The Politics of Christmas

(Preached at the annual Community Carol Service, with members of Havant Rotary, the local Member of Parliament, the Deputy Mayor and other local politicians and charity leaders present.)

Just in case you were wondering: no partridges were harmed in the singing of that carol. 

‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ is one of those songs that begins with confidence and ends with mild panic.  Everyone starts well.  By day six, half the congregation is bluffing, a third has given up entirely, and one person is still confidently singing “five gold… something!”  It’s chaos.  Festive chaos.

And yet — it’s also rather perfect.  Because Christmas itself is a bit like that.  We spend weeks preparing for it.  We rehearse it (or at least our choirs do!).  We plan it.  We wrap it.  We over-cater for it.  And then, when it actually arrives, it doesn’t behave quite as wonderfully as we had hoped.  Children get over-excited.  Adults get over-tired.  Families are wonderful and difficult in roughly equal measure.  Christmas, when it finally turns up, is not neat.  It’s noisy.  It’s crowded.  It’s gloriously imperfect.

Which is, of course, exactly how the first Christmas was.  No carol service.  No rehearsal schedule.  No reserved seating.  Just a young couple, far from home, caught up in a census they didn’t ask for; a birth in borrowed space; surrounded by straw, animals, and rather a lot of smelly brown stuff — and visitors who turn up unannounced.

First, the shepherds.  Not the sort you’d normally put on a guest list.  Shepherds were outcasts in their society.  Their work meant they couldn’t keep ritually clean, and they even worked on the Sabbath.  Outsiders.  Not quite respectable.

Then the wise men — how many, we don’t know.  What we do know is that they were from the East.  Foreigners.  Not Jews.  Carriers of strange ideas and mystical notions about astrology — something Jewish law rejected.  And yet, somehow, they too find a welcome.

And into all of that chaos — the mud, the animals, the shepherds, the foreigners — God chooses to arrive.  Not in power.  Not in control.  But in vulnerability.  In dependency.  In the middle of real, messy, human life as it actually is.

Which is why Christmas still matters — even, perhaps especially, to those who wouldn’t describe themselves as religious.  Whether you believe the events of Christmas happened literally, or whether you see them as a myth with a message, the message at the heart of this season isn’t “be impressive”.  It isn’t “have it all sorted”.  It isn’t “get everything right”.  The message is this: ‘you matter — even here, even now, just as you are.

That’s why the angels don’t appear to emperors, but to outcast shepherds and weird foreigners.  Why the birth happens not in a palace, but in a stable.  Why the story keeps nudging our attention away from status, success and power — and back towards kindness, service, generosity, and care for the vulnerable.

Which is also why it feels so natural that this service is shared with Havant Rotary.  “Service above self” is not just a neat slogan with good alliteration.  It’s a Christmas principle.  It’s written into the story itself.  It’s the God who appears not to be served, but to serve.  It’s the story of quiet, persistent people who don’t seek the spotlight, but simply notice where help is needed — and step forward.  Just as Rotary does: with every penny raised, every shoebox filled, every food parcel delivered, every local family supported this Christmas.

Rotary — and charities like the Rowans, for whom we will raise funds tonight — remind us that Christmas charity is never about obligation, or ticking a seasonal box.  It’s about recognising that the world doesn’t magically pause its pain just because we’ve put tinsel on it.  Loneliness doesn’t take a holiday.  Illness doesn’t reschedule itself.  Poverty doesn’t suddenly find money for turkeys and presents.  Grief doesn’t politely wait until January.

The Christmas story shows us what it looks like for love to enter in — not just into our homes and hearts, but into the wider world: into our communities, and yes (let me say this gently, with professional politicians sitting in front of me) into our politics too.

Politics, at its best, is about the life of the people — the polis — it’s the shared work of shaping how we live together.  So what might that look like when it is infused with the Christmas message of love and service?

Love-filled politics doesn’t mean everyone suddenly agrees — that would be a Christmas miracle of quite a different order.  It doesn’t mean difficult decisions disappear, or budgets magically balance themselves.  Real love isn’t soft-headed or naïve.  But it does invite us to change the tone of the debate.

¾   It means refusing to treat opponents as enemies, but rather as people like us, living by the light they have received so far.

¾   It means speaking truth — always truth — without spin or convenient half-truths.

¾   It means remembering that behind every statistic is a human being, with a name, a story, a family, and fears very similar to our own.

¾   It means asking not only “is this popular?” or “is this efficient?” — both good questions in a democracy — but also “who might this hurt?” and “who might this help?”

¾   It means choosing listening over shouting, restraint over outrage, service over self-interest.

In other words, it looks rather a lot like the values we celebrate at Christmas.  So tonight, whether you came for the carols, the candles, the singing of our fabulous choirs, or simply because it’s what Havant does on this night of the year — I hope you take this with you:  Christmas is not about escaping the mess of the world.  It’s about discovering that love chooses to enter it.

And if that is true, then peace on earth doesn’t end with angel voices in the sky.  It continues — and must continue — with us.  Here in Havant.  Today, and every day.  Amen.