"Good News Is Louder Than Fear" (December 24, 2025 Sermon)

My therapist told me that we all have at least two voices inside our heads.  One is a wise owl. It goes by many names: “grace,” “gentleness,” or “wisdom.” The Psalmist would call this owl the voice that reminds us to be still and know that God is God. This wise owl whispers words into our ears that encourage, affirm, and comfort us. It speaks words of encouragement when we need them. For example, my wise owl gently hoots into my ear that I am a beloved child of God whenever the world tries to tell me otherwise. When I feel like a failure, a bad parent, or any other shameful label, my wise owl assures me that I don’t need to do anything to earn God’s love and that nothing in life or death can ever separate me from God’s grace and forgiveness. When I feel overwhelmed by the brokenness in the world around me, this wise owl reminds me that my job isn’t to fix everything, but simply to do justice now, love kindness now, and walk humbly now. My wise owl isn’t always as loud as I wish it was, because its strength lies in its gentle quietness, cultivated through years of experience, mistakes, and grace received. The voice of our wise owl is always present, but sometimes it can be drowned out by another voice.

My therapist tells me this other voice we all hear is like a loud, obnoxious, endlessly barking dog. And this dog’s name is “fear” (or, if you prefer, its cousin, “anxiety”). Sometimes, this dog acts on its own. Over the years, it has learned specific signals, like a doorbell or a notification on our phone about the latest upsetting headline. At times, this dog can go wild when we’re surrounded by fears weaponized against us; fears that more often than not drive us apart instead of bringing us together. Quite often, the quiet voice of our wise owl doesn’t stand a chance when our fears bark up a storm, creating a maelstrom of misery, some of which is thrust upon us and some of which we create ourselves. These two voices are always in our heads, and a good therapist can be a helpful conversation partner, helping us distinguish which voice is which and which voice is healthy to listen to.

Because, friends, sometimes that dog is a helpful voice!  Tricia and I are teaching our two young girls that it’s dangerous to cross a street or a parking lot without an adult.  When in that situation, we want Hazel Grace and Windsor to listen to the barking dog in their head, saying, “woof, woof! There’s a car coming!”

But there are other times when the barking dogs of our fears think that they are the alpha dog of the household of our minds.  The poet Mary Oliver speaks of her “barking dog” in one of my favorite poems, called “I Worried:”

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And I gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

My suspicion is that you know exactly what it feels like to fret that like.  And perhaps you also know the peace of precious moments when we’re able to let go and take our old bodies out into the morning and sing.

And that’s what we’ve done this evening. We’ve taken our bodies—some older and some younger—and brought ourselves to this place of worship, where we will soon light candles and listen to our wise old owl selves sing 'Silent Night' in a world that is often far from silent. Perhaps you’ve come here out of tradition because this is your church and you don’t know where else to be. Perhaps you’ve come because of family obligation, because it’s what must be done to keep everyone happy. Maybe you’re here for the flickering light of the candle in your hand and the peaceful feeling of singing songs you’ve known since childhood. Or perhaps you’re here for a mix of all those reasons or perhaps you don't know why you’re here at all!

But no matter your reason for being here, God has brought you here this evening—whether gathered in this space or worshiping with us through our livestream—hoping for some small voice to remind you that if all is not well, then all is not over. Perhaps, like me, you have a deep, deep longing for something to cut through the chaos and clamor, the noise and the nastiness, to remind you that God is still at work in the world and that that barking dog of your fears won’t have the final word.

So, if you’re eager for that reminder, as I am, we need to confront the following paradox. In a sermon titled “Good news is louder than fear,” we must acknowledge that good news isn’t always louder than fear, but it is stronger. For example, consider the world into which Christ was born. He was born into an occupied land controlled as a colony of the Roman Empire. The Empire took up all the oxygen in the room. Its rulers, like Herod who governed Judea, made sure they were the loudest voice in the room. And more often than not, their goal was to instill fear that kept a marginalized people “in their place.” The logic of figures like his, I suppose, is that “might makes right,” and he who makes the most noise controls the narrative.

