"Fear Doesn't Stop Us" (January 4, 2026 Sermon)

“In the time of King Herod…”

This sermon series ends with the same words with which it began: a frank acknowledgment that Christ is born and Herod still looms large. “Silent Night” has been sung, candles have been lit and raised in defiance during the final verse, shepherds have quaked, glories have streamed from heaven afar, and heavenly hosts have sung “Alleluia.” And Herod still reigns.

From his perch in Jerusalem, far from the peaceful hills of Bethlehem, Herod hears whispers about the birth of a child who will be called “King of the Jews.” The text tells us that this frightened him. It’s comical, really, to think of a big, mighty man like Herod being afraid of a helpless little baby. But Herod probably knew of a particular story about another baby, one who floated down the Nile in a homemade basket, and that didn’t turn out very well for the man in power in that story. So he lets his fear bring out the worst in him. But it also says that Herod wasn’t the only one scared at that moment. Matthew tells us that all of Jerusalem was afraid along with him. I have to admit, I’ve often been confused by that statement. Why would all of Jerusalem, a subjugated Jewish community, also fear the birth of a child who was supposed to be their savior? It doesn’t seem to make sense. But if we look closely, the text doesn’t say that the people of Jerusalem shared Herod’s fear; it only says they were frightened as well. Maybe they weren’t scared of the baby, but of Herod’s likely reaction to his birth. Because men like Herod rarely respond to fear with curiosity. No, they usually respond with some combination of violence, retaliation, and paranoia. They shoot first and ask questions later. The people of Jerusalem were not afraid of Jesus' birth itself, but of the violent response they knew would follow, and they weren’t wrong.

I trust the story is familiar to most of us.  The Magi are sent by Herod on a mission to investigate the birth of the prophesied child, under the laughably false pretense that he wants to "pay him homage." The Magi follow their instructions... until they don’t. They check their charts and follow the star. In the end, they find the child.

Here, I want to share two observations that I hope won’t spoil Epiphany for everyone. First, the text doesn’t specify the number of Magi, nor does it call them “kings.” It’s only later that Christian traditions assign the number “three” to them. Second, the text also doesn’t specify the gender of the magi. The term for Magi comes from the Greek word “magoi,” which generally referred to a variety of Zoroastrian mystics, most likely of Persian ethnicity. Since there are at least two of them, the Greek word in Matthew’s gospel is a gender-neutral plural pronoun. It’s well-known that both men and women were called magi in those days. So, it’s plausible that the magi, whatever their number, could have been women.

Although we don’t have textual proof of the gender of the magi, I like to think of them as women because, if they were indeed women, it would place them in the company of other women and girls who stood up to men like Herod elsewhere in the Biblical narrative. Last summer, we did a sermon series on the women and girls of the Hebrew Scriptures, and you may recall a group of them who saved Moses’ skin on more than one occasion before, during, and after his conflicts with Pharaoh.

Although the Magi may or may not have known that specific story, they embody the rebellious spirit of those women and girls when they choose, after finding the baby Jesus, to blatantly disobey Herod and “return home by another way.” Their “epiphany,” if you will, leads them to literally change course. Instead of allowing fear to make them part of Herod’s murderous rage, they hold fear and curiosity together as they decide to tread the path of peace.

We know, as Steve Harvey would frequently say on the radio, “the rest of the story.” Herod learns of the magi’s disobedience and goes on a killing spree. Because men like Herod will do all sorts of violent things in the name of “peace.” Subjugate this group of people. Bomb this country. Force regime change in the name of “democracy.” Stoke racial tensions to distract from gross incompetence. Herods love to think of themselves as unique, special, and innovative, when in fact they follow a tired playbook that relies on violence instead of bringing people together to help one another and serve the common good.

And so, on this Epiphany, we stand on familiar ground with stark parallels between the violence of those days and our current circumstances. It may be a new year, but we see a painfully familiar pattern of those in power using fear to drive us apart repeating itself. However, we won’t let that happen. Because you and I know “the rest of the story.” We know that Jesus survived Herod’s order of infanticide. He survived because Mary and Joseph fled to Egypt to escape the danger. Jesus, therefore, began his life as a refugee on the run.

But the story continued.  Jesus returned and continued to challenge the Roman Empire by providing a alternative to one driven by fear run wild.  Instead, he showed us what it looked like when love run wilds.  And that’s the work that we continue in his name to this very day.

As we begin a new year, we affirm that fear won’t stop us from letting love run wild.  As we begin a new year, we will join the Magi by going home by another road.  You know, some thirteen centuries after the Magi went home by another road, another Persian mystic by the name of Rumi wrote this poem called, "Keep Walking.”

