Mary's Labor Pains

Life of the Church

Good morning everyone, and a very Merry Christmas to you all. As my favorite fictional Christmas character once said, “God bless us, every one.”

I don’t have many announcements this morning other than to remind you of Jimmy Grant’s funeral service, which will be held on Wednesday at Henry Funeral Home in Staunton. The family will receive friends from 10-11, followed by a service at the Funeral Home. Please keep Jimmy’s family in your prayers. We’ll all miss him, but we’ll all see Jimmy again.

Thank you to everyone who made cookies for our Christmas Cookie Caper this week. The folks at the Stuarts Draft Retirement Community were very thankful for those treats.

Don’t forget our evening candlelight service today at 5:00. Please join us here if you can.

Jesyka, do you have anything?

Sue, do you have anything?

Opening Prayer

Let’s pray:

Lord we come to You this morning with hope, with peace, with faith, and now with love, knowing that each of these gifts come from Your perfect being. We praise You this day and ask that you bless our service with Your Spirit and Your presence. Lift up our hearts to You. In Jesus’s name, Amen.

Lighting of the Advent Wreath

This last Sunday of Advent is when we light the last of our smaller candles, which is the candle of love. Tonight we will light the large candle in the middle, which is the candle of Christ.

We cannot speak of the Christmas story without love. Because of Joseph’s love for Mary, he chose to marry her though the child she carried was not his own. Because of Mary’s love, she cared for and nurtured a son she knew she could not hold for long. And because of God’s love for us all, He sent His own son into the world to save it.

John 3:16 says: For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in him will not perish, but have everlasting life.

(light candle)

Let’s pray:

Father it is by your love that the greatest gift of all came into the world on that first Christmas, wrapped in the form of a baby laid in a manger. We pray you fill our hearts and minds with the power of that truth. In Jesus’s name we pray, Amen.

The Lord’s Supper

At this time, I’ll call our deacons forward as we celebrate the Lord’s Supper. It’s always good to connect the birth of Christ with the meaning of Christ, which is salvation from our sins. I invite any who know Jesus as your Savior to participate.

(Bread)

Matthew writes that on the night of Jesus’s betrayal, he gathered his disciples in the very Upper Room where they would witness him resurrected. And as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.”

(Juice)

And he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”

By him, we are made one with him. By his blood, we are made eternal. Amen.

Sermon

When we think of the Christmas story, we think of peace and stillness and joy. There’s no doubt all of those were present on that night in Bethlehem long ago in some way, because it was a night like no other before and no other since.

It was a night when the unthinkable happened — God Himself, the Creator and Sustainer of all things, entered into this world as a baby. We’ve heard the story in Luke 2 so many times that it’s easy to take that first Christmas night for granted. The beauty and mystery and the wonder of that birth can be lost to us just because it’s so familiar. But it’s all so amazing. Imagine God giving up Himself, lowering Himself to become a baby. To become dependent upon a human mother for love and nourishment and a human father for protection and provision. But what if I told you that a lot of the images we have of that first Christmas night are probably wrong because of all the paintings we’ve seen about it?

For centuries the Nativity has captured the imagination of artists. Their creations have influenced how we think that night unfolded every bit as much as the scripture we’re about to read. I want to show just a few of those paintings very quickly as we start today.

The first was done by a German painter named Christian Dietrich in the 1760s. It’s called “Adoration of the Shepherds.” You see Jesus bathed in this beautiful heavenly light and the shepherds praising God. There’s Mary, calm and serene. And Joseph behind her with his arms stretched out as if to say, “Guys, I really didn’t have much to do with this.”

Let’s take a look at another one. This is by Rembrandt in 1646. This one too is called “Adoration of the Shepherds.”Again, there’s Mary, calm and peaceful, and the glow from the Christ child is lighting up the entire stable.

Here’s one more, and this is one of my favorites. A Dutch painter named Gerrit Van Honthrost painted this in 1619. It’s called “The Adoration of the Child.” Beautiful, isn’t it? There’s Jesus with that holy glow. The two other younger characters there are angels. And Mary, calm and peaceful. And if you squint you can see Joseph standing behind her in the shadows, looking down at the baby.

