Bethlehem is a busy place right now.  Palestinian Christians are decorating their homes with Christmas lights and manger scenes.  Outside the Church of the Nativity, concerts are held and carols are sung.  The large Lutheran church, right outside of Bethlehem, is packed with worshippers, coming together in the hope and in the joy of this sacred time.

            They are selling nativity scenes, as well.  Little wooden carvings of the Christmas story, made of olive wood, in the midst of the Holy Land.  Most of the nativity scenes look like the ones we imagine, a tiny stable with a manger in the center.  Mary and Joseph, bent over the baby, looks of adoration on their faces as the gaze lovingly at their newborn son.  Some shepherds, some sheep, and 3 magi, bearing gifts.  They are beautiful nativity scenes, reflections of the peace and love of this season.

            But other Palestinian Christians are selling a different type of nativity scene this year.  The stable is still there, Mary and Joseph and Jesus remain, but right in the middle of this peaceful portrait, there is a large, solid wall.  And that wall is blocking the magi; they cannot get to the manger.  The wall in this scene looks exactly like the actual wall in Bethlehem, that blocks Palestinians from jobs, from family, from freedom.

            My friend Jeff lives in the West Bank, and he spoke to some of the vendors about these nativity scenes.  One man declared that he would never sell such a nativity; it is too disturbing; he feels it is slightly sacrilegious.  But a different vendor, who places the walled nativity right beside the traditional one, believes that these scenes are very important.  It is Bethlehem then, and it is Bethlehem now. 

            At Christmas, we celebrate Emmanuel, God with us.  And some of us have beautiful nativity scenes, surrounded by family and laugher and great job.  And some of us have a hard time at Christmas; we miss old traditions, we long for those who are gone, we worry about money, about the state of the world.  But no matter what our nativity scenes look like – whether they have a wall, or some missing pieces, God is there.  God was in Bethlehem then, God is in Bethlehem now, God is here with us: Emmanuel.

            As we look at Luke’s Christmas story, we see how vital this notion of Emmanuel is to our survival in the world.  Jesus’ birth did not happen in a safe place.  No, Luke starts off the birth narrative outside the stable, where Augustus is emperor and Quirinius the governor.  This information is not just for the sake of offering a date and time; it speaks to the oppressive reality, the fear and the pain, that Mary and Joseph and Jesus faced. 

Outside that stable at Bethlehem, the empire is orchestrating a census, in order to more effectively tax the population.  In the ancient world, taxes were profoundly oppressive, especially in an economic system brimming with individuals living on the edge of subsistence.  This census was part of a brutal system that left peasants in grinding poverty, facing very short and hard lives. 

Outside that stable in Bethlehem, plans were being made to murder newborn sons, and the empire systematically crucified those who challenged the power of the king.  Outside that stable in Bethlehem, there was a wall, a very real wall, between those in power and those in abject poverty.

But inside the stable, we find an infant.  Certainly, it does not seem that an infant born in poverty, inside a barn, to people already on the margins, that he would be the one to challenge the world outside the stable: an infant, who relies entirely on the love and care of Mary and Joseph to meet every one of his needs.  An infant, who needs to be soothed in the middle of the night, an infant, who needs to be lovingly fed, an infant, who needs to be carried, rocked, and cradled.  This infant, inside the stable, what can he do about the world outside the stable?

From his very first days, Jesus is aligned with those who suffer most, but still hope for much better, with those who rely on the kindness of family and strangers alike merely to survive.  If Jesus were born today, we would probably find him in a truck stop or a homeless shelter.  Certainly, in Jesus’ nativity scene, there is a large and looming wall outside the stable.

Inside the stable, however, we find the very presence of God.  We find a baby, love made flesh, and parents full of courage, faith, and joy.  We see the shepherds, social outcasts of their time, welcomed into this makeshift home.  We see the light of the star, we hear the songs of the angels, we feel the warmth of the hay, and we know that God is here.  Inside the stable, there is hope, there is love, there is peace, there is room for all people.  Inside the stable, we see this baby, and we know he will turn the world upside down.

We know that the Christmas story is not a period, it is a comma.  And because we know that Jesus will walk out into the world, that Jesus will leave the stable, that Jesus will confront the powers of oppression and violence…because we know all this, we come to worship tonight.  God is inside the stable, but God is outside of the stable, as well.  

God is there, where walls are built.  God is there, where kings plot revenge.  God is there, where poverty strangles.  God is there, where loneliness dwells.  Inside and outside the stable, we find God.  In a nativity scene without a wall, and in a nativity scene with a looming barricade, we find God.

I love this Christmas story, told by Stephen Shane; it is the story of a man who stayed home on Christmas Eve, disillusioned by church and by the idea of incarnation.  “As the snow began to fall, he went and sat by the fire, opening up the newspaper and settling in for the night.

“Minutes later he was startled by a thudding sound. Then another and another. At first he thought someone must be throwing snowballs against his living room window. He went to the front door and found a flock of birds huddled miserably in the snow. They had been caught in the storm and in a desperate search for shelter they had tried to fly through his large landscape window. 