Keep walking, though there’s no place to get to.
Don’t try to see through the distances.
That’s not for human beings.
Move within, but don’t move the way fear makes you move.
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.
Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

Friends, I invite you to holy curiosity this day.  In this new year, as that Persian poet preached, how will you let the beauty you love be what you do?  How will we, as a church, let the beauty we love be what we do?  For there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.  And there are hundreds of ways for us to kneel and give the Christ-child homage.  And when we rise again to our feet, we can choose to return to the Herods of the world, or we can go home by another way.  And we do that by holding curiosity along with our fear.

In that spirit, I’ll close this day with the following words from Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee, who wrote much of the commentary that undergirded this sermon series.  In her reflection for this week, she wrote the following and I commend these words to each of you:

Who are the magi among us today—
those willing to cross borders for truth and love?

Who are the Marys,
holding the Christ child in fragile arms,
waiting for a knock at the door?

Who are the Herods,
terrified their illegitimate power
might be exposed by the light?

In the face of fear, let us travel together.
Let us defy empire not with swords,
but with solidarity.

Let us kneel in awe,
not before the powerful,
but before the powerless Christ,
whose birth marks the beginning of
God’s peace campaign.

Let us believe, with trembling hope,
that fear does not have the last word.

Because fear doesn’t stop us.
Love leads us forward.

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

"In the Time of Herod, We Long for God to Break In" (November 30, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Luke 1:5-13

“Fear is a friend that’s misunderstood.” John Mayer sang this in his 2006 song, “The Heart of Life.”  Fifty years earlier, Martin Luther King, Jr. put it this way: “Normal fear protects us; abnormal fear paralyzes us. Normal fear is a friend that motivates us to improve our individual and collective welfare; abnormal fear is an enemy that constantly poisons and distorts our inner lives. So our problem is not to get rid of fear but to harness and master it.” Most of us, I suppose, consider fear not friend but foe.  We all try in our own ways to escape our fears.  Many of you will recall a sermon series we did on the Enneagram a year or two ago, which gives us, among other things, a helpful framework for exploring how we all, in different ways, try to cope with our fears.

• Type 1’s fear of being wrong leads them to overcompensate by constantly striving for perfection.

• Type 2’s fear of rejection causes them to seek validation through helping others.

• Type 3’s fear of failure drives them to pursue success and recognition.

• Type 4’s fear of insignificance pushes them to escape into creativity and emotional depth.

• Type 5’s fear of incompetence makes them seek knowledge as a form of security.

• Type 6’s fear of uncertainty and abandonment leads them to seek stability through relationships and systems.

• Type 7’s fear of pain causes them to escape into a world of possibilities, plans, and distractions.

• Type 8’s fear of vulnerability prompts them to assert control and take charge of everything.

• Type 9’s fear of conflict makes them engage in social gymnastics to avoid confrontation.

Understanding our fears and how they motivate us is a vital spiritual practice. Without acknowledging our relationship with fear, growth becomes impossible—whether as disciples, parents, lovers, or friends. Ignoring our fears only results in denial and the slow burn of repressed anxiety and stress, which will eventually surface in other ways, often causing no small amount of collateral damage along the way. But the good news is that if you’re looking for a powerful remedy to fear, there is one: curiosity. This is the foundation of this sermon series. As we bring to God “the hopes and fears of all the years,” we look forward to Christ’s birth dab-smack in the middle of a fearful world.

If you appreciate meticulous details, then Luke's gospel is perfect for you. Luke based his account of Jesus’ life on the gospel of Mark but, like many of us, he was likely frustrated with Mark’s lack of detail in describing Jesus’ earthly ministry. As a result, he adds many details that Mark didn’t consider important. Today’s passage from Luke features an often-overlooked but crucial detail in its opening words: “In the days of King Herod of Judea.”

King Herod was a controversial figure; some people loved him, while others hated him. He was the Roman-appointed king of Judea, and his only job was to funnel as much money and power as possible to the Empire. That money and power came at a steep price, in the form of heavy taxes and brutal oppression of those who suffered the most to feed the Empire's greed. Herod branded himself as a master builder. He had many costly vanity projects, such as the hippodrome, which Herod built in honor of Emperor Augustus about 10 years before Jesus was born. These projects boosted Herod’s ego and, of course, pleased the Romans, but they came at a cost. Economic disparity was increasing, and many hoped that Herod would spend less time on vanity projects and more on serving his constituents.

Historians differ on Herod’s reputation as a brutal tyrant. Although the Bible states that Herod had all infants murdered in an attempt to kill baby Jesus, some historians dispute this fact. However, it is widely accepted that Herod executed one of his wives and at least three of his own children. Some believe that Herod may have started as a somewhat well-meaning ruler, but as the saying goes, “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” At some point, Herod’s slide into tyranny became undeniable, and the people of Judah lived in constant fear of where his lust for power would lead them.

