my great-grandmother and her sister got the giggles. Something to do with the old fancy top hats that were collapsible, and if you pressed hard on the top they got flat, but if you accidentally bumped them, they popped up. Well, one popped up at a most inopportune moment. And you can guess what happened. My great-grandmother and her sister started giggling. And trying to cover it up. And of course, the more you try to suppress a giggle, the worse it gets. And so there they were, the two of them, hunched over with their hands over their faces, shoulders shaking, I’m guessing tears streaming down their faces, as they tried not to laugh.
Only guess what everyone else thought. Everyone else thought they were crying. And so the adults around them patted them on the shoulder, told them not to cry, handed them handkerchiefs, and tried to comfort them. It didn’t make things better, it only made the giggling worse. In church. At a funeral.
What strikes me most is that, over a century later, what remains of that story is the laughter. Nobody in my family remembers exactly who it was that died, or under what circumstances. I presume my great-grandmother got away with it, because there’s no part of the story that talks about them being discovered. There’s only this inappropriate laughter. In the midst of what must surely have been a dark time, what we remember is the shared joy.
Tonight, in the midst of a dark time, we too are gathered to share joy, to rejoice with the angels, to lift up our voices, to fill our stomachs with rich food. It is a wonderful time, and yet I sometimes wonder if it’s not a little inappropriate––all this gathering to celebrate and feast when we know that there is so much pain and suffering in the world. On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, we kind of block out the world––I’m guessing most of us will make an effort not to check the news tonight or tomorrow. And for some people, that’s a needed break, while for others, it feels kind of odd.
After all, the whole point of Christmas is celebrating that God became incarnate––that God took on flesh in order to be part of the world––to be one of us. God came into the world to experience the darkness and the loneliness and the suffering that comes with being human. To enter into solidarity with the most oppressed and the most marginalized. And so for us to take a break from the world, as it were, by shutting it out and spending the time rejoicing with friends and family, seems not only the height of privilege––that we can actually shut it out when so many cannot––but the very antithesis of what we celebrate on Christmas Eve. It seems inappropriate.
Because there has been a lot of darkness in the world this year––depression and anxiety are on the rise, therapists are overbooked, sales of alcohol have increased (which is funny but also sad, since excessive drinking and drug-use are really attempts to self-treat undiagnosed mental illnesses). Domestic violence is still high, the number of overdoses from opioids are stunning. Our young people, the ones whose future is most at stake, are feeling increasingly alienated by the older generations. Protests around the world, and even here at home, are on the rise, as people struggle against increasing climate degradation, rising totalitarianism, and the reduction of everything and everyone to the almighty god of “the economy.” In the face of all of this, how dare we gather tonight and be joyful? It seems to me that grief, lament, concern for the year-to-come might be a more appropriate response.
But, “the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid ... I am bringing you good news of great joy ... to you (or for you) is born this day a Saviour.””
In the midst of the darkness two thousand years ago, also a time of oppression and marginalization, of looming disaster, of an Emperor who called himself divinely appointed and compared himself to the Son of God, God’s people were called to be joyful. Actually, it’s more that they were given a reason to be joyful. They were given a light. They were ruled by an Emperor who wanted all light to shine on Rome, which left Israel in darkness. Whose idea of peace was to kill anyone who disagreed. They were governed by King Herod who, though one of them, thought nothing of sacrificing them for his own ambition. And into that darkness, that fake peace, that grasping for power came a reason to be joyful. God born as a baby in Bethlehem. The light that would shine in their darkness, the true prince of peace who would bring life, not death. The Saviour who would sacrifice himself for them, not the other way around. Joy, when the earthly powers would have preferred them to despair, to give up, and to give in.
It turns out that joy in the midst of darkness is not inappropriate. Joy in the midst of darkness is protest. It is resistance. Joy in the darkness defies the very powers that have created the darkness because joy insists that there is something more. Joy tonight, and tomorrow, and in the year to come is a powerful claim that love-in-the-flesh is stronger than hate. It is a claim that, despite what the world says, life has the last word. That loving and trusting strangers, rather than shutting them out, is what makes the world a better place. Joy holds the line against the cynicism and bitterness that become suspicion and hatred. Joy actually melts those things away.
Because darkness does not have the last word. It does not even have the first word. The first and last word is light. Light from God, light in the darkness. Dare we even say laughter in the darkness?
Irrepressible laughter and mirth are manifestations of joy; the wiggles and giggles of a child who knows they are loved are a defiant rejection of the powers of darkness. Joy also manifests as shouts of triumph, the joy of justice served, of wrongs made right, like when the Berlin Wall fell, like when a dictator is overthrown, it is the feeling that fills our hearts when we hear trumpets playing Joy to the World.
Joy can also be peaceful, serene, the feeling when we light the candles and sing Silent Night. This is the joy of the stars shining brightly in the middle of the night, the joy of holding a sleeping child, the calm in the midst of the storm.
Laughter, shouts, peace––all of these are a protest and a resistance to the darkness of the world. They are more than appropriate responses to what has happened this year and what we suspect is yet to come. They are a gift of God, to be received and shared, so that the darkness will not win.
And so, this evening, I invite you to enter into a few moments of joy, of shared joy with everyone here, to feel joy this day, to resist and to protest the darkness that would take over the world.
First, I invite you to close your eyes. If a phone rings, smile and let it ring. If you have to cough or sneeze, go ahead. We’ll all say bless you. And if you have little kids with you, don’t worry about shushing them, let them wiggle and giggle and talk, if they like. This joy is for everyone. And now, take a breath. A deep breath in, and exhale out all the darkness from this past year. Whether it is the darkness of the world, or something from your own personal situation, take another deep breath and breathe all that darkness out. It’s okay to let it go, there is no need to carry it in this moment. And one more breath to let go.
And now, if you haven’t hyperventilated yet, I invite you to breathe in the good news of this night. Christ is born for you. Breathe in the joy that the light continues to shine in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it. Breathe in the joy of wiggling and giggling children, irrepressible life in the face of death. Breathe in the joy that there is more to this world, because love has become flesh.
And finally, I invite you to one last deep breath, to commit this moment to memory, so that you can retrieve it tomorrow when things are at their most chaotic, or their loneliest. So that you can recall when you need it most in the year to come.
God is in the world, the Saviour has come, the light shines in the darkness. May the Joy of Christ come into the world be yours, today and always. Thanks be to God.
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