Sermon – Christmas Eve 2025

(I preached this sermon at Christ Lutheran Church in Harrisburg, PA at our Christmas Eve service. It is in response to the birth narrative of Luke 2:1-20.)

On Christmas Eve, we often hear this Christmas story wrapped in softness.
Dim lights.
Candles.
Familiar words.

Singing beloved hymns.  
A scene that feels gentle and calm.

But Luke doesn’t tell us a gentle story.
Luke tells us a crowded story.

And lately, I’ve been thinking about how often we’re told that things are better than they actually are.

We’re told the economy is strong.
But affordability keeps getting worse.

We’re told unemployment is low.
But those numbers don’t count people who’ve stopped looking for work, people pushed into part-time jobs when full-time disappeared, people working two or three jobs and still coming up short.

We’re told homelessness isn’t really a problem—
even as laws are passed to criminalize it.
Even as people are fined, arrested, or pushed out of public space simply for existing without shelter.

This isn’t new.
This isn’t about one administration or one moment.
This is systemic.
It’s been going on for a long time.

Because the problem isn’t that we don’t have information.  We’re flooded with information.  
The problem is that there is no room for the truth.  Often because the truth is unpleasant and doesn’t prop up what we want propped up. 

There is no room for stories that make the powerful uncomfortable.
No room for data that exposes suffering.
No room for realities that don’t serve profit, control, or a false peace—
a peace that depends on denial,
a peace that asks us not to look too closely,
a peace that says, “Everything is fine,” as long as the suffering stays hidden.

And that’s the world Luke describes.

Luke tells us that Jesus is born during a registration or census—
not a neutral headcount,
but a tool of empire.

A census designed to extract more taxes.
A census designed to track bodies for labor and war.
A census that demands people move—
whether it’s safe or humane or reasonable or not.

The empire says, Go.
And people go.

The empire says, Comply.
And people comply.

The empire is never satisfied.
It consumes and consumes and consumes.

And in a world like that, everything fills up fast.

The roads are full.
The homes are full.
The guest rooms are full.

Luke tells us,
“There was no room for them in the inn.”

And for generations, we’ve invented a villain to make this story easier.
The mean innkeeper.
The uncaring gatekeeper.

But Luke never says that.  Luke doesn’t mention an innkeeper at all.  

Because the problem isn’t one bad person. 
The problem is a system that had already taken all the room.

People are traveling because the empire demanded it.
Housing is scarce because empire doesn’t care about human need or about a woman who is very pregnant and ready to give birth. 
Healthcare is absent—Mary gives birth in a place filled with animals, manure, and fear, with no midwife, no assistance, no protection.
The authorities offer no care at all.

There is no room.

Not because people are cruel—
but because the system is.

And we recognize this, don’t we?

We live in a world that tells people,
“There is no room.”

No room for people experiencing homelessness—
so we criminalize it instead of addressing it.  It’s much easier to make it someone else’s problem.

No room for affordable housing—
because it might change the look of a neighborhood,
or disrupt a carefully maintained image.

No room for immigrants and refugees—
as if there isn’t space,
as if scarcity were natural instead of manufactured.

No room for healthcare—
unless you can afford it,
unless you fit the right category.

No room for people who are poor.
No room for people who are disabled.
No room for people who don’t fit neat categories of race, gender, or sexuality.

People are told there is no room for dignified work.
No room for rest.
No room for care.
No room for truth.

Which is remarkable,
considering how much room actually exists.

This is the same world Jesus is born into.

Not a quiet world.
Not a peaceful one.

Empire calls its peace the Pax Romana—
but it’s a peace enforced by violence,
paid for by the poor,
maintained through fear.

And fear is how empire survives.

Fear keeps people moving.
Fear keeps people quiet.
Fear keeps people blaming one another instead of questioning the system.

Fear makes people suspicious.
Fear convinces people to pick up weapons.
Fear drains hope.

So when the angels appear to the shepherds,
the first words out of their mouths matter.

