The Sounds of Christmas, Peace (O Little Town of Bethlehem), Christ Church Sermon, December 07, ...

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Thank you for listening.

Today's scripture is from Micah

5:es 2-5.

But you Bethlehem, though you are small

among the class clans of Judah, out of

you will come from me one who will be

ruler over Israel, whose origins are

from old, from ancient times. Therefore,

Israel will be abandoned until the time

when she is in labor and bears a son and

the rest of his brothers return to join

the Israelites. He, referring to Jesus,

will stand and shepherd his flock in the

strength of the Lord in the majesty of

the Lord his God, and they will live

securely. For then his greatness will

reach to the ends of the earth, and he

will be our peace. Hear what the spirit

says to the church.

Thanks be to God.

>> Well, good morning.

>> You ever noticed that during Advent, we

tend to put the word peace everywhere?

It's printed on ornaments. It's stitched

into Christmas sweaters. It's scripted

across Christmas cards. It's even

glowing on yard signs. We've even

wrapped it around coffee mugs as though

if caffeine and calm are a natural

pairing.

But let's be honest, the closer we get

to Christmas, the more the word peace

feels like wishful thinking. I mean,

have you ever been driving through South

Hills Village anytime in December? Peace

is not the first word that pops into

your head. Brake lights as far as the

eye can see. People circling like hawks

waiting for our parking spot. Somebody

blaring their horn, forgetting that

blowing a horn never makes anybody move

any faster. Or have you ever been in

line at Target? As the line wraps around

the entire store and kids are crying,

teenagers are now riding bikes through

Target down the aisles, parents are

negotiating like diplomats, and you're

sitting there with your cart full of

stocking stuffers thinking, "Why did I

ever decide to come in here?" Or was

that just me on Friday night?

Or how about your phone that never stops

buzzing? The schedule keeps filling. The

family group text is blowing up with a

big theological debate as to whether or

not we are going to have ham or turkey

for Christmas dinner. And no one's

willing to budge either way. We say we

want peace. We even sing about peace.

But we live in a world that practically

runs on anxiety and noise and hurry and

pressure and that constant feeling that

we're just one step behind. And into all

that chaos, oh little town of Bethlehem

gives us this line. How silently, how

silently, the wondrous gift is given.

Silently. There is nothing about my

December that is silent. But maybe, just

maybe, that's the whole point. Maybe

that's exactly what God wants us to

hear. Maybe the peace that we're looking

for doesn't come from having a perfect

December or an empty schedule or a calm

household. Maybe peace isn't something

that we manufacture at all. Maybe peace

is something or or rather someone who

arrives quietly and unexpectedly in the

middle of everything that feels loud,

that feels messy, that feels out of

control. And that's what Micah points us

to today, toward a peace that doesn't

depend on circumstances, but on the

presence of a shepherd who comes near to

us. You see, peace starts small. Micah

gives this prophecy that no one

expected. But you, Bethlehem, Ephretha,

though you are small, out of you will

come a ruler. Bethlehem was a dot on a

map, not a capital city, not a place of

influence, not the kind of town you

would go to on your ancient Holyland

journey back in the day, unless you got

lost. In fact, it was the kind of place

that if you sneezed as you were driving

through it, you would miss it. And yet

God chose that place, a forgotten,

ordinary village. Why? Well, because God

delights in beginnings that don't look

all that impressive. Small places

matter. Think about the tiny things in

your life that end up making the most

difference for us. You know, the text

from a friend that comes just at the

right time. Hey, thinking of you. Or the

kid who wraps their arms around you

right when you're feeling completely

drained. or a smile from a stranger when

you're feeling kind of invisible.

Or or that five minute prayer that you

whisper in your car before you walk into

a hard day or that little bit of quiet

before your kids wake up and your email

starts pinging in the morning. We tend

to overlook those moments because

they're not dramatic, right? They don't

make the holiday newsletter. They don't

solve every problem we have going on in

our life, but they steady us. They

breathe hope into us. They remind us

that we're held by someone beyond who we

are. Those small, quiet moments carry

power we didn't expect. And that same

kind of power came in that baby that was

wrapped in those swaddling clothes

instead of in royal robes. Bethlehem

teaches us that God often does really

big things in small places. God's peace

doesn't begin on a world stage. It does

not begin in palaces. It does not begin

in the headlines or with big

announcements. It starts in those quiet

corners, in those unnoticed spaces, in

those simple gestures that a lot of

people miss. So, let me ask you this

question. How many of you in your life

is something big going on, but you feel

like it's too small to share with

others? You know, maybe it's that

decision that you're trying to make, but

you don't feel real confident about it.

Maybe it's the prayer you keep praying,

but you haven't seen it answered. Maybe

it's the effort you put into your

families that sometimes feels unnoticed.