But sometimes men like Herod learn the hard way that narratives can be lost in rather surprising, unforeseen ways.  Pharaoh was brought to his knees by a God who sent a group of women and girls to save a baby in a basket floating down a river.  Herod, likewise, heard tell of an infant born to fulfill some prophecy, and he sent the Magi to hunt this kid down so he could kill him.  Compared to the noise of an empire that counted on the sound of clanging armor and weapons to instill fear, the birth of a baby in some backwoods town under their jurisdiction must have seemed a harmless whisper.

But some whispers don't stay harmless or quiet for long. “Do not be afraid” is a whisper that can inspire a young girl to stand up for herself in a world that tells her to be quiet. “Peace among those who God favors” is a whisper that has mobilized people across our country to protect our immigrant and refugee neighbors from harassment and predatory incarceration. “I am bringing you good news” is a message that started as a whisper earlier this year in this very congregation, leading us to open our doors to a dozen women this summer to provide overnight shelter and food while they sought steady employment and affordable housing. “You will find a child” is a whisper that has unsettled Pharaohs and Herods for more than 2,000 years because the Kingdom this infant has brought operates from a kind of math that confounds those who live by the sword.

Because the Kingdom of Heaven, born in a manger on that still, silent night, has never depended on brute strength or the bully pulpit to accomplish its work. Instead, it relies on the whispers of the faithful who remind each other that although the loud forces of violence have always claimed to be the final authority, such talk is built on a throne of lies. In truth, the Savior born to us needs no earthly throne. God doesn’t observe our definitions of power to bring salvation. Christ delivers his own power, but not in the way men like Herod expect.

Still, the truth remains: Christ is born, and Herod still rules. Christ is born, and the Empire’s violence persists. In the years to come, Christ will grow, inch by inch. He will be like any other baby, spitting up and giggling, crying and burping. He will learn to roll over, then crawl, then couch surf, and eventually take his first uncertain, wobbly steps by himself. Throughout all this, the Empire will continue to roar and rage, while Jesus gently coos in Mary and Joseph’s arms. But that whisper will grow, that coo will turn to courage, and those wobbly first steps will carry him all over a world full of fear, no less than the one we currently inhabit.

And so tonight, we rest in this good news: though Herods come and go, Christ remains. Though this year, in many ways, has seemed to be a victory for the barking dogs of fear over the wise owls of belovedness, compassion, and justice, Christ whispers hope into our weary ears. And you and I get to choose what to do with that whisper. We can let it flicker out like a candle in the wind or use the light of the whisper to ignite someone else’s candle. Then that person can carry the light on, and in Christ’s name, we keep sharing that light until it's no longer a whisper spoken in fear but a song sung in defiance.

As one commentator I read this week puts it: “It’s easy to believe that fear is louder than good news.  Just turn on the TV, scroll your feed, glance at the headlines, fear dominates…but on this night - this holy, trembling night - Luke dares to tell us otherwise.  Into a world defined by Empire, surveillance, and oppression, a birth breaks in.  Not in a palace, not under protection, but in the shadows of census and displacement…Luke isn’t writing a neutral tale; he's offering a counter-narrative to Roman propaganda.”

So let us not be swayed by loud, fear-mongering propaganda in its many forms. Yes, let us listen to the barking dogs of fear when their voices literally keep us safe. But let us not be swayed by the barks that tell us to fear one another. Let us not be seduced by the barks of division, violence, and enmity. Instead, let the whispers of this “silent night” grow into a steady drumbeat of hope. Not some empty hope that remains in the abstract. Let us practice a hope that feeds the hungry, houses the homeless, cares for the uninsured, protects the refugee, and sees empathy not as a weakness but as what keeps us human.

That, friends, is the kind of hope that may start as a whisper but never stays a whisper.  That’s a kind of hope that may begin as a helpless infant, but grows into a kingdom that will outlast the Herods who claim total authority in our lives.  That’s a kind of hope, that keeps us coming back to this timeless story, year after year, to proclaim together that, yes, indeed, good news is louder than fear.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Even in Our Fear, We Are Called Forward - (December 14, 2025 Sermon)

I invite you to raise your hand if you’ve ever heard the following statements:

• “God never gives you more than you can handle.”

