Opossum Screed: This Thing

Sermon for Christmas Eve
December 24, 2024

Let us go see this thing which is come to pass…

—Luke 2:15

The most marvelous news in the history of the universe up to that point, and this is how the King James Bible translates it: this thing. It’s kinda quaint, I suppose, but it almost seems rather disrespectful to refer to the birth of Messiah as this thing.

But it’s not just some quaint little feature of the way they spoke 400 years ago. This is exactly what just about every English translation says—including the ones in our pews: this thing.

That’s not what it says in other languages, and it’s not what it says in the original Greek. You know how we can say in English when we want to be really precise, “Let us go see that which has happened.” That’s perfectly good English. Well, in the Greek, you can also say, “Let’s go see this which has happened.” And it can be translated into, say, Spanish and German without bringing the word thing into it at all. But this which doesn’t work in English—we can say that which, but not this which. And so the birth of the Son of God ends up being called this thing, as far as we’re concerned— perhaps the most incredible understatement in the history of human language.

But what is this thing that has come to pass, this thing that has happened that the shepherds have just heard about? Yes, it’s a birth—but it’s the only birth that has ever happened that we can call an Incarnation. Incarnation is a fancy word for the fleshing-out of God—the appearance of the Divine in human form.

But the way it happened—the way the Bible tells us the story—this thing is not just some fancy theological concept; it’s a challenge to all humankind for the rest of history. It’s not just a test of faith, it’s a test of character. It’s a question not only about what you believe about God; it’s a question about what you believe about people.

But what would we expect of the night when Immanuel—God with us—appeared on earth?

I’m sure that, had you asked most people in that time, if they believed it could happen that God could be born as a human being, where and how would it happen? They would predict that God would appear in human form in the Temple, or perhaps in a magnificent palace, or—at the very least— in a mighty stronghold protected by a great army. God would be born into a royal family, a powerful family, to parents who were leaders in their country, known for their service to their religion. God would come in a way that would demand the respect and recognition of all people. God would be comfortable and secure.

But Christians don’t believe that’s the way it happened… not at all. God was not only born in poverty, God was born on the road. The Incarnation turns out to be our equivalent of God being born to teenage parents in a truck stop parking lot. The first bed of the Son of The Most High ended up being a feeding trough, because there was no other place for him to sleep.

The birth of Messiah as it has come down to us is almost literally a question: If there was no room for him in the inn, is there room for him in your heart? If he was one of the most vulnerable newborns ever to be brought into this world, what would we do to keep him healthy and to make him safe? Isaiah told us that he would come as God-with-us, but nobody expected the us that God was with to be the poor and the migrant and the homeless.

But this thing that has come to pass has two sides. God became human, and so it’s not just a question of what we believe about God, but also a question of what we believe about our fellow human being. Because we believe in God, we must also have faith in those around us— not just the powerful and the respectable, but also the least among us, the most vulnerable, those who are ignored by the very people we sometimes look up to.

Let me pause for a moment to read to you a poem from the collection I read from several times during Advent— Kneeling in Bethlehem, by Ann Weems.* This one is called Had We Been There:

Into the stable they straggled, poor and dirty,
hardly suitably dressed for polite society.
Had we been Joseph
we would have feared robbery.
Had we been Mary
we would have feared germs around our newborn.
Had we been God
these are not the ones we would have chosen
to first come and see the Child.
After all, they showed a certain carelessness
about the rules of the church.
And yet, God-chosen, they came
to kneel and worship him
whom we would later call the Good Shepherd.
Perhaps we could brush up on our humbleness.

We, too, are God-chosen to be present at Messiah’s birth— perhaps not by the side of the manger in Bethlehem, but here at the table… here in our town. God asks us to believe that Messiah will come to meet us where we are, and to believe that, no matter who we are or where we are on life’s journey, God is not just one of them, but one of us— that we, like the shepherds on Christmas night, are welcome in the presence of the Son of The Most High. God has called us together tonight to be part of this thing that has come to pass. So please know that the table is spread, and that you have been invited to a feast celebrating the most amazing thing that has happened in the history of the universe: God is with us—God is here, and God is glad you’re here, too!