“He couldn't let the poor creatures lie there and freeze. He remembered the barn where his children stabled their pony. That would provide a warm shelter -- if he could direct the birds to it. He quickly put on his coat and galoshes, trampled through the deepening snow to the barn, opened the door wide, and turned on a light. But the birds did not come in. He figured food would entice them in and he hurried back to the house, fetched bread crumbs, sprinkled them on the snow making a trail to the yellow lighted wide open doorway of the stable, but to his dismay the birds ignored the bread crumbs, and continued to flap around helplessly in the snow. He tried catching them, he tried shooing them into the barn by walking around them waving his arms -- instead they scattered in every direction except into the warm lighted barn.

“Then he realized they were afraid of him. ‘To them,’ he reasoned, ‘I am a strange and terrifying creature, if only I could think of some way to let them know they can trust me. That I'm not trying to hurt them, but to help them.’ How? Any move he made tended to frighten them, confuse them. They just would not follow. They would not be led or shooed because they feared him. ‘If only I could be a bird myself,’ he thought. ‘If only I could be a bird and mingle with them and speak their language, and tell them not to be afraid, and show them the way to the safe, warm barn. But I'd have to be one of them, so they could see and hear and understand.’ At that moment the church bells began to ring. The sound reached his ears above the sound of the wind. He stood there listening to the bells pealing the glad tidings of Christmas. And he sank to his knees in the snow.”

God becoming one of us.  So that wherever we go, God is there.  To lead us into the warm, lighted barn, on a cold dark night.  To tell us that there is no reason to be afraid.  To be with us, inside and outside the stable.

Over and over again, in Luke’s Christmas story, we hear the words, “Do not be afraid.” The angel speaks these words to Mary.  The angel speaks these words to Zechariah.  The angel speaks these words to the shepherds.  There is a reason that this phrase is repeated over and over again.  “Do not be afraid.”  When God is with us, inside and outside of the stable, we do not need to be afraid.  God is here, and God is there, and God is everywhere.  And so all the world becomes a safe place, for all the world is filled with the presence of God.

            We may be in the midst of a challenging time, where fears and frustration assail us.  We may be happy and joyous this night, anticipating fun and frivolity.  And we may be both, full of joy, but also plagued by worry.  Full of gratitude, but also troubled by nagging doubt.  We may be lonely, we may be lost, we may be full of confusion.  But no matter where we are, God is there, too.  And so we need not be afraid, for no matter where we are now, and no matter where we are going, we can proclaim, “Emmanuel.”  God is with us.  In the stable, and outside the stable, as well.

Bill Adams tells the story of a nativity pageant that didn't go quite as planned.  “The youth group at the church was performing a manger scene.  Joseph and Mary and all the other characters were in place and ready.  They did their parts with seriousness and commitment, looking as pious as they possibly could.

“And then it came time for the shepherds to enter.  Dressed in flannel bathrobes and toweled head gear, the shepherds proceeded to the altar steps where Mary and Joseph looked earnestly at the straw which contained a single shining light bulb that was playing the part of the glowing newborn Jesus.

“With his back to the congregation, one of the shepherds said to the person playing Joseph, in a very loud whisper for all the cast to hear, ‘Well, Joe, when you gonna pass out cigars?’

“The solemn spell of that occasion was not simply broken by his remark, it was exploded. Mary and Joseph's cover was completely destroyed as it became impossible to hold back the bursts of laughter.  The chief angel, who was standing on a chair behind them, was the worst of all.  She shook so hard in laughter that she fell off her chair and took the curtained back drop, and all the rest of the props, down with her.  She just kept rolling around on the floor holding her stomach because she was laughing so hard.  The whole set was in shambles.

“But do you know what?  The only thing that didn't go to pieces was that light bulb in the manger…it never stopped shining.”

That baby in the manger is the light of my world, even when my world is in shambles.  For in that baby, I can see that God is with me when I am inside the stable, and when I am out in the cold.  God’s love is a light that never stops shining.

            When walls are built, when oppressive rulers threaten violence, when someone is missing at your nativity, when Christmas pageants fall apart, the light still shines.  God is still there.

If your nativity scene is blocked in or out by a wall, God is still there.  If your nativity scene is missing a shepherd, God is still there.  If your nativity scene is absent of Mary, God is still there.  And if your nativity scene is bursting at the seams, with giggling children and barking dogs, God is there, as well.  God is with us, Emmanuel, and we are never alone.

One more thing about the Palestinian nativity scene.  As my friend Jeff continued his conversation with the vendor of walled nativities, the man affirmed his belief that it is important to see that barricade as a part of the Christmas story.  “But,” he said, “it should never be attached.  It is very important that the wall can be removed.”

Jesus came into a world of walls, into a world of imperfection, and even today, he is breaking down walls, breaking into our lives, and dwelling with us, whether we are inside the stable, or outside surrounded by walls, we know that one day, the walls will come down, and God will remain.  Always and forever.

Amen.