“Do not be afraid.”

That’s how God begins.

Not with threat.
Not with force.
Not with domination.

“Do not be afraid.”

Because God’s reign does not run on fear.

The angels don’t announce a military victory.
They don’t announce another heir to the throne.
They don’t spin good press for the empire.

They announce good news.

Real good news.

Good news to the poor.
Good news to the forgotten.
Good news to those told there is no room.

And notice who receives this news first. Or rather who doesn’t receive the news first.  

Not the powerful.
Not the wealthy.
Not the religious elites.

It’s Shepherds.

The bottom of society.
Dirty.
Smelly.
Distrusted.

People who were regularly told,
“There is no room for you.”

They’re the first to hear.

The entire birth story is a preview of Jesus’ whole ministry.

He will dwell with the marginalized.
He will touch those who society calls unclean.
He will eat with people others avoid.
He will stand where empire says not to stand.

And his presence alone will proclaim that the status quo is ending.

This is the beginning of a different kind of peace.

Not peace through domination.
Not peace through exclusion.
But peace through presence.

Hope is born here.

And hope is not wishful thinking.
Hope is telling the truth about the world as it is—
and still proclaiming that God is moving us in a different direction.

Jesus is embodied hope.

Hope says the message “there is no room” is a lie.

Hope says there is more than enough.
That no one needs to go without.
That systems of extraction are not eternal.

And then—almost quietly—the story ends.

The shepherds return to their fields.
The news doesn’t reach the halls of power.
The empire doesn’t even notice.

The strong don’t hear it.
The rich don’t receive it.

What a reversal from our world,
where the powerful control the narrative,
where billionaires buy media companies,
where algorithms decide what truth survives,
where lies repeat until morale improves.

God’s good news doesn’t need empire’s permission.

It begins at the edges.

And it continues.

Because where the world says,
“There is no room,”
Jesus makes room.

I’ve seen it.  Have you?

I’ve seen Jesus make room at tables.

After worship.
At fellowship meals.
When the food was already out and the chairs were already filled.

Someone pulls out another table.
Someone finds more chairs.
More plates come out.
The space gets tighter.

No one is turned away.

Empire guards space.
Jesus shares it.

I’ve seen Jesus make room at a truck stop for those living in their cars in the parking lot.

Room to do laundry.
Room to shower.
Room to eat a real meal at a real table and worship together there.

And every time someone else arrived,
the table just kept getting longer.

No speeches.
No purity tests.

The world says, Keep moving.
Jesus says, Have a seat.

I’ve seen Jesus make room through the Memorial Blanket Project.

Blankets made by people all over the world.
Stories remembered.
Lives honored.

An art installation placed where homelessness cannot be ignored—
and then, at the end of the night,
the blankets are given away.

Beauty becomes warmth.
Memory becomes mercy.

The world hides homelessness.  It is ashamed of it.  
Jesus covers those unhoused with dignity.  Humanity starts to be restored.

I’ve seen Jesus make room in our medical and dental clinics.

When the schedule says we’re done.
But pain says otherwise.

I’ve seen dentists stay late.
Nurses stretch themselves.

Because when Jesus is present,
the answer to suffering is never,
“There is no room.”

And I see Jesus making room here.

In this church.

For people who arrive joyful and people who arrive worn down.
For people sure of who they are and people still figuring it out.
For people living with illness.
For people carrying addiction.
For people grieving.
For people questioning and full of doubt.

For people frustrated at the world.

For people who have been told—
by families,
by churches,
by governments—
“There is no room for you.”

Christmas is God’s refusal to accept that lie.

The world says, “There is no room.”
God says, “I will be born anyway.”

It won’t be perfect.
It won’t be polished.
It won’t smell like pine and cinnamon all the time.

It may smell like animals.
Like sweat.
Like real life.

But God will be there.

And where God is,
there is room.

Room for you.
Room for truth.
Room for healing.
Room for hope.

Plenty of room.

Thanks be to God.