Any mothers here? Yeah. How about the

effort that you offer at work that no

one applauds or the the healing that

you've been longing for that uh just

feels like there's silence and you're in

this fragile state. You see, we tend to

assume that God works in the big and in

the bold and in the newsworthy. But

Advent reminds us that God loves to

begin in the places that we often

overlook. God says that that small

place, that small effort, that small

prayer, that small hope, that's exactly

where I want to start. It's just like

Bethlehem. Because peace didn't arrive

with fanfare. Peace began quietly. It

begins quietly in you. It begins quietly

in me. It begins quietly in those small

spaces that God is planning something

new. You see, peace is not a situation.

Peace is a shepherd. Micah continues his

prophecy with these powerful words. He

will stand and shepherd his flock and

there will be peace. Notice what Micah

doesn't say. He doesn't say he will

create peace. He doesn't say he will

assign peace. He doesn't say he will

negotiate peace. Micah says something

completely different and deeper. He says

he will be their peace. Peace is not a

situation. Peace is not the absence of

problems. Peace is not everything

finally going the way we would hope it

would go. Peace is who stands with us.

Peace is the presence of a shepherd. In

scripture, shepherds don't just feed

sheep. Shepherds guard, they guide, they

protect, they defend, they carry, and

they stay close to sheep. A shepherd's

presence is the sheep's peace.

Jesus doesn't just hand us a feeling and

walk away. He is our peace, steady,

watchful, and close by. I cannot tell

you as a pastor how many times I have

walked into a hospital room where

nothing felt peaceful. Monitors beeping

in every direction. Ba bad news hanging

like a cloud over the room. Uh answers

not coming as quickly as people want or

need them to come. Medical staff rushing

in and out uh with urgency

by every outside measure. The rooms full

of anxiety, uncertainty, and fear. And

yet, right there in that very room, I

have watched Christ's peace settle over

a family like a soft blanket. Not

because the diagnosis changed, not

because the storm stopped, not because

everything was suddenly okay, but

because there was a shepherd standing

beside them,

because they knew they were not alone in

that room.

That's peace. It's not the change of

circumstances, but it's the presence of

Christ in those circumstances.

You know, if you're a parent, and maybe

this is just me, but have you ever been

a parent that waits up for their

teenager to get home at night and you

sit in a dark house and you stare at a

driveway with a light on it just waiting

for them to get home. And then you feel

all this anxiety and you your mind takes

you in all kinds of places it probably

shouldn't go. And then you see the

headlights appear and the car pulls in

and the door opens and they're home.

They don't even know you're watching.

But there's this slow sense of peace in

your life. Not because the fear and

anxiety are gone, but because their

presence

overcomes that. That's what Christ does

for us. He stands watch. He keeps the

light on in the driveway. He waits for

us. He shepherds us. He stays present.

He doesn't sleep. He never leaves. He

never stops watching the driveway of our

life. Peace is not a guarantee that bad

things won't happen. Peace is a

guarantee that Jesus will be with us no

matter what happens. That's the kind of

peace that Micah promises. Not a

peaceful situation, but a faithful

shepherd. Oh little town of Bethlehem

gives us one of the most beautiful lines

that I think we sing in any Christmas

carol. Yet in thy dark streets shineth

the everlasting life, light. Notice the

wording. Not after the dark streets, not

beyond the dark streets, not after

everything is fixed and healed and put

back together and it's no longer dark,

but in the dark streets, right in the

middle of whatever is shadowing or heavy

or uncertain in our life. Jesus doesn't

wait for the world to brighten before he

arrives. He brings the light with him

into the darkness. Maybe you've lived

this scene. You're sitting at your

kitchen table. All your bills are spread

across the table. Your laptop is open.

And you're starting to put things

together. And the numbers just start

adding up. And you kind of think to

yourself, I don't know how we're going

to make it through this month. You feel

alone, overwhelmed, and unsure. That's a

dark street. And yet, right there, not

after things get better, but while

you're still trying to breathe through

all that uncertainty, Christ shines his

light. Maybe it's through the unexpected

generosity of a friend. Maybe it's

through a surprising provision. Maybe

you realize you just don't know how to

do math and everything's going to be

okay.

Maybe m maybe it's simply a sense that

God has not forgotten you. You see,

peace isn't the absence of struggle.

pieces the presence of Christ at the

kitchen table full of bills. There's

another kind of dark street. That empty

chair at Christmas dinner. The chair

that used to hold the person that you

laughed with, that you cried with, that

you celebrated with. The absence feels

loud. It feels heavy. And it feels

unfair. And yet Christ shows up right

there gently, quietly, and tenderly. You

see, peace doesn't cancel grief. Peace

doesn't tell you to get over it. Peace

walks with you through the grief. Peace

holds you while your heart aches. Peace

whispers, "You're not alone in this."

The everlasting light shines in the

streets of darkness, of loss and love.