All of these paintings are done in different styles, but they’re pretty much the same, aren’t they? You have the baby as the focus — as he should be — and a feeling of worship and wonder, and you have Mary with this perfectly saint-like expression. That’s mostly because of the influence the Catholic church had on art at that time. The Catholic church teaches that Mary’s birthing process with Jesus was without pain. That’s why she can look so peaceful and holy in these paintings.

We even sing it every Christmas, don’t we?

“Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.”

“The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes, but little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes …”

But nothing in Luke says that the birth of Christ went so quietly, and it definitely doesn’t say it went painlessly for Mary. If you remember a few weeks back, we talked about how Luke was very careful in writing his gospel. He wanted every fact checked and rechecked. Luke wanted eye witnesses. Most scholars believe that the reason the Christmas story is told only in Luke was because Luke was told this story by Mary herself, and she doesn’t say anything about any special treatment. That’s one reason why we Protestants believe that Mary was special, Mary was set apart by God, but Mary was also a sinner like the rest of us. And that’s why my favorite Nativity painting is this next one, painted in 1891 by an American named Gari Melchers, called “The Nativity.”

I don’t think any painting captures that first Christmas better than this one. You still have that holy glow from the baby, but look at Mary. She’s exhausted, isn’t she? Completely worn out. And look at Joseph. Look at that expression, and the way his hands are folded like he wants to pray but doesn’t have the words. He’s completely filled with wonder but he looks completely terrified at the same time. It’s like he’s thinking, “How am I going to do this? How can I bear up under this responsibility God’s given me?”

Joseph might also be looking that way because of what he’s just experienced. They call it the miracle of childbirth, and it is, but that is one messy miracle, isn’t it? I’ve been in a delivery room twice. I watched both of my children being born. And let me tell you, the look on my face was not one of wonder, it was one of shock.

Remember a couple weeks ago when we were talking about peace, and we said the secret to Mary’s peace was that she lived by those words she spoke to the angel Gabriel: “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” From the moment Mary said that, her life was God’s to do with as He willed. But it often wasn’t easy for her, and we often forget that. I want to leave this painting by Gari Melchers up as a reminder that Mary’s exhaustion, and her pain, was part of that will. And that’s important, because there is a beauty in Mary’s pain on that first Christmas that God uses to speak to the beauty in our pain today.

This morning, I want to look at the Christmas story through the eyes of Mary, and for that we turn to the Gospel of Luke, chapter 2, starting with verses 1-7. Read with me:

2:1 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.

Now skip down to verses 16-19:

16 And they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger.

17 And when they saw it, they made known the saying that had been told them concerning this child.

18 And all who heard it wondered at what the shepherds told them.

19 But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.

And this is the word of the Lord.

There are seventy miles between Nazareth, where Joseph and Mary live, and Bethlehem. Most of that land is wilderness. It’s a hard journey for Joseph, and it’s made harder by the fact that Mary is with him.

According to verse 5, the two of them aren’t married yet. Mary is referred to as Joseph’s “betrothed.” Jewish law said that a woman who was betrothed to man was on the same footing as a wife. That means Mary has to be counted in the census as well. But here’s the thing — Mary doesn’t have to make this long trip from Nazareth. Joseph can just count her along with himself when he registers.

So the first question we have to answer is, Why is Mary going? Why take this long and difficult journey as a woman about to give birth?

We can say a few things to that. First, Mary depends on Joseph’s presence and protection. Nazareth is a small town, and in every small town, everybody knows everybody else’s business. At that time, an unmarried pregnant woman is plenty enough to get the whole town talking. Mary’s very likely at the center of a scandal. She needs Joseph with her.

Also, they both know the time is near for this baby to be born. Neither of them want to be separated when that happens, especially given who this child is.

But even though these are perfectly reasonable reasons for Mary to make this trip, there’s one reason that’s especially on Mary’s mind. She wants to go to Bethlehem. Remember last week when we talked about Herod going to the priests and scribes because he wanted to know where the Messiah would be born. They told him that according to the prophet Micah, he would be born in Bethlehem. Joseph knows this prophecy. So does Mary. Mary chooses to go to Bethlehem for just that reason, because that’s where the Savior of the world is prophesied to be born.

