Christmas Day 2025
Sermon for The Feast of the Nativity, 2025
St. Paul's Episcopal Church
The Rev. Andrew McLarty
Years ago, when I was lay chaplain at Saint Andrew’s School in Jackson, my colleague, the Rev. Jennifer Deaton, once preached a sermon to the elementary school right before we left for Christmas break. She focused on a single line from Luke’s Gospel: “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” Jennifer wondered aloud what that pondering looked like. She suggested it wasn’t passive at all—it was curious, questioning, exploring. And she pointed out something important: Scripture never tells us what Mary actually thought. Luke leaves her inner life a mystery.
It has stayed with me all these years. Mary is at the center of something unimaginably grand—angels, prophecies, salvation unfolding—and yet she is also a new mother, with all the ordinary fears and hopes that come with that. Her life has changed forever. Was she ready for it? On a cosmic scale? On a deeply human one? When I hear that line now, I imagine Mary with a small, knowing smile—something like the Mona Lisa. A smile that hints at wonder without explaining it. A smile that invites us to imagine.
That quiet, wondering joy sits at the heart of Christmas.
Isaiah gives us the louder version of that joy. Speaking to a people worn down by exile and disappointment, Isaiah proclaims, “You shall be called by a new name… a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord.” And on Christmas Day, we hear Isaiah’s promise fulfilled not in a palace or on a city wall, but in a manger. God’s salvation arrives small, vulnerable, and real. Ancient hope meets human flesh, and the joy Isaiah imagined becomes something we can touch.
Paul, writing to Titus, reminds us why this joy matters: “When the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared…” Appeared. God didn’t stay distant or abstract. God showed up—not because we earned it, but out of mercy. Christmas joy is rooted in grace, not achievement. It is the relief of knowing that God comes to us as we are.
So we return to Mary, quietly holding all of this in her heart. Not rushing to explain it. Not resolving every question. Just treasuring it. That, too, is an invitation to us. Christmas does not demand certainty; it invites wonder. It gives us permission to smile softly at the mystery and trust that God is at work even when we don’t fully understand how.
And that is our joy today: God has come near. Love has taken flesh. Salvation has appeared. May that joy—sometimes exuberant, sometimes quiet—rest in your hearts this Christmas Day.
Merry Christmas.
