“Light in a Dark World”
Original sermon given on the Christmas Eve, December 24, 2025 written and delivered by Pastor Jeff Leininger at First Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church.
Watch the sermon live.
“Light in a Dark World”
Luke 2.1-7
In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. 2 This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria. 3 And all went to be registered, each to his own town. 4 And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, 5 to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. 6 And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth. 7 And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.
In the name of the Living God, and the Christ born for us. Amen.
The Christmas Eve sermon should not be an ancient history lecture. It’s certainly one of the “no-no’s” in pastor training school. I can still hear my seminary homiletics professor bellowing, “Don’t give them a history lesson, Leininger!”
And yet, your pastor tonight is stuck with this dilemma: St. Luke’s well-known account of the birth of Jesus in Luke chapter 2 sort of begins with an ancient history lesson. (And if he started that way, hey, maybe I can, too!)
Luke cites two specific, historic persons in this text. Ceasar Augustus, regarded by many as the first and greatest of Roman Emperors, establishes a Pax Romana, is named “son of god”, and here issues a decree for all in his world to be enrolled or registered. We don’t have historical records for this particular decree outside of Luke’s gospel, but ancient rulers commonly forced registrations in order to tax people, enslave them, conscript them into military service, force their worship, or otherwise subjugate them. There’s lots of reasons to “take down names” in the 1st century, few of them are going to work out well for you. (It’s like when your teacher in high school threatened, “I’m taking down names”) His name “Augustus” means “the exalted one,” so we can be sure that whatever the nature of this enforced enrollment, it was all about him. That’s the earthly reason the Holy Family gets to Bethlehem of Judea, the City of David. The heavenly reason: fulfillment of a Messianic prophecy from Micah 5.2.
The second personage: Quirinius. The littlest of children throughout the Christian world recite the beginning of Luke 2 and aren’t we all so impressed when they correctly pronounce “when Quirinius was governor of Syria!” (Did you ever have to recite this? Did you ever bother to ask, “Who is Quirinius and where is Syria”?)
Quirinius was governor of Syria, the Roman jurisdiction where Bethlehem of Judea lies, perhaps twice. Once, officially, for sure: c. A.D. 6 when Luke’s second book, the book of Acts, records a different census (Acts 5.37). Here, at Christ’s birth, he’s more “governing” than technically “Governor,” as he’s recently won some impressive and powerful military victories in the region.
We actually know quite a bit about this Quirinius chap — wealthy, powerful, politically connected. He was effective in battle, but not so much in marriage. He was divorced at least twice, but one time it was because his wife apparently tried to poison him, so maybe he gets a pass on that one.
I can give you a full Biblical Archeology Report on Quirinius for some light Christmas reading, if you want, but the point for us this Christmas Eve is that the gospel writer Luke intentionally sets his narrative in a specific historical context, for a specific contrast. He first shines his light most broadly on the whole world, with its “sons of god” and “exalted ones,” enforced peace and military triumphs, palaces of gold and policies of subjugation, but then shines the softest of light upon a different scene and a King of a different kind.
In Luke 2 we follow a humble, obscure Jewish couple, pilgrims far from home, wrapping their child in cloths and placing him in a manger. And yet here is where God’s intervention into human history, our history, your history begins. The contrast could be no greater, and the consequences for you and me this evening are life changing.
The King of the Universe, the Ruler of All Things, the true son of God, the most exalted of all the exalted ones, enters our world emptying himself in humility and sacrifice and love. Though all the universe was his, he had no real home. Though clothed with divine splendor, he’s wrapped in rags. Though the source of life for all of life, he clings for warmth and nourishment in the arms of a peasant girl.
One commentator put it beautifully in this way:
“Into this corrupt, confusing time, in an obscure corner of the empire, a nondescript couple comes to Bethlehem in obedience to a decree issued a world away. The entire earth-shattering event is captured in four verses. The couple comes to their ancestral home place. The engaged but pregnant woman senses it is her time, and the baby is born, wrapped snuggly, and placed in a feeding trough because there is no room for them at the inn.”[1]
The reason all this is important is because the Holy Spirit, through St. Luke, focuses the light not on the so called “great things” and “great ones” and “great works” of this world, which in fact we have as little control over as did Joseph and Mary, but rather Luke focuses the light clearly on where God is to be found — and where we are to look for him. God shows up in the most unexpected places. If God can show up there, be held there, wrapped there, fed there, he can show up for me too.
The promise for you and me this dark night is that the same son born to Mary was born for you. Whatever’s happening in your world, your life, your heart. She held in her arms that night, the Holy Almighty God as close to her as her own milk. We hold him in our arms, by faith, knowing that birth would be but the first step in his mission to bring us back to him. For he would grow into manhood, heal the sick, drive out demons, preach the truth, and eventually be crucified hanging naked on an instrument of human subjugation. God, again, showing up in the most unexpected places — on a cross, for us and our salvation.
Risen now from the dead, he will return again one day not as the child of Bethlehem, but in full, radiant glory to take us back to himself to know his true, everlasting peace.
May this light shining on a humble manger scene bring you true light, now and eternally.
Come soon Lord Jesus.
Merry Christmas.
[1] Micheal Card, Luke, the Gospel of Amazement, 48
