All The People

Jesus’ birth was anticipated by prophets, announced by angels and accompanied by astronomical anomalies. You would think an event that important would first be delivered to the most important people.

People like Caesar Augustus, the most powerful man on the planet and in control of much of the world from his palace in Rome. But the word of the Lord did not reach him first. Herod, King of Judea, was not the first to receive the news nor was Quirinius, the ruler of Syria. Not even Caiaphas, the high priest in Jerusalem.

The word of the Lord came first to a teenaged girl named Mary and her carpenter fiancée, Joseph. It came to Zechariah, a low level Jewish priest serving his rotation in the temple and to Elizabeth, his old wife waiting at home. Some scraggly looking shepherds who are as anonymous now as they were then, were among the first to receive the news.

The news that the savior had been born was first announced to an unimpressive company assuring the least of us that all of us are elected for this good news. As the angel put it in Luke 2:10 & 11, I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today, in the town of David, a savior has been born  . . . to you.

To whom was the Savior born? To the guy who repairs your car. The fellow with grease ground into the grooves of his fingertips. The one who wears that uniform blue shirt with his name on the left pocket. Like the shepherds, the guy at the garage wears the smells and stains of his livelihood. He has the kind of job that requires him to take a shower after work, not before. Jesus was born to him.

To whom else was Jesus born? To the man who drives that beat up old van with a ladder roped to the top and a dozen stained Styrofoam cups on the dash. He subcontracts for the developer who built your house. His name might be Joe or Jesús. His English might be dripping with southern drawl or a south-of-the-border accent, but either way, you can tell he has spent a few too many hot summer days driving nails into shingles on steep roofs. Or tossing scrap lumber into burn barrels on cold winter mornings to warm his hands so he can finish the bannister that curves up the steps of the house he’s building.

Like the woodworker who led Mary into Bethlehem and awkwardly held the crying baby in his callused hands, this construction worker knows more about the tools of a carpenter than the twenty dollar terms of a theologian. He knows all the words to all the songs by Merle Haggard or Vicente Fernandez and sings them while he works. Jesus was born to the guy who built your house.

And to whom else? To the waitress who takes your order at your favorite café. Like the mechanic, she also wears a name tag. Her’s could just as easily read Maria as Mary. She could be old enough to be your mother or young enough to be your daughter. Either way, she might remind you of old Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist, or the teenaged girl through whom God chose to bring his son in to the world. Jesus was born to her.

But it wasn’t just to those who work in the garages or on the construction sites that Jesus was born. It was not just to the waitress who keeps your coffee cup full while she wonders what the tip will be. Jesus was born to the banker who holds your mortgage and the lawyer who closed the contract. To the doctor who counts your cholesterol and to the dentist who wants you to floss. He was born to the teacher who hugs your child when she leaves for the bus in the afternoons and to the police officer who lurks in your rear view mirror keeping you honest and alive on the interstate.

The angel said, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. The rich and the poor, the weak and the powerful. The black and brown and white. The news is for all of us. A carpenter named Joseph and the king of Judea. Shepherds and Caesars. Construction workers and cardiologists. Roofers and rocket scientists. Every single one of us needs to hear the good news that today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you.