CHRISTMAS EVE REFLECTION 2025

ST ANDREW’S ON THE TERRACE

Luke 2:1–14 — Good News in the Margins

By Rev Dr Fei Taule’ale’ausumai

If Christmas were to arrive today—not wrapped in carols and candlelight, not softened by familiarity—it would arrive in a world much like the one we are living in now.

It would arrive amid grief and shock, after shootings in public places where people expected safety and found terror instead.
It would arrive while wars rage on, in Gaza and Israel, in Ukraine and Russia, where children learn the sound of drones before the sound of peace.
It would arrive in a world where people are afraid to gather, afraid to trust, afraid that the violence will come closer to home next time.

And it is into that kind of world that Luke dares to tell the Christmas story.

“In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered.”

This is not a gentle beginning.
This is the language of empire, of control, of power exercised over ordinary bodies and ordinary lives.
Mary and Joseph are not travelling for celebration—they are travelling because they must.
Because the powerful have spoken, and the powerless must comply.

They are displaced.
They are tired.
They are vulnerable.

And while they are there, far from home, far from family, with no safety net beneath them, the child is born.

Not in a palace.
Not in a place of security.
But in the margins—in a stable, laid in a feeding trough, because there was no room for them.

Luke does not romanticise this moment.
He tells it plainly: God enters the world amid disruption, political violence, displacement, and fear.

And then—out in the fields—there are shepherds.

People who live on the edges.
People accustomed to danger.
People who know what it is to keep watch through the night.

And it is to them that the heavens open.

“Do not be afraid,” the angel says—not because there is nothing to fear, but because God has chosen to enter the fear with us.

“To you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”

Not a ruler who will crush enemies.
Not a warrior who will dominate by force.
But a child whose very existence declares that God’s answer to violence is presence,
God’s answer to empire is vulnerability,
God’s answer to fear is love made flesh.

And suddenly the sky is filled—not with weapons, but with song.

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace among those whom God favours.”

This is not peace as the world defines it.
This is not peace that ignores suffering or pretends the night is not dark.
This is peace that dares to be born within the darkness—
a fragile, defiant peace that says violence will not have the final word.

Tonight, we stand with the shepherds.
We stand in a world still aching, still broken, still fearful.
And we hear again the ancient promise:
that God has come—not to escape the world—but to dwell within it.

And that is why Christmas still matters.
Not because the world is healed,
but because God has chosen never to abandon it.

On this holy night, we are invited once again into a story that is so familiar we risk missing how radical it really is.

Luke begins not with angels or babies, but with power.
“In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus…”

This is the machinery of empire at work — census, taxation, control, compliance. Rome counting bodies, measuring productivity, asserting dominance. It is a reminder that the Christmas story does not begin in peace, but under pressure. Not in comfort, but in coercion. Mary and Joseph are on the road not because they choose to be, but because the empire demands it.

And already, many in our world recognise this story.
Those forced to move because of political decisions.
Those displaced by war, economics,

colonisation, climate, or violence. Christmas begins with people on the move — tired, vulnerable, obedient to a system that does not see them as sacred, only as statistics.

And when they arrive, there is no room.

No room in the inn.

No room in the system.

No room in respectable society for a young, pregnant woman whose story is complicated.

So the Christ child is born not at the centre, but at the edges. Not in a palace, but among animals. Not surrounded by power, but by poverty. God chooses the margins as the place of arrival.

This is not accidental.

This is theology.

Because the good news of Christmas is not that God comes after the world has sorted itself out — but that God comes right into the mess.

Luke tells us that the first announcement does not go to emperors or priests or the powerful. It goes to shepherds.

Shepherds — working-class labourers, sleeping rough, considered unreliable, unclean, expendable. If you were organising a divine press release, shepherds would not be on the invitation list.

And yet — “the angel of the Lord stood before them.”

God shows up in the fields, in the night shift, among those who are overlooked. And the shepherds’ first response is fear — which feels honest, doesn’t it? Fear is often our response when heaven breaks into our carefully managed lives.

But the angel says the words that echo through all of Scripture:

“Do not be afraid.”

Not because nothing is wrong — but because God is present.

“I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.”

Not some people.

Not the deserving.

Not the insiders.

But all.

This joy is not shallow happiness. It is deep, defiant joy — joy that insists God has not abandoned the world, even when the world looks broken.

“To you is born this day… a Saviour.”

Notice that — to you.

Not to Rome.

Not to the elite.

To shepherds.

To the marginalised.

To those who think God has forgotten them.

And then comes the sign — not power, not victory, not domination — but vulnerability:

A baby.

Wrapped in cloth.

Lying in a feeding trough.

This is the revolution of Christmas.

God does not overthrow empire with violence.

God subverts it with love.

Not with force, but with flesh.

And suddenly the sky is filled — not with weapons, but with song:

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom God favours.”

This peace is not the peace of silence or submission. It is not the peace of “keep quiet and behave.” It is shalom — wholeness, justice, right relationship.

Peace that says:

Every child matters.

Every body is sacred.

Every life is worthy of dignity.

Christmas Eve does not deny the darkness. It lights a candle and says the darkness does not get the final word.

Tonight, we gather with our own fears, griefs, longings, and hopes. Some of us come joyful. Some exhausted. Some carrying loss. Some wondering where God is in the middle of it all.

And the Christmas story answers gently, but firmly:

God is here.

God is with us.

God is born among us.

In refugee camps and hospital rooms.

In lonely homes and crowded shelters.

In the cries of newborns and the sighs of the weary.

The invitation of Christmas is not just to admire the baby — but to follow the pattern of God’s love.

To make room where the world says there is none.

To listen to voices from the margins.

To choose compassion over control.

To become bearers of peace in a fractured world.

So tonight, as we sing carols and light candles, may we remember:

The light shines in the darkness.

And the darkness has not overcome it.

This is good news.

This is great joy.

This is for all people.

Amen.

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Audio of selected readings and reflections

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Audio of the complete service