God is at work here, just as He always is. He’s working in both history and in people. He is at work in the actions of Augustus and Herod, even though they have no idea. He’s working through Joseph, who is obeying the law by going to Bethlehem. And God is at work in the actions of Mary, because she is actively doing all she can in order to fulfill these prophecies. They are all completely free to choose what to do and where to go, but they’re all still subject to God’s will and plan.

It’s a long journey for both of them, and a painful one for Mary. She’s probably riding a donkey the whole way, led by Joseph, because walking would have been impossible. Every step the donkey makes vibrates in her bones, every rock kicked out of the way, every hole a hoof falls into. They have to make camp early and often so she can rest. She tries to sleep on the hard ground, but sleep is difficult to come by. No position is comfortable. The baby inside her is moving, kicking, making her nauseous. Mary is tired. Her whole body is straining. And just when she starts wondering if she can last a minute more, Joseph points to a smattering of small buildings in the distance. They’ve finally come to Bethlehem.

Because Mary’s come along, their journey takes longer than expected. Joseph’s had to travel slower. He had to stop for rest more. Now when they finally arrive in Bethlehem, they realize they’re late. It’s a tiny little town of not many people, all but forgotten. But on this day, there are people everywhere. Everyone who can trace their ancestry back to David has come to Bethlehem to be counted. There’s only a single inn to shelter travelers, and the owner says he’s full-up. There’s no room. That phrase at the end of verse 7 doesn’t necessarily mean there was absolutely no room for Joseph and Mary, and we’ll get to that, but that the inn was too crowded for a woman to give birth.

Joseph has to find somewhere else for them to stay, and he needs to hurry. Forget about this whole census thing. If he doesn’t find a room for Mary, she might go into labor right in the middle of the street. They try homes, shops, the tavern. Every time, they’re turned away. Every time, a door is closed.

Every time, Mary feels a little more afraid — Where will we go? Every time, Mary feels a little more abandoned — Why won’t anyone help us? Every time, Mary feels a little more ashamed — This is my fault. I wanted to make this journey. I thought it was right. But because of me, Joseph had to take more time. Because of me, there won’t be anywhere for my baby. What’s happening, God? Where are you? I need you.

And it’s as if God answers, because Joseph finds a place for them. The Greek word translated as “inn” in verse 7 could be translated as “guest room.” Meaning that Joseph could have found a place to stay either in the first floor back at the inn, or in the lower floor of a house. But it also seems God answers in almost the worst way possible, because in both cases, that’s where the animals are kept. Joseph and Mary have to spend the night in a barn that’s inside a house. But at least they’re out of the elements, so Joseph settles her as best he can. He asks Mary how she’s feeling. She smiles as much as the pain and discomfort will allow.

He says, “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine here for the night. God will get us a room upstairs tomorrow. I’m sure of it.”

And Mary says, “Yes, I’m sure too. Everything is fine.” But everything doesn’t feel fine, and Mary’s not so sure. Mary says otherwise, though, because she sees the look on Joseph’s face, a look that says he’s failed. They’re not even a family yet — Mary’s not his wife, the child hasn’t been born — but Joseph thinks he’s already failed them. He’s been entrusted to care for God’s own child, and he can’t even find them a proper place to stay.

The two of them are quiet. They’re both thinking so many things that there isn’t space for words. Outside is the noise of people, inside the noise of animals. They need sleep. It’s been such a long way from Nazareth. But just as Joseph’s eyes grow too heavy to stay open, he hears the worst sound of his life — Mary cries out. Her labor has begun.

Verse 6 — “And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth.”

Her water breaks. Mary feels a pain unlike any she’s ever known as those first hard contractions wash over her in waves.

There’s no indication at all in these verses that anyone helps with her delivery. Joseph takes her hand, squeezes it. He says he’s going upstairs to get help but Mary says, “No. No, please. Don’t leave me. Everyone’s left me. Everyone in Nazareth thinks I’m stained. I don’t know anyone here. I don’t even know where God is. So please, please Joseph — don’t leave me.”

Joseph moves closer. He promises he won’t leave. He thinks, I’m not supposed to be here. A father’s place is not here. There should be a midwife. I’m no midwife. God help me, I don’t know what to do.

Outside life is moving on, but inside life — THE life, the everlasting life — is about to begin. The straw sticks in Mary’s back like needles. Her sweat makes it cling to her neck and face and arms, her legs. She’s going to be sick. And that pain. Mary cries out, she can’t help it.

