*Adapted from a sermon preached on December 27, 2009, at Peace Mennonite Church by Joanna Harader.

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I will admit to you this morning that, despite my deep and abiding love for my husband, I have quite a crush on Mr. Darcy. You know, the pompous love interest in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Darcy is great in the book, and especially great in movies when you can hear him say all of his rude lines in a terribly charming British accent.

Anyway, my fondness for Darcy caused one of those infamous NPR driveway moments for me on Christmas Eve morning. Renee Montagne was interviewing Colin Firth—who has famously played the role of Darcy. And I just had to listen.

Of course, Colin Firth is not Darcy; he is an actor who was discussing his most recent role as George in A Single Man. George, a college English professor, is single because his partner of 16 years, Jim, has recently died. Renee Mantagne said it seemed strange that the flashbacks George has of his time with Jim are memories of quite mundane things. One memory is of George and Jim sitting on the sofa reading books and arguing about whose turn it is to change the record.

Firth responds that these mundane experiences, these seemingly ordinary experiences, are actually the most extraordinary things. Firth says that George could, if he wanted to, go out and find someone to have a night of passion with. He could do the drama of a relationship. But he cannot reproduce the intimacy that was earned through sixteen years of life together.

Two people sitting together on the couch reading their books. It’s so very ordinary. Yet extraordinary.

Like a man and a woman traveling to their hometown for the census. Anyone seeing the pregnant woman ride by on the camel would assume she was married to the man leading the animal. Casual observers would know nothing about the angel who visited Mary or the agony Joseph had gone through when he learned his fiancée was pregnant. Mary and Joseph seemed like perfectly ordinary travelers. Only we, who know the story, see in them the extraordinary.

We know about the angel visitations; we know that Mary will give birth to Jesus—the Messiah. Maybe it is this knowledge that leads us to add elements of the extraordinary to the next part of the story. This whole, incredible nativity scene (minus the wisemen who we hear about from Matthew) comes from one verse. Verse 7: “And she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.”

That’s it. No stable. No lowing cattle. I must admit I felt a bit disillusioned to learn that the Greek word translated here as “inn” is more accurately translated as “guest room.” It is the same word used to refer to the room in which Jesus and his disciples eat the last supper. And that it was common for animals to be brought into a courtyard or even part of a house at night—so the presence of a manger does not necessarily mean that Jesus was born in a stable or a cave.

Based on Luke’s brief account, it is quite possible that Mary and Joseph were staying with a relative in Bethlehem when Jesus was born. Since cousin Fred was already staying in the guest room with his wife and six kids, Mary and Joseph slept on the lower level where the animals were often brought in for the night.

Jesus’ birth was probably not particularly extraordinary. Of course, any birth is extraordinary at some level. Still, babies are born every day. It is a fairly ordinary event.

The part of the story that cannot be viewed as ordinary in any way is the proclamation of the angels to the shepherds. “An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them . . . Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,
‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to those on whom God’s favor rests.’”

This is truly extraordinary. So extraordinary that these shepherds abandon the sheep they are supposed to be watching and head into town in search of this baby.

A normal baby. Wrapped in cloths the way any poor baby would be. Maybe another extraordinary aspect of this story is that the shepherds find Mary and Joseph and the baby. This baby that the angel said was a savior, the Messiah, the Lord.

I wonder how they knew it was Jesus when they found him.

Maybe the angel gave them directions—head straight into town on highway 50 then turn left at the stop light, right at the four-way stop, it’s the second house on the left—bright blue with green trim—can’t miss it.

Maybe there was a holy glow around the mother and child, even around the house—like in the old paintings.

Maybe they could hear the baby crying and screaming from a mile away.

Maybe Joseph was in front of the house pacing back and forth back and forth wondering what in the world he was going to do now that he had a fiancée and a baby to support.

Luke doesn’t tell us how they found the baby, just that they found the baby. And it seems they are the only ones—besides the family—to give any notice to the newborn. Other people are not amazed by the birth itself, but are amazed by what the shepherds tell them.

Somehow, it is just the ordinary shepherds who are able to recognize the extraordinary nature of this seemingly ordinary baby.

You may or may not realize that there is a lot of theology packed into this little story of a baby’s birth. The whole theology of incarnation—God becoming human. Centuries of theological and political intrigue revolved around questions of the nature of Christ. Who or what was this baby born in Bethlehem? The Nicaean Creed affirmed that Jesus was fully divine and fully human—not that anyone really knew what that meant.

Unfortunately (from my perspective, at least) we do not have the time this morning to plumb the depths of Christology. We will have to leave the discussion of how Jesus can be fully human and fully divine for another day.

Still, this Christmas story shows that the human and divine can and do interact. That the ordinary and extraordinary are not that easily distinguished from one another.
The Divine may come to us in family stopping in after a long journey. Or the Divine may burst upon us like a host of angels singing “Glory.”

We may know the Divine through a miraculous physical healing or pregnancy. Or we may know the Divine in the wonder of a perfectly natural process like the healing of a wound or the birth of a baby.

If we are looking for the Divine, we may have the words of scripture—or angels—to guide us. We may not.

There may be telltale signs of Divinity—a holy glow, celestial music. Or maybe not.

Maybe we find the Divine by listening with new ears to the cries of pain and joy that we hear every day.

Maybe we find the Divine by learning the story of the pregnant teenager. By talking with the nervous new father.

The gift, the grace, that God wants for us is that we know the Divine now. That we appreciate the extraordinary in our lives as we live them—not merely as we flash back to what has been lost.

To be in love with your spouse. To visit with a sibling. To laugh with your children. To play with your nieces and nephews. To share a meal with friends. To read a great book. To make footprints in the deep and beautiful snow.

The Divine is here. That is why we call him Emmanuel—God with us. The God who came to dwell with us over 2000 years ago is still here—still insisting that the ordinary is indeed extraordinary.

If we can go forth like the shepherds, looking for God in the ordinary; expecting to find the Holy in a common baby—some baby, somewhere—we will indeed find God.

I pray the mundane things of our lives will not seem so mundane in the light of Jesus’ birth.

To sit comfortably together in this space, singing and praying; laughing and crying. Extraordinary.

To love and be loved. By each other. By God. Extraordinary.

Thanks be to God. And Merry Christmas.