Amid this climate of societal unrest was a man named Zechariah. Zechariah was a priest who, like all of us, faced both macro and micro fears. Macro fears involved the socio-political and economic situations we’ve just discussed. But he also experienced micro fears, which were more personal to him and his wife, Elizabeth. Like some undoubtedly among us, they longed for a child who had so far eluded them. Luke’s mention of their righteousness adds to the fears surrounding their situation, mainly because of the common belief that infertility was a sign of divine disapproval. Zechariah and Elizabeth must have been affected by the socio-political unrest of their society, but their fears were also deeply personal because they lacked children:

• Fear of social ostracism in a world where women were valued only to the extent that they could bear children.

• Fear of losing the legacy of their family name in a world where lineage was an important marker of social status.

• Fear of growing old in a world where children were the primary caregivers of elderly parents.

And so, like each of us, Zechariah and Elizabeth were hungry for God to “break in” and disrupt the painful reality of their fears, both macro and micro.

Where do you long for God to “break in?”  What fears do you have that call out for God’s intervention?  Maybe you know the acute pain of longing for a child.  Maybe you know the ache of some other unfilled dream? Maybe like Zechariah, you know what it’s like to sit in the house of God, giving thanks in one breath and voicing lament in the next. In that messy, fearful space, God breaks in.

Zechariah is alone with his thoughts.  The people are outside praying. In this quiet moment, the angel appears. Zechariah’s response is familiar to those of us who know the stories of scripture.  Never in the Bible does someone greet an angel casually, like, “Hey, dude. What’s up?” Instead, the response is predictable—probably including a four-letter curse word that a scribe at some point in history thought it best to scratch out. The text says Zechariah is terrified and overwhelmed by fear. The Greek word here is tarassó. This isn’t just a temporary jump scare where he clutches his heart and laughs it off. No, tarassó means disturbed, agitated, unsettled. Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee describes the word: “This is no fleeting startle. It evokes deep inner shaking, a disruption of body and spirit. Tarassó is the soul’s recoil from the unexpected, the mind’s clamor in the face of uncertainty, the body’s trembling at the threshold of something it cannot control.”

She goes on to say the following: “Like Zechariah, we may grow so used to disappointment that when hope finally arrives, it startles us. When God interrupts, we flinch.”

But the good news of this passage is that fear doesn’t have to be the final word; in fact, it never is (though our anxiety tells us otherwise). Fear sees itself as a brick wall, but sometimes it’s a doorway to new possibilities if we respond with curiosity.  And so, the angel opens the door and beckons Zechariah to take a stroll on a path God has meticulously curated for him and Elizabeth.  “The dead end you’ve decided for yourself is your narrative and not mine,” God says to Zechariah through this divine messenger.

And here, I want us to remember that Elizabeth and Zechariah’s lack of a child is a symbol for a larger story of scarcity that Advent challenges with its message of hope. The child to come, whose name will be John, will point to another, whose name will be Jesus. This child, this Messiah, presents an existential threat to the Herods of the world, whose brands are built on selfishness, greed, and an insatiable appetite for domination. God’s promise to the unsettled priest speaks to both his “macro” and his “micro” fears.  And we, too, are recipients of that message.  But what will you and I do with it?

We can choose to let our fears drive us inward. If we do, our echo chambers will only grow louder.  The Herods of history, past and present, delight when that happens!  Because when the people below Herod focus more on using their fears as weapons against each other instead of working together to hold leaders like him accountable, he gets an endlessly renewable get-out-of-jail-free pass.  It’s one of the best-kept secrets in the handbook of oppression.

But we can choose a different response to our fear. We can let it push us outward. That’s what curiosity does; it opens doors that the Herods of the world claim are forever closed. Every Advent, we walk through the door opened by Zechariah and Elizabeth’s angel. Each new liturgical year, we pass through the door that the Herods among us, driven by paranoia, have locked and bolted multiple times to keep us from breaking through. But, friends, God specializes in smashing the doors we build to keep us apart. And the one who does this chaotic good is named Jesus. And there’s a reason Herod wanted him dead.

So, friends, as we begin Advent, rest in this good news: God’s beloved thief is breaking in. And this thief we need not fear unless, of course, your name is Herod. The rest of us should welcome him. “Come,” we will sing to him, “thou long-expected Jesus, born to set thy people free, from our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in thee.”  Friends, our fears may have a firm grip, but they’re no match for God’s embrace.  There is a rest to be found in the one who is “born a child and yet a king.”

And so, friends, let us see fear as a misunderstood friend. As we continue this sermon series, we will open ourselves to God's curiosity, who sits with us in our fear and guides us toward new possibilities. Yes, fear can be paralyzing if we allow it. But fear is also an important biological response that signals when something significant is at stake. This means that God’s beloved thief arrives when his message of hope is most needed.  And so, with our fears in one hand and our curiosity in the other, let us sing to the One who is born to set us, his people, free. Together, let us end this sermon by song.

[sing “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus”]

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