12/30/2025
Pastor Heidi gave a WONDERFUL sermon yesterday (as usual), and we want to share it with everyone - even if you couldn’t make it to Booneville - so here it is!
What Now?
Well here we are, on the other side of Christmas, and it can sometimes feel like a letdown after all that anticipation. As a child, I don’t know about you, but I often got so caught up in the buildup of excitement for Christmas morning that I felt kind of down afterward. I don’t know if it was sadness or boredom or what, but it was almost as if I had grown attached to all the anticipation, that I felt a sort of void after it was gone. And I think as adults, we can feel something similar, although it may be in a deeper and more complicated way. And it’s almost always coupled with a certain level of exhaustion.
As adults, we move through Advent with a sense of wonder and awe as we anticipate the coming of God as a newborn in Christ. Along the way, we bear witness to so many good things—acts of service and kindness, generosity and compassion, unseasonable warmth, remarkable displays of humanity and love. There is something about this season that opens us up to one another and makes us believe, at least for a little while, that the world really could be different.
And then Christmas comes, and almost as quickly as it does, we find ourselves wondering: What now?
Because once the celebrations quiet down and the decorations are put away, we look around and realize that the world still looks pretty much the same as it did before. We still see poverty and hunger, addiction and hopelessness. We hear about oppression and violence, political discord, leaders concerned more with their own power and glory, and people still being abused, exploited, and silenced.
So where is the hope now? Or the love? Or the balance and peace that were promised with the coming of our one true King?
And the thing is, this question is not new, because back then, after Jesus was born, the same thing happened.
They had just witnessed the miracle of the birth—the promises of God to Mary and Joseph coming to fruition, angels announcing good news, shepherds proclaiming what they had seen and heard—and God came to them not in power or might, but as a tiny human being, as a baby. Everyone seemed swept up in the wonder of it all.
But then Joseph hears from God again in a dream, and this time it isn’t about wonder or reassurance or good news at all. This time, it is a grave warning. He realizes that his child is in danger, and despite everything that has just happened, they still find themselves living in the same world they have always known.
A world ruled by Rome, governed by fear and control. A world where those in charge will do whatever it takes to protect their power.
I know our Journey with Adam Hamilton technically ended Christmas eve with the manger, but in his writing, he offered additional insight that can shed light on what happened just after the birth. He wrote about King Herod, who ruled Judea under Roman authority, and he mentioned that Herod was known historically for being both politically savvy and deeply insecure at the same time. He mentioned that while Herod was capable of remarkable building projects and strategic leadership, he was also consumed by fear of losing power—so much so that he ordered the ex*****on of members of his own family when he believed they posed a threat. And when I say members of his own family, I mean his wife… and two of his own sons.
So when Matthew tells us that Herod responds to the birth of a child called “king” with violence, this isn’t an exaggeration or a dramatic flourish—it’s a very realistic picture of what fear-driven leadership looks like.
And so Mary and Joseph don’t get to stay and savor the miracle, or raise their child quietly in the glow of new parenthood, because instead they have to run. It had to be hard on all of them, but I can’t help but think of poor Mary—how very young she was, how much she had endured, with a pregnancy that others undoubtedly questioned, a long journey when she was about to give birth, and then the labor itself, in a place that could not have been very comfortable. I know when I had my son, of course I had a C-section, but it took weeks to recover and even longer to just bask in the wonder and joy of new motherhood. But not our Mary. She and Joseph and her newborn baby had to flee into exile, to hide, and to escape Herod’s watchful eye and violent hunters, ultimately becoming refugees in Egypt.
And there is significance in the mention of Egypt as well, because in Scripture Egypt is a complicated place—a place where people sometimes fled to for safety, but also the place where the people of Israel were once enslaved, enduring generations of oppression, forced labor, and suffering. Matthew is intentionally drawing our attention to the fact that just as Israel once went down into Egypt and later came out, we now see Jesus going down into Egypt and knowing he will one day return.
But for Mary and Joseph, this isn’t about the wonder of something symbolic or theological—it’s very real, and terrifying and exhausting, because they are crossing borders, leaving behind their homes and families, and relying as refugees do, on the kindness of others just to keep their child alive.
That word refugee already carries so much with it—fear, displacement, vulnerability, and the constant uncertainty of not knowing when or if it will ever be safe to go home.
Their world, too, was still unchanged.