• “God doesn’t call the equipped; he equips the called.”

• “Too blessed to be stressed.”

• “Faith over fear.”

Your snarky pastor calls these phrases, and others like them, “bumper sticker theology.” Although they may be well-meaning, these phrases oversimplify complex theology into a few words slapped on a fender or embroidered on a pillow, or patched onto a t-shirt. No matter how altruistic the intent, the effect these phrases have on someone going through life can be hurtful. “Too blessed to be stressed,” probably isn’t a helpful or healing phrase when the recipient is a stressed-out mother juggling a full-time job and a side hustle, worried about skyrocketing healthcare premiums starting next month while trying to figure out if she can afford to buy her children Christmas gifts. “God never gives you more than you can handle” is a slap in the face to the man whose husband of decades dies of prostate cancer. “God doesn’t call the equipped; he equips the called” isn’t a helpful phrase to a teenager struggling with anxiety and depression, who doesn't know if it’s okay to say “no” to something to attend to their own self-care.

And finally, “faith over fear” creates an unhealthy binary, as though faith and fear are at war and we’re helplessly caught in the middle. When my five-year-old came to me a few days ago, saying she was scared to go to bed because she had a nightmare the night before, I didn’t tell her to “have more faith” or to “not be scared.” No, I got down on her level, put my arm around her, and said, “It’s OK to be scared, sweetheart. Nightmares are no fun.” Then we discussed what nightmares are and what they aren’t. We talked about how they're not real (even though they certainly feel real in the moment!). We discussed how mommy and daddy are right next door, and she can come get us if she gets scared. I hugged her and said, “It’s OK to be scared. Mommy, Daddy, and Sissy are here, and we’ll keep you safe. You are not alone.”

Though I suppose “It’s okay to be scared. I’m here” doesn’t quite have the same “ring” as “faith over fear,” it is definitely a much healthier way to talk about fear in relation to our faith. Both of the characters in today’s scripture readings, Jeremiah and Mary, had good reason to fear. Jeremiah was called to prophesy to Israelites as the Babylonians were gaining political influence and threatening the sovereignty of the Davidic monarchy. Prophets often face the tough task of telling people things they don’t want to hear, and because of that, their messages are rarely received with gratitude. “I am just a boy,” he says, “I don't know how to speak.” God replies to Jeremiah by telling him that he once knew a man named Moses who had the same excuses. “But never mind that,” God says to the young man, “I formed you, consecrated you, and appointed you. I’ve been with you since the beginning and I’m not leaving you now.”

Fast forward some 500+ years, and a different voice of reluctance is heard, “But I’m a virgin!” Mary was “perplexed,” the text tells us.  I’m here to tell you today that that is an unfortunately tame rendering of a Greek word that means something far more dramatic than mere puzzlement or confusion.  The Greek word is tarassō, which means troubled, agitated, or unsettled.  In fact, the specific word that Luke uses is diatarassō, where the first portion (“dia”) serves as an intensifier.  If tarassō means troubled, diatarassō means you’ve missed the exit for “troubled” and are barreling down the freeway of anxiety and fear.

The Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee explains it this way: “Mary is not simply puzzled - she is shaken, thrown off balance, possibly afraid for her life. And with good reason. Mary was young, unmarried, and living under the weight of imperial and patriarchal control. To be told - without warning - that she would bear a child by divine initiative wasn’t just a spiritual shock; it was a profound social and bodily risk.”

When was the last time you felt unsettled, unqualified, and overwhelmed? In those moments, we often respond with fight, flight, or freeze. In Mary’s case, it could be said she chose 'flight.' To be clear, she had said “yes.' She was not fleeing from God or the call bestowed upon her. Instead, she was perhaps running from people who might have stoned her for being an unmarried pregnant woman, which was legally permissible. Maybe her survival instinct led her to seek comfort with her much older cousin, Elizabeth. Or perhaps she was driven by a need to protect herself in a society that would have viewed her with suspicion and disdain under those extraordinary circumstances.

