Jesu Juva
St. John 1:14
December 25, 2022
Christmas Day
Dear saints of our Savior~
The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. That one sentence captures the heart and essence of Christmas. We’re accustomed to viewing Christmas the way you might view a beautifully wrapped present—shiny and colorful with a big bow on top. The gift-wrapping we’re most familiar with is provided by St. Luke: angels and shepherds, the stable and the manger, and a little later, the star and the Wisemen. But that’s just the view from the outside. That’s only the outer giftwrap. We could actually lose the angels and the shepherds—we could actually set aside the manger and the star—and we could still have Christmas. We could still have what’s inside the package—the heart of Christmas—the miracle and the mystery of it all: The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
The Word who was with God. The Word who was God. The Word by whom all things were made. The Word that upholds the universe. The Word who was, and is, and is to come. That Word, in the fullness of time, was conceived in the womb of a virgin and was born to dwell among us.
When you grasp this, you have begun to grasp the breath-taking thrill of Christmas. The eternal Word has entered time. The all-powerful God has decided to dwell among us as a tiny, helpless newborn swaddled against the cold of night, and nestled at His mother’s breast.
That Newborn and His blessed mother are pictured on the cover of today’s bulletin. You may want to take another look at that. It was drawn eighty years
Kurt Reuber studied theology and became a Lutheran pastor in 1933—the same year the Nazis came to power. In his sermons he frequently spoke out against the Nazi party and was hauled in for questioning on several occasions. During this time Pastor Reuber was led to take up the study of medicine. He actually became a medical doctor—a surgeon no less—just as World War Two broke out in the late 1930s. Despite his past criticism of the Nazis, they commissioned him as an army field surgeon; and he eventually ended up serving on the Russian front, at Stalingrad, as the deadly winter of 1942 descended.
Eighty years ago today, Reuber and thousands of other soldiers were trapped—under siege—in the Russian city of Stalingrad. Battered by relentless gunfire and shelling, with no food or medical supplies, there was almost nothing Kurt Reuber could do for his men other than watch helplessly as they bled to death, starved to death, and froze to death.
He then decided to provide his brothers-in-arms with the only comfort he could. He had no paper; but using the backside of a discarded Russian map, with only a charcoal pencil, He drew what we see today—Mary embracing the baby Jesus. He drew it while clinging to life in a hole in the ground, under fire, and in weather just like we’ve had here for the past few days. Surrounded by darkness, death, and hatred, Reuber framed his drawing with words from St. John’s gospel: Licht, Leben, Liebe—light, life, love. Reuber believed those words we heard about Jesus a few moments ago: In Him was life, and the life was the light of men.
The drawing was hung on the wall of an underground bunker; and many soldiers facing near-certain death came to view it and be comforted that bleak Christmas. It reminded those men—drifting toward death—that the Christ of Christmas—the Word become flesh—dwells among us still, no matter how far from home we’ve drifted—that the Savior who received shelter and love from His human mother—He now provides us with shelter and love that reach into eternity. Reuber’s drawing survived; but Kurt Reuber himself did not live to return home.
In his drawing, Reuber gave to dying men the simplicity and the mystery of Christmas: The Word became flesh. God Himself comes among us, as one of us, cradled in Mary’s arms. Jesus comes to bring light, life, and love—for you.
This great mystery—this grand gift of Christmas—is all the more astonishing when we rightly consider the human recipients of this gift. Who are we? We are sinful rebels who by nature prefer darkness to light, death over life, and hate over love. In fact, it’s not much of an exaggeration to say that, on many days, our conduct better reflects life on the Russian front in 1942 than the light and life of Christmas.
On nearly every day of the year, we each wage our personal wars with impunity. In our constant quest to be god in the place of God, we become tactical wizards of warfare. We weaponize our words to inflict mass casualties and maximum pain. We detonate bombs of rage and anger. We dig down deep into our trenches, refusing to repent of our sins or to be reconciled with our enemies. We’ve poisoned the air with our passive-aggressive mind games. We’ve laid siege against our enemies, denying them the forgiveness and love we owe them. Our daily goal is to achieve unconditional surrender from all those around us. In these ways of war we are all battle-hardened veterans. This is our sin. It runs death deep. And there isn’t an army on earth that can save you from the horror and hell that you have orchestrated for yourself.
No, your rescue comes from an army of One—the babe of Bethlehem—the Word made flesh, who brings light and life and love—and brings it all for you. We have seen His glory, but not on the battlefield. We have seen His glory, but not in the manger. We have seen His glory on the cross. That’s why He came—to do battle for you. To be your ally, your brother, your friend, your substitute beneath God’s righteous wrath.
The Word became flesh because that’s what we are—we are flesh. We’re human beings, created by God. Christmas reminds us that God became human—that He became just like us in every way, but without sin. Jesus shows us that being human is not an excuse to wage war against those we don’t like. But rather, to be human is to be loved by God, and sought by God, and saved by God.
The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Jesus came not to judge us but to save us; not to take us captive, but to set us free; not to pile on more rules and regulations for us to follow, but to fulfill the Law of God perfectly as our substitute. He came to save sinners, of whom each of us is the chief—the foremost—the worst. He came to seek you and save you in your lostness, in your despair, in your sin, in your death—to lay down His life for you. The Word became flesh to save you.
In Jesus you can be the person God intends you to be. The image of God, lost because of Adam’s sin, is now being restored in you. Jesus is the Lamb of God’s providing, the substitute sacrifice baptized for us, being obedient for us, living for us, dying for us, rising for us, and taking us along for the ride all the way to resurrection glory. That means already today you can live in His light, in His life, and in His love. Even in your darkest moments, you are not alone.
Jesus has been “mangered” right here for us in Word and Sacrament. In the water of your baptism, in the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood. Luther said it best: “Word and Sacrament are the manger and swaddling clothes into which it has pleased Christ to lay Himself.” Here you seek the Christ; and here the Christ finds you and embraces you with His love. Here the Word made flesh encounters our flesh, and in that encounter our sins are forgiven, and we are changed, and faith is strengthened.
The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. This is the enduring comfort of Christmas. Long after the gifts are unwrapped, the decorations are packed away, and joy gives way to a new week of work—God is with us in Jesus—bringing light, life, and love.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
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