A sermon preached at St. George’s Episcopal church, Hellertown, PA on Christmas Eve, 2008 by the rector, the Rev. Raymond L. Harbort 

There are lots of nameless people in the Gospels I’d like to know more about.

On of them is that innkeeper in Bethlehem.  What kind of person was he?  In many Christmas pageants the child playing the innkeeper is told to greet  Joseph’s knock with something like “Go away. There’s no more room.”  In ours next Sunday it will just be an emphatic shake of the head.  But I once heard of a good-hearted kid who just couldn’t be inhospitable.  “Come right in”, he said.  “We’ll find room somewhere.”  And, of course, everyone laughed—even his embarrassed parents. 

     A hard-hearted innkeeper makes for good show.  But it’s an unwarranted and uncharitable assumption to make about someone we don’t even know.  The innkeeper might have been gruff—especially if he was feeling overwhelmed or frustrated and guilty about not being able to help this man with the pregnant wife.  But reading between the lines, tradition has come to assume that he did the best he could under the circumstances.  He offered the stable out back. 

     However it happened, that’s where our Lord was born—that stable---blessing it and making it holy by being born there.  And that’s the way it has always been—and is now.  Christ is always seeking a place to be born and to live, to make holy and blessed by his presence.  “Behold, I stand at the door and knock”, says our Lord in the Book of Revelation. “If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him and him with me.” 

     Our lord is always with us, of course; caring for us and blessing us everyday with blessings small and great—telltale signs of his presence and his love for us----for us to see and know.  Moment by moment, he waits for us to invite him in so that he can become more and more a part of our lives,--of us—that we might share in his life.  And, of course, he is with us in one another and especially in the least of his brothers and sisters----and ours:  the poor, the powerless, the oppressed—those in any need or trouble.  They are Christ to us.  And, in this dark and difficult time of economic crisis (and we’re told it will get worse before it gets better) they are many.

     We all know the story.  Prices for food and basic necessities have risen while wages haven’t.  Unemployment is rising, and with it hunger and foreclosures and homelessness.  Investments for children’s education and for people’s retirement have been shrinking or have been entirely wiped out.   People are afraid.   Marriages are stressed.  Some of those affected are our neighbors, our relatives, our friends. Some of them may be us.  And they—the least, the lost, the last in line----are Christ to us.  And we who are Christ’s Body are called to be Christ to them: to make whatever room we can for them in our hearts, our lives, our prayers, our budgets and, yes, maybe in our homes if it comes to that. 

     Tonight, as for many years, there will come that moment in the service after we receive our Lord in Holy Communion.  The lights will dim, our candles lighted, and we’ll share that light until it fills this whole church.  It is wonderful way of celebrating the birth of Christ the light of the world.  He is the light of the world because he reveals God’s nature to us as never before.  He is the light of the world because he shows us what it means to be human and how we are to live.   He shows us what it means to live under God’s rule, to live into the kingdom of God.   

    After we kneel and sing “silent night”, we’ll put out the candles we’ve been holding in these clever plastic holders and we’ll soon go home.  In the parish I attended as a kid we all got candle stubs the altar guild had been saving.  But after singing “Silent Night” we didn’t put them out!  The idea was to carry the light out into the world with us.  It was a nice concept---except that it was messy and inconvenient. Hot wax everywhere!—on your clothes, on the car upholstery,--maybe on your little brother’s hair.  And often we didn’t get beyond than the church door before the wind blew it out.  Maybe not such a good idea.  But it made the point.  Jesus said, “I am the light of the world.”  But he also says to us in another place, “You are the light of the world.” 

     How can we make room for Christ?  How can we be Christ to others?  How can we be the light of Christ in this dark time we’re going through---or any time?  Maybe we think that our light—whatever any one of us can do won’t do much to brighten the lives of others, to lighten their load, give them shelter, and courage.

But, the darker the night the more visible our light. 

     Being aware of our neighbors’ needs.  Doing without what we want but don’t need so others can have what they need. Getting in the habit of giving—even one item a week for the local food pantry.  Taking the time to listen to someone’s trouble.  Just a word of encouragement or an act of kindness that can keep someone from losing hope or giving up trying.  It all matters.  Nothing done for the kingdom of God is wasted. 

Our Lord, the Light of the world, comes to feed us and rejoice us in this broken bread and outpoured wine and to give us his very life.  And he bids us to go out and be bread for others and his light for others—however we can.  Blessed are those who make room for him-----and for the least of his sisters and brothers--- for he comes in with them.  And may God bless us every one, this night and always.  Amen.