The Nativity message from our founding bishop, Bishop Sharon Hart
Dear ones,
What strikes me most about the Christmas story is that it begins with a paperwork error. It starts with a census—a distant emperor counting heads for the sake of taxes—and Joseph and Mary trudging toward Bethlehem because a Roman clerk decided that’s how registration works. There is a profound irony here: a tedious, impersonal bureaucracy becomes the very vehicle that places them in the right place at the right time. If we are honest, there is no historical record of this census; Roman historians were meticulous, and an empire-wide event of this scale would have left a paper trail. Furthermore, Rome wanted people counted where they lived and paid taxes, not wandering back to ancestral villages. But this is one of the reasons why I am a part of a Contemporary Catholic community rather than a literalist one: we recognize that Luke is writing theology dressed as history, using the census as a literary device to show that the "machinery of empire" unwittingly serves purposes far beyond its own comprehension.
Frank Capra understood this same pattern. In his classic film, It’s a Wonderful Life, he wasn’t documenting a true story; he was working in allegory. When the camera moves through the stars as prayers rise from Bedford Falls, he is using mythic language to convey a truth that reportage cannot touch. Both Luke and Capra understood that fiction can often be the most effective vessel for the Truth. If we step back from biological debates regarding the Virgin Birth and look at the symbol of the manger, we see that the Divine enters the world through the most vulnerable door possible. It isn't a military conquest, but a baby born to a teenager in an occupied country, laid in a feeding trough. George Bailey’s journey mirrors this in reverse. Instead of divinity entering human limitation, a human is extracted from his life to see the world without him. Neither story asks us to believe in literal biological anomalies or literal wings; they ask us to recognize those moments where ordinary consciousness breaks open to reveal hidden dimensions of meaning.
In both narratives, our instincts about power are completely subverted. Every human instinct says power belongs in a palace, yet the Gospel writers choose a barn—cold, smelling of animals, and aggressively insignificant. George Bailey, broke and desperate on a bridge on Christmas Eve, is in his own version of that stable. At his absolute lowest, he is standing on sacred ground, realizing that his "Building and Loan" was the humble vessel through which a community was saved. Even the announcement of this grace skips the elite and goes to the "night shift"—shepherds considered ritually unclean and socially invisible. This is the core theological claim: revelation comes to the margins, and divine intervention often waits until human resources are completely exhausted.
We see this communal response again in the arrival of the Magi, who represent wisdom traditions from outside the "approved" circle. In Bedford Falls, we see a local version of the Magi as Sam Wainwright wires money from London, Violet Bick brings her savings, and the ordinary citizens of the town offer what they have. They aren’t royalty, but they are following a star of recognition and solidarity. Standing in opposition is Mr. Potter, who functions exactly like King Herod. Both represent entrenched power threatened by a new way of organizing community, and both fail because the alternative—collective love—proves more resilient than they could imagine.
There is a beautiful theological term for this called kenosis, or "self-emptying." Just as the Divine empties itself into the constraints of humanity, George Bailey empties himself year after year, setting aside his dreams of travel to help others find a home. Both follow the spiritual logic that fullness comes through relinquishment. We are not here to argue about historical censuses or the physics of angels; we are here to practice seeing differently. Both stories refuse easy escapes—the baby in the manger will eventually face betrayal, and George Bailey still has to deal with a missing eight thousand dollars and a predatory Potter. What changes is not the circumstance, but the capacity to see redemptive meaning within it. The star over Bethlehem and the ringing of Clarence’s bell both point to the truth that heaven’s light shows up exactly where we’ve learned not to look. We are invited to trust that our small, ordinary lives are part of a pattern of meaning much larger than we can perceive.
Throughout the Christmas season and the coming year, let us remember that the sacred is often hidden in the ordinary—in the "Building and Loans" of our lives, in the small kindnesses we offer, and in the moments when we feel we have the least to give. May we embrace our own vulnerability as a doorway for the Beloved’s presence. Let us trust that our lives ripple outward in ways we cannot see, weaving a tapestry of redemption that spans from the hills of Bethlehem to the streets of our own towns. May our eyes see the light shining in the dark corners of our world, and give us the courage to show up for one another, believing that every life is indeed a wonderful life! Amen.
All Blessings,
++Sharon
Dear ones,
What strikes me most about the Christmas story is that it begins with a paperwork error. It starts with a census—a distant emperor counting heads for the sake of taxes—and Joseph and Mary trudging toward Bethlehem because a Roman clerk decided that’s how registration works. There is a profound irony here: a tedious, impersonal bureaucracy becomes the very vehicle that places them in the right place at the right time. If we are honest, there is no historical record of this census; Roman historians were meticulous, and an empire-wide event of this scale would have left a paper trail. Furthermore, Rome wanted people counted where they lived and paid taxes, not wandering back to ancestral villages. But this is one of the reasons why I am a part of a Contemporary Catholic community rather than a literalist one: we recognize that Luke is writing theology dressed as history, using the census as a literary device to show that the "machinery of empire" unwittingly serves purposes far beyond its own comprehension.
Frank Capra understood this same pattern. In his classic film, It’s a Wonderful Life, he wasn’t documenting a true story; he was working in allegory. When the camera moves through the stars as prayers rise from Bedford Falls, he is using mythic language to convey a truth that reportage cannot touch. Both Luke and Capra understood that fiction can often be the most effective vessel for the Truth. If we step back from biological debates regarding the Virgin Birth and look at the symbol of the manger, we see that the Divine enters the world through the most vulnerable door possible. It isn't a military conquest, but a baby born to a teenager in an occupied country, laid in a feeding trough. George Bailey’s journey mirrors this in reverse. Instead of divinity entering human limitation, a human is extracted from his life to see the world without him. Neither story asks us to believe in literal biological anomalies or literal wings; they ask us to recognize those moments where ordinary consciousness breaks open to reveal hidden dimensions of meaning.
In both narratives, our instincts about power are completely subverted. Every human instinct says power belongs in a palace, yet the Gospel writers choose a barn—cold, smelling of animals, and aggressively insignificant. George Bailey, broke and desperate on a bridge on Christmas Eve, is in his own version of that stable. At his absolute lowest, he is standing on sacred ground, realizing that his "Building and Loan" was the humble vessel through which a community was saved. Even the announcement of this grace skips the elite and goes to the "night shift"—shepherds considered ritually unclean and socially invisible. This is the core theological claim: revelation comes to the margins, and divine intervention often waits until human resources are completely exhausted.
We see this communal response again in the arrival of the Magi, who represent wisdom traditions from outside the "approved" circle. In Bedford Falls, we see a local version of the Magi as Sam Wainwright wires money from London, Violet Bick brings her savings, and the ordinary citizens of the town offer what they have. They aren’t royalty, but they are following a star of recognition and solidarity. Standing in opposition is Mr. Potter, who functions exactly like King Herod. Both represent entrenched power threatened by a new way of organizing community, and both fail because the alternative—collective love—proves