And sometimes our dark street might not

be that dramatic. Might it might just be

relational. You know, the phone call

we're avoiding, the apology that feels

too hard, the conversation that we

dread, the relationship that feels

strange, strained, the bridge that needs

mended, the truth that we don't know how

to say.

We rehearse what we're going to say. We

worry about how it's going to be

received. We want to fix it, but we

don't know how. That's a dark street,

too. And yet, we're promised that Jesus

will light the next step in front of us.

Unfortunately, we probably won't get the

whole path to see where we're going, but

we do get the next step. Peace shows up

in the courage we didn't know we had. In

the grace that softens somebody's heart,

in the rec reconciliation that we didn't

think was possible. Peace doesn't wait

for circumstances to become bright.

Peace brings brightness with it into the

dark streets, into the hard moments,

into the places that we least expect.

That's the miracle of Bethlehem. The

carol says, "The hopes and fears of all

the years are met in thee tonight." We

get the hopes part, right? Absolutely.

We see peace in the hopes, but also in

the fears. I mean, for those of you that

are parents today, in this complicated

world, you're carrying hopes and fears

at the same time. Hopes for your

children's future, fear about the kind

of world they're going to grow up in.

Hopes that they're going to make good

decisions. fear that they might get

hurt, hopes that they're going to stay

close to God, fear that they're going to

drift away. Christ meets us in both the

hopes and the fears. Others of us, we

might be negotiating that season where

we're taking care of an aging parent or

parents. There's hope. We're grateful to

still have them, but there's fear

because we're watching them decline.

Jesus meets us in both. He's the peace

for the caregiver and he's peace for the

person receiving the care. Maybe your

workplace is shifting. Maybe you're

worried about layoffs or you're sensing

a transition. Hopes and fears collide

every morning before you walk into the

building. Christ meets you right there.

Christ doesn't wait for your fear to

disappear. He steps into it just like he

stepped into Bethlehem. Now the final

verse of Oh Little Town of Bethlehem

becomes a prayer. Oh holy child of

Bethlehem, descend us we pray. Cast out

our sin and enter in. Be born in us

today. You see, peace doesn't come from

our environment. It comes from our

welcome.

I know a few people that have been

overwhelmed

over the last several December and they

were exhausted with the pressure to make

everything perfect. So they decided to

do something different. One year they

simplified. Fewer gifts, more

conversation, fewer events, more rest,

fewer expectations, more prayer. And

they discovered a peace that they hadn't

felt in years. You see, sometimes peace

is found when we stop performing

Christmas and we start receiving the

Christ of Christmas.

I recently talked to someone that told

me they didn't have time in their life

to pray. So, they made God a deal that

they were going to give God 10 minutes

every morning before their day started.

And they said it totally changed their

life. It transformed their entire season

because God doesn't need hours. God just

needs some room. Bethlehem teaches us

that peace starts small. It shines in

the darkness. It comes quietly. It meets

us in our fears and it grows whenever

and wherever we welcome Christ in

Bethlehem was tiny. It was unnoticed. It

was ordinary. But that's where Christ

chose to be born.

So maybe the most honest and most

faithful prayer that we can pray this

advent is,"Lord,

make my heart Bethlehem,

small, open, quiet, and ready for your

peace. Make my heart a place where you

can be born again. Make my life a

manger, simple, imperfect, and yet open

for your presence. Make my soul

receptive to your light in the dark

streets of my own story.

Because Micah's promise still holds true

today. He will be their peace. Not

someday, not somewhere else, not when

life finally settles down and goes the

way we think it should, but right now,

right here in us.

Today, a little bit later in the

service, we're going to celebrate the

sacrament of communion. I want you to

remember something beautiful as we

receive communion later. The word

Bethlehem actually means house of bread.

How fitting that the one born in a house

of bread now meets us as we break the

bread. How fitting that the Prince of

Peace comes to us through something so

small and so simple and so quiet as a

piece of bread and as a cup of juice.

Communion is a Bethlehem moment. It's

the place where Christ comes near.

It's where peace is not just an idea.

It's a person. It's where the shepherd

gathers his flock. It's where the

everlasting light shines into those dark

streets. It's where the Savior becomes

our sustenance. It's where the house of

bread becomes our house and our heart.

So as we prepare ourselves to receive

that holy [snorts] sacrament today, may

our prayer be Lord, make my heart

Bethlehem.

Let's pray. Lord, we ask that you make

room in us for your peace. Make space

for your presence. Be born again in the

quiet places of our souls. Stand with us

in the dark streets. [snorts] Shepherd

us with your unfailing love. Because the

same Jesus who came to Bethlehem comes

to us today. And the same Jesus who was

their peace is here to be our peace as

well.

Thank you for meeting us where we are

at.

Amen.

>> Good morning, church family.