Is it possible to hear St. Luke’s story of Jesus’s birth as if for the first time? Every year on this night, we hear the same story. We have witnessed countless retellings and enactments of it. Its characters grace nativity scenes in our homes and on Christmas cards. We all know this story. It may be the most familiar story of the Gospels. But just for a moment, join me in pretending as if you’ve never heard this story before.
Its setting is historical time, traceable on a calendar and in archaeology. This story opens on the world stage, and its characters are not unlike many on the current world theatre in their lust for domination. In some remote place, a power-hungry ruler sits in isolation from his subjects, but his empire is the heavy boot holding down the foreign nation. The census is simply one more ounce of pressure from the empirical boot, one more unwanted invasion of a nation’s pride and identity.
The child has been expected for some time, and his arrival unhappily coincides with the emperor’s inconvenient demand of a census. There is no choice but to acquiesce. Some worship the emperor as a god, and many fear him, if only to save their own necks. So it is that in a small village—not a New York City or a Chicago or a Philadelphia, but something out of Lancaster County—the baby is born. The only place to lay him down is in a feeding trough, with its rank odor and rough straw. The child’s parents have been on the move. They are refugees, we might say, because of the edict of a power-monger sitting in comfort many miles away. In today’s age, the emperor would have access to the nuclear codes, but in ancient Palestine, he had to rely more on the brute force of his minions. Into such a world, this child is born, helpless, meek, mild, born to poor parents whose destiny is somewhat uncertain.
Already, I imagine, our maternal and paternal instincts have probably kicked in. How indeed can we really hear this story as if for the first time? How can we unhear what we know will happen in the end? How can we not feel a deep desire to cradle and protect this baby from ensuing harm? Perhaps on this night, of all nights, we plead for just a few moments to stay close to the child in the manger, to comfort, hold, and protect the one who cannot stay in the manger forever.
This is the sentiment of the beautiful Ukrainian carol “Sleep, Jesus, sleep,” which the choir will soon sing. It will be the first time the piece has been heard publicly on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, but it tells a story we know all too well. We know about the sheep, the shepherds, the mother, the father, the donkey, and the stable. But hear with me, this night, if you are able, Mary’s voice, weary from labor, singing to her newborn child, in a dank, smelly stable while the shadow of the emperor’s boot moves across the manger scene.
Into a world as unjust and raucously violent as ours, this little baby is born. After harrowing the riskiness of labor, the mother sings with all her mustered stamina, Sleep, Jesus, sleep, go to sleep, I will rock you, ‘til you’re dreaming, sing to you ‘til you’re sleeping; hushaby, dearest, hushaby.*
Is not Mary’s song, in some sense, ours, too? Knowing the world into which the baby is born, and knowing what his end will be, is not this night, of all nights, the one on which we want to sing her song? Sleep, my flower, sleep, rest your head, fall deep, Mary’s arms will hold you closely, soothing you, she strokes you gently.
Unless we have hearts of stone, couldn’t we cradle the child for just a few moments before releasing him into a world where the cruel boot will come slamming down to try and contain the baby’s provocations? Tonight, of all nights, can’t we just rock the baby, sing to him, and let him sleep, sleep, sleep, and dream?
Sleep, Jesus, sleep, open up your heart. Let me rest my soul beside you, here on earth and in heaven, too. Sleep, Jesus, sleep, close your eyes. It’s a bitter, harsh world outside the stable. The baby is small and helpless. The straw of the makeshift bed is rough. The world is in fear. Even the shepherds must stay awake to guard their sheep from harm. The young parents in the stable are rookie parents, too, and this birth was no ordinary birth. They have no idea what the future holds. They have no inkling of how to raise a child, much less this child.
So, for just a few moments, little baby, sleep. Do not ask what life will do, when a cross is made for you. Hushaby, dearest, hushaby. Sleep, Jesus, sleep. No, that cross is over thirty years down the road. No need to borrow trouble yet. We know the trouble is whispering down from the future, but the parents don’t. Can’t we let them just rock the baby? And can’t we simply let the baby sleep, sleep, sleep?