My suspicion is that God knew Mary would be scared, which is why I imagine God instructed the angel to tell Mary about Elizabeth. This, of course, aligns with God’s encounters with previous Biblical characters. God gave Aaron to Moses to help him confront Pharaoh (later, Moses would forget that he was not called to lead alone, and his father-in-law Jethro would lovingly say to him, “What you are doing is not good. You will surely wear yourself out… for the task is too heavy for you”). God gave Mordecai to Esther when she needed courage to confront King Ahasuerus and Haman. When Elijah was feeling overwhelmed, God gave him Elisha to help bear the burden. Saul’s son, Jonathan, became a beloved and trusted advisor for, and protector to, King David once he took the throne.

The biblical story is full of God calling people to work together, serve together, and advocate for one another and their neighbors. Ultimately, God’s people gathered in Christ’s name and called this “Church.” The Greek word for “church” is “ecclesia.” For Spanish speakers, you might recognize the Spanish word for church, “iglesia.” This word also comes from the Greek “ecclesia,” and it literally means “to be called out” or “to be sent out.” The very word “church” is therefore outwardly focused. It’s not about a group of people who stay in, but about people who are sent out. “Ecclesia” describes a group working together, linking arms, and stepping boldly into the world to share the Gospel—despite a culture that often dismisses the very idea.

But before the first “ecclesia” formed, there was another who was “called out,” and her name was Mary. On the screen, you’ll see our liturgical art for the week, created by Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity of A Sanctified Art. It’s called “Mary’s Yes.” Today’s passage makes two references to Mary’s cousin, Elizabeth, being six months pregnant with John the Baptist. Coincidentally, Rev. Garrity herself was six months pregnant with her second daughter when she created this piece. Regarding this art, she says: “Mary’s willingness to say “yes” is also fortified by the assurance that she is not stepping forward alone. Even as fears surely surround her, Mary will go to Elizabeth for protection and comfort. She won’t fulfill her calling without support. Her hope will be strengthened in solidarity.”

None of us, friends, are called to fulfill our calling without support. Our hope grows stronger through solidarity. Together, we channel our “inner Mary” and step forward into a weary world to do the blessed, messy, life-giving, and sometimes downright scary work of discipleship. I want to draw your attention to the writing on Mary’s clothing. If you look closely, you’ll notice that Mary’s headdress has the words “do not fear” written over and over and over again.  Likewise, embroidered around her neckline are the words “Here I am” repeated over and over. “Do not fear” and “here I am.” We hold our fears in one hand, recognizing them without allowing them to stop us, and in the other, we hold trust, saying “here I am” to the God who promises to be with us.

It’s not faith over fear so much as it’s faith with fear. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Want to know a secret? I did the math this week and I’ve preached at least 500 sermons in the past decade. And you know what? I still get scared when I step into the pulpit. I get scared because, like all preachers, I wonder: will I say too much? Will I say too little? Will this message be received in love? What if I hurt someone? What if I say something wrong? I still get scared, and I hope I always do. Fear is a friend that’s misunderstood, John Mayer once sang. Fear makes me a better preacher because the moment I lose that fear, it’s probably the moment I forget how important this task really is.

And you certainly don’t have to be a preacher to know this truth. The surgeon with a scalpel in her hand. The professor wondering if they’ll be denied tenure for teaching the unvarnished truth of our nation’s history. The teenager who is gathering the courage to come out of the closet to their friends and family. The couple who wonder if trying again to have a child will only bring more heartbreak. The son who finally decides that it’s time to go to an AA meeting. Friends, fear can push us to do really brave things.

So let us move forward in faith and fear. I don’t think Mary left her fear behind when she went to see her cousin Elizabeth. And God doesn’t expect us to leave fear behind. Fear is what makes discipleship so beautiful. Fear is what makes courage and vulnerability the stuff of hope. Fear, perhaps, is a holy thing—if only we remember that it’s part of our story but never the end of it.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.