This is supposed to be wonderful, she thinks, so why does it hurt so much? Why do I feel this hurt instead of God’s love? I can’t doubt after what I’ve seen, but I want to doubt. I can’t despair after what the angel told me, but I want to despair. I cannot question God, but where is He? This can’t happen. Not here, not in this stable. Not with these animals. This is not the place of a king. What is happening to me? What is God doing? I am giving birth to the One who will save me from my sins, but all I feel is pain.

A woman giving birth to her first child typically spends eight hours in labor. About two hours of that labor is active pushing. Given that Mary is a virgin, that probably made her childbirth even more difficult and painful.

But pain that’s physical isn’t the only kind that Mary’s had to endure. As she bears down, she remembers the emotional pain she felt from all the criticism in Nazareth by neighbors and friends who thought Mary had been immoral. She remembers the mental pain she felt from the heartache of wondering if Joseph would publicly shame her, or at best give her a quiet divorce.

“This hurts,” she tells Joseph, but Mary thinks, but it isn’t the worst sort of hurt, because I’ve felt that too.

She remembers her words to the angel — “I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” And she thinks, I’ve done that. I’ve been His servant. I obeyed. I did what was right. I found favor in God’s sight. I was chosen to bear the Savior of the world, so why must I feel so hurt and alone?

And in the next moment, Mary knows the answer to that question. Because that’s the moment Joseph says, “I see him, Mary. I see his head.”

That’s when everything changes for Mary. That’s when she realizes that she had to endure all of this pain because she did what was right in God’s eyes, and His eyes are the only ones that matter. All of this suffering she’s endured since the angel visited her and all the suffering that will follow did not come about from anything she did wrong, but because she did everything right. She did everything according to God’s will. She understands that sometimes the blessings God has for us and the purpose He’s moving us toward can only be found through real pain. It’s a mystery we’ll never solve in this world, but it’s a truth the Bible speaks over and over — God blesses us by including us in what He’s doing, even when we don’t understand it. Even when we don’t see it. Even when it hurts.

That has to be true, she thinks. Is that true? Can it be true that through my pain God is doing something much bigger and more wonderful than I can possibly understand?

Mary pushes. Pushes. Mary pushes so hard that it feels like she’s coming apart on the inside. She pushes until she screams, and when she feels as if this is her last breath, Mary hears a sound that swells her heart and bursts it all the same. She hears a baby cry.

Outside in the street people are walking and talking and griping about having to come all the way to Bethlehem because of the greedy Romans. The greatest event in history has just taken place, but in Bethlehem life goes on as it always has.

In verse 7, Mary herself wraps the child in swaddling clothes. When a Hebrew child was born, it was washed in water and rubbed in salt, then wrapped in a blanket so that the child’s arms and legs were snug. She takes the baby in her arms as Joseph takes Mary in his. She feels the warmth of the man who will be her husband and the warmth of the baby who will always be a part of her.

She looks into that small perfect face and thinks, Who are you? To heaven, you are the power of the universe. Is that who you are? To the Romans, you will be a danger. Is that who you are? To your people, you will be a Savior or a fool. Is that who you are? But then Mary touches his lips, caresses his cheek, feels the dark hair on his head, and she says, “You may be all of these things, but to me, you will be my baby boy.”

She places the child in a feeding trough that Joseph fills with straw. Together they take a moment to rest, maybe in much the same way that Gari Melcher painted in 1891. Mary looks at those cloths and wonders how many other babies in Judea are wrapped that way tonight, bound not in silk but in plain material. Poor children, just like hers. He would not live like a king. He would not grow up as one with worldly power. She and Joseph would not be able to provide for this child in the way he deserved. But they would love him. They would honor him. They would keep him safe until he was grown, and then one day he would keep them safe forever.

But for now, she will rest. Joseph will watch over them both. He will do that for the rest of short life. But just as Mary closes her eyes from exhaustion, there’s a knock at the door. And as if this night couldn’t get any stranger, the men who come inside quiet and smiling and out of breath are people that Mary and Joseph would never expect. They’re shepherds.