We know the maternal and paternal instincts of these new parents. If we are parents, we know them acutely. If we are not, we can’t shake the protective urges we feel towards our loved ones, towards our godchildren, towards the children entrusted to our care. Is Mary’s song as she rocks her little one in the manger so foreign to us? The world from which we wish to shield our most vulnerable is not so very different from the one we sing of this night.
Don’t we want to rock our loved ones to sleep to numb them to the unwanted assaults of each day? This night, even if for a brief time, can’t we just sing a lullaby? Can’t we climb into the crib with the Christ child, to seek its warmth and safety, and for a moment to insulate ourselves from the harsh world outside? Can’t we sing carols to drown out the sounds of gunfire and raucous rhetoric? For a moment, after a season of expectant waiting and preparation, can’t we finally let our guard down for a bit, and relax into the dreamy pose of the baby in the manger? Yes, Sleep, sleep, go to sleep, I will rock you, ‘til you’re dreaming, sing to you ‘til you’re sleeping; hushaby, dearest, hushaby.
But the mystery of this unique birth is that even while the lullabies are sung into the fetid air of a pasture, the baby’s swaddling clothes signal his grave clothes, too. And although it is sad and poignant, it is nevertheless the remarkable sign of the world’s salvation. It is the strange sign of our hope. While cruel empires displayed their military parades and lowered their boots on the necks of the poor and helpless, God had other plans on that night, this night. While no one was looking for it, God came to heal the world not from above but gently, subversively, from below.
As thousands marched to their hometowns to be registered so that tribute could be demanded, the one to whom all tribute belongs was born in a cow’s trough. While the empire sought to become more powerful, God humbled himself so that there would be no tiny corner immune from his salvific reach. While the shepherds cowered in fear at the bright light and angels’ song, God announced his good news to break that fear. Without even knowing it, while the world slept, it had been saved.
It is true as well that at some point, the child of the parent becomes the parent to the parent. When old age comes upon the mother and father, the child, once cradled in a crib, becomes the parent. The roles are reversed. And in the story of our salvation, the child once rocked to sleep by his mother became the father and mother of the whole world. The one whose eyes closed in sleep and who dreamed away while the cold, harsh world outside raged on, this one refused to let his eyes close, because he is the Good Shepherd who never falls asleep while his sheep are in danger. And despite our urgent desires to safeguard this little baby from harm, it is the baby himself who puts us in the cradle and sings us a song.
Yes, this is the night for it. While war rages across the globe and in our streets, while fear enslaves too many, and while strife infects even the Risen Body of the Prince of Peace, the baby now become a parent, places us in the crib, and sings us a song. Hear his gentle song to us.
Hush, Jesus says to us, I will rock you. Close your eyes, sleep, and dream. Dream of a world that I desire for you. Dream of a world where the whine of missiles turns into the songs of angels. Dream of a world where swords are beaten into ploughshares and spears into pruning hooks. Open up your heart, and I will be there, too. I am there. I always have been. And I will take your soul with me into heaven. Do not ask what life will do, when a cross is made for you, because I have already turned the world upside down by the cross I carried, and I will help you carry your cross.
I do not come to stamp out the darkness of your world by force, but I come to guide you into freedom with my light, which pierces all darkness. I have come to dispel your fear of all those things that make you afraid. I have come to subvert the powers of cowardly force by my gentle might.
So, sleep, child, sleep and dream. Close your eyes, and I will keep watch over you. And when you awake, you will see that the world can be different. Sometimes you must sleep to dream. Now, as I have been a parent to you, become a parent to the world. Help the world to rest from its quarreling and fighting. Help it to sleep and rest its eyes and then dream that this world can be something more than it is.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Eve of the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ
December 24, 2022
*The words of the lullaby are from the setting by Roxanna Panufnik of a traditional Ukrainian carol.