Sunday Sermon - 21 December

When Jesus was born the Jewish homeland was trapped under the heavy and oppressive rule of the Roman Empire. Rome controlled the eastern Mediterranean by posting regional kings (also known as “client kings”) and governors over certain areas of the lands of the massive empire. Rome had particular interest in Palestine - the area we know biblically as Judea, Galilee, and Samaria - because it is a strategic crossroads between the riches of Egypt and Syria. Roman imperialistic priorities were the maintenance of law and order, taxation, and loyalty to the Roman Empire and its Emperor Augustus.

For the Jews this meant their loss of political independence, heavy taxation, pagan overlords ruling the lands that they were promised by God, and a constant tension between living a life that was faithful to the Torah—the law and the prophets—and simply surviving under the ruthless ways of the empire.

When Jesus was born, Herod the Great was their regional king, reigning under the authority of Rome. In fact, by Roman decree, Herod was considered the King of the Jews. Herod was best known for the brutal suppression of anyone who disagreed with him. Dissenters were dealt with swiftly and violently. He was also notoriously paranoid and executed members of his own family — including his wife Mariamme, her mother, her grandfather, her brother, and three of his own sons. He was also well known for lavish building projects, including the expansion of the Second Temple and more than a few palaces — all to gain political favour and personal glory.

I can’t imagine how oppressed, afraid, and totally frustrated the Jewish people of that time must have felt. No wonder they prayed. And not polite prayers. They prayed hard. They prayed desperately for the arrival of their king. They prayed for the Messiah — the real King of the Jews — who would break the bonds of Roman rule and restore their land, dignity, and future.

Now, I’m not going to make any modern-day comparisons between Roman oppression under Augustus and Herod (there really are none that come close) but I would be lying to myself if I said that what is going on in the world today doesn’t resonate with the past. History is filled with moments when people live under the weight of power-hungry, wealth-grubbing tyrants, and all people can do is pray and hope for change.

I was so frustrated this week. To be more honest, I was angry. Perhaps more than I’ve been at any point over the last eleven months.

You see, I’m a huge fan of Rob Reiner and his work. For those who don’t know him, Rob Reiner is the son of the great comedian, actor, and producer Carl Reiner, and he became an actor, writer, director, and producer in his own right. He was most famous early on for his role as Michael Stivic — “Meathead” — on All in the Family. My brother and I loved that show so much growing up that we started calling our sister Michele “Meathead.” Sadly, it stuck. She hates it. Andy and I still find it hilarious. What are brothers for, if not to lovingly hassle their sisters?

Reiner went on to make an incredible range of amazing films including Spinal Tap, Stand By Me, The Princess Bride, and A Few Good Men just to name a few of his classics. I honestly can’t name a favourite. It depends on the day and my mood. I love and appreciate all of his works.

Recently, Rob Reiner and his wife — an accomplished artist in her own right — were tragically killed at the hands of their son, who suffers from substance use disorder. As heartbreaking as that was, what compounded the tragedy for me was the response of the current American President, who — cloaked in insincere condolences — used the moment to condemn Reiner for his politics and activism.

That just set me off.

One of the most powerful, influential nations in the world is being led like this? God save us.

Here, my friends, is where the context into which Jesus was born suddenly feels very close to home. I found myself praying for God to save us from the ideological tyranny of that guy — just as, in a far more oppressive reality, the people of Jesus’ day prayed for God to save them from their rulers.

God answered them.
God answers us.

Jesus came.

God does answer prayer. Not always in the way we want or expect, but always in the way that addresses what we truly need. The arrival of Jesus is no exception.

God did not give them a warrior king to raise an army and overthrow Rome. God gave them a child.

As the angel tells Joseph in our Gospel reading: “You are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” Matthew also tells us that he will be called Emmanuel — “God with us.”

It matters that Joseph names the child. By doing so, he legally adopts Jesus — legitimizing a child born under scandal, bringing him fully into the Davidic line and fulfilling the law and the prophets. Joseph’s obedience affirms Jesus’ messianic identity and anchors him in Israel’s story.

I remember asking my mom as a kid, “Is his name Jesus or Emmanuel?” I can’t remember her answer, but it was probably something like, “It’s Jesus—be quiet and listen to the rest of the Gospel.”

Of course it’s Jesus. Jesus means “The Lord saves.” Emmanuel means “God with us.” Emmanuel tells us who he is. Jesus tells us what he does. Emmanuel is his theological identity. Jesus is his theological purpose.

But, and this is the hard part, not in the way we expect.

In the pain and frustration of oppression, then and now, God comes to us not to change political systems first, but to change us from the inside out.

Just this past September, Rob Reiner said, after the assassination of Charlie Kirk — a man who almost certainly despised him — “I’m Jewish, but I believe in the teachings of Jesus and I believe in ‘do unto others,’ and I believe in forgiveness.”

I didn’t know of that quote until after Reiner died and it stopped me cold. Because that is salvation and runs deeper than mere political rescue.

The frustration many people feel today, whether they’re in the United States, Canada or anywhere in the world, is real. Public discourse is polarized. Trust in institutions is fragile. Leaders promise security and renewal, yet anxiety persists. We feel unheard, exhausted, disillusioned.

This is not new.

The world into which Jesus was born was deeply political and deeply troubled. Economic inequality was stark. Religious leaders were entangled with power. Ordinary people like us longed for change. Many hoped the Messiah would fix things by overthrowing Rome, restoring sovereignty, and setting things right visibly and decisively.

First-century Judea was marked by fear about the future, anger at corrupt leadership, competing visions of identity, and a deep longing for rescue.

That sounds uncomfortably familiar doesn’t it.

And yet, when Jesus came, he disappointed many:

He did not seize power.
He did not mobilize an army.
He did not align himself with any faction.
He did not promise national restoration on human terms.

Instead, he saved people from their sins. He saves us from our sins. This does not mean injustice doesn’t matter. It does. Oppression is real. Political decisions matter. But beneath all of it lies something even more destructive: fear that turns neighbour against neighbour, pride that clings to power, sin that distorts truth and love.

Rome fell. Herod died. Governments changed. The human heart did not.

Jesus does not come to rescue us from one political moment. He comes to rescue us from the brokenness that infects every political moment. He came to save us from the inside out.

Advent gently but firmly reorders our hope. No political system, however necessary, can heal what sin fractures, reconcile what fear divides, or create the peace God promises. That does not mean disengagement. It means rightly ordered hope.

Matthew, and interestingly, only the Gospel of Matthew, refers to Jesus as Emmanuel. God does not enter history by taking control of the system. God enters history by taking on flesh. Not domination, but presence. Relationship. Not coercion, but incarnation. Not slogans, but a life given in love.

That same Emmanuel is with us still. When conversations fracture relationships, when institutions fail us, when fear tempts us toward despair, Emmanuel is with us, through it all.

Advent does not ask us to withdraw from the world. It asks us to remember what the world truly needs and act upon that need. Become the love that the world needs and share it with the world. 

Before laws can change, hearts must be healed.
Before nations can be restored, people must be reconciled.
Before peace can be legislated, it must be born within us.

That is why he is not named Emmanuel alone. He isn’t just God with us. 
He is named Jesus. He is named The One Who Saves. He is God in us.

When I prayed in frustration, “God save us.”  The response I heard loud and clear was - “John, pay attention, I already have.” 

Because God does not merely stand with us in our broken politics. God saves us from the deeper brokenness that shapes them. The brokenness in us. That salvation is still at work—quietly, faithfully, healing us— even when the headlines and social media posts suggest otherwise.

Amen