Matthew doesn’t let us stay very long at the manger, because he wants us to understand from the very beginning that the coming of Christ does not remove us from the realities of the world, it just puts God right in the middle of them.
The same child announced by angels is now being hunted by a king, and the same world that couldn’t make room in the inn now makes room for violence. Matthew doesn’t soften that reality or try to sugarcoat it, because to do so would be unfaithful to the story and to the people living it. And it makes it so much more relatable to us.
Because even now, empires remain violent. Leaders still seek glory and power. Innocent people are still oppressed. People all over still live in varying forms of fear and suffering.
Sometimes I think we wish that faith would work like flipping a switch—as though lighting the candles, singing the hymns, and proclaiming Emmanuel should mean that everything suddenly becomes easier, or more just, or less painful.
But the story reminds us that the presence of God does not mean the absence of pain. It just means that God has chosen to come near to us. To be right here in the midst of it all.
And it’s important to remember this, because God doesn’t come into the world as a kind of magical fix that overrides human reality, or removes our responsibility, or instantly solves everything that is broken—even though we might wish that were the case.
God comes among us not to magically fix everything, but to be with us, to walk alongside us, to support and empower us, and to show us what love really looks like when it’s lived out in the middle of fear, uncertainty, and broken systems.
Jesus didn’t come to replace our humanity, but to inhabit it—to teach us how to love one another, how to notice who is vulnerable, how to resist being driven by fear, and how to open our hearts so that God’s light can work through us for the good of God’s kingdom.
That means the work of Christmas doesn’t end at the manger, because the light that comes into the world through Christ is meant to keep moving and spreading—not in dramatic displays of power, but through ordinary people who are willing to make room for it and let it guide how they live. In other words, it’s up to us to shine the light of Christ for others.
That’s where our reading from Hebrews helps us understand what’s happening beneath the surface of all of this, because Hebrews reminds us that Jesus fully shares in our humanity—in our flesh and blood—and that God does not save us from a distance, but steps into vulnerability and fear and suffering alongside us.
Jesus knew what it is to be threatened, to be powerless, to depend on others for protection, and Hebrews tells us that he is not ashamed to call us brothers and sisters—which means there is no place we can go, and no experience we can have, where God says, I don’t know what that’s like.
Adam Hamilton points out that from the very beginning, Jesus didn’t separate himself or keep others at arm’s length, because before he ever teaches or heals or forgives, he lives among those who are poor, vulnerable, displaced, and afraid
So when we ask, What now? part of the answer is that we are not alone in asking it, and that God is not absent in the waiting.
Christmas is not the end of the story, but the beginning of a long and unfolding one. The hope promised at Jesus’ birth does not arrive all at once, but grows slowly and quietly, often in ways that are easy to miss.
Mary and Joseph do not overthrow Herod or dismantle the systems that threaten them. What they do is listen for God’s voice, protect their child, and do the next faithful thing—which is sometimes what hope looks like in real life. Not always some big dramatic gesture, but simply choosing love and care - even when we are afraid.
Hebrews tells us that Jesus comes to free us from being controlled by fear—not by pretending the danger isn’t real, but by reminding us that even in the midst of real danger, we don’t have to let fear dictate our actions or define who we become.
So what does What now? mean for us, standing here on the other side of Christmas?
It might mean that we stop waiting for everything to be resolved, and start paying attention to where love is needed right now—that we notice who is vulnerable and choose to stand with them, that we question the misuse of power when we see it, and that we make room where the world insists there is none.
It might mean remembering that following Christ has always involved courage and compassion, and a willingness to be shaped by love. The story we celebrate at Christmas has always been about God entering a broken world and inviting us to participate in the healing.
The Christ child does not ask us to fix everything, but he does ask us to show up, to pay attention, and to allow God’s light to work through us in whatever ways we can.
In a little while we will sing Joy to the World. I know we sang it a few weeks ago, but it’s worth singing again - I know it’s kind of a fan favorite. But what spoke to me this time was the final verse: “He rules with truth and grace, and makes the nations prove the glories of his righteousness and the wonders of his love.” The world isn’t perfect, and until he comes again, it won’t be. But in the meantime, it’s up to us to help remind the world of those glories and those wonders—to be the light that shined so brightly during the Christmas season.
That work is ongoing. The story is still unfolding. And we are a vital part of it.
So what now?
Now we carry Christmas with us—into ordinary days and difficult places—trusting that Christ is with us, and still coming, through every act of courage, compassion, justice, and love.
May it be so for each of us.