One of them says, “Is he here? Is the Savior here?” and he and the rest come inside slowly, easing the animals aside and trying not to step into their waste on the floor, moving close to the manger where the baby rests.

Maybe it’s Mary who asked them, maybe it’s Joseph, but I’m sure one of them asks, “How did you all know this happened?”

And the story these shepherds tell is incredible. One of them says, “We were in the fields keeping watch over our flocks when suddenly an angel appeared in our midst. He was beautiful and terrifying. I can’t even describe him. You wouldn’t understand.”

Both Mary and Joseph say, “I’m pretty sure we would understand.”

The shepherd tells them what the angel said. About the good news of great joy. About a Savior, the Christ, born this night in Bethlehem. About how in that moment angels filled the entire sky, more angels than could be counted shining like a million suns, and they’re singing — oh, you can’t imagine how beautiful that sounds! — and how the angel told them to go to Bethlehem to see for themselves.

He says, “The angel said we will find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. Is this him?”

Mary says, “Yes.”

And it’s almost as if these shepherds suddenly realize where they are. They’re in a room with animals and straw. It smells. It’s dirty. They see themselves — shepherds who are castoffs from society, who aren’t even allowed to worship in the temple because they’re considered unclean. They see Mary and Joseph, a poor couple with next to nothing when it comes to worldly possessions. They see the child, sleeping in the manger.

The shepherd says, “It’s a strange thing, this Savior. He doesn’t look like a king. He looks like us.”

And Mary smiles and says, “Yes. It is a strange thing. It is a wonderful thing.”

She thinks of all the shepherds have told her about what happened in the fields beyond Bethlehem. And Mary realizes that while she was in such pain, while she was crying out and wondering why being the Lord’s servant could sometimes hurt so much, heaven itself had been emptied of every angel so they could sing the good news of her son. These men who society had forced to live apart from God were invited to see and touch God.

It isn’t a shameful thing that the Savior would be born to a family so poor and so unknown, it’s a sign of heaven’s limitless love that this child is for everyone, even them, and that no matter how low they are in the eyes of the world, they are cherished in the eyes of God.

Verse 19 says that “Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.” That’s such a beautiful phrase, and it’s so important for you in your life. Mary makes a vow that she will hang on to the memory of this night. She’ll treasure it and hold it dear. She’ll use what God has done for her and for Joseph, what God has done for these poor shepherds, for whatever life will bring her. She looks at her baby boy, her son, she looks at the man she will marry, and she ponders, This is my family. These are the ones I love. We will be together, come what may.

I doubt very much that in Mary’s pondering she ever thought about the possibility that Joseph would be gone to heaven before Jesus began his ministry. And I doubt she ever thought that her precious boy’s life would end so violently, so painfully, on a cross.

But I have no doubt that in those terrible times she thought back to this first Christmas night and remembered that we expect love to always feel warm and comforting and never expect that in a fallen world, love will surely break our hearts. But this child she bore would fix all of that, and one day there will be no more tears and no more pain.

Christmas is a time of joy for that very reason, and yet that joy often shines a light on the things we’ve suffered or are suffering through. Many times, that suffering doesn’t seem fair. But if we step back a bit and look away from that suffering to God and how ones like Mary were asked to endure suffering because there was joy at the end, it gives us the sureness of hope that we will find joy as well.

This Christmas, let us all remember that God did not turn a deaf ear to our cries. He did not ignore our prayers. Instead He did the unthinkable — He reached down into this world and gave us Himself. He was born into the mud and the dust in which we all live, born into pain, born into the messy miracle of life. Born to know the heartbreak of loss, the love of family and friends. He experienced the pain of living and enduring, all for you. That’s how much God loves you. And of all the gifts He gives you this Christmas, the hope and peace and joy, it is His love that is the most precious, and it is His love that makes the cracks in our lives shine with a light that will carry us into eternity.

Let’s pray:

Father as we near the most holy day of Christmas, we pray that you help us to pause and reflect upon the reason You sent your precious child into the world. It was not pity that brought him, not mercy alone. It was love — a love that surpasses anything we can feel and all that we can do, a love so great that even death cannot stand against it. A love of a Father for his children. Let that love overflow us, Father. Let it rush through us and be in every word, every act, every breath. For it’s in Jesus’s name we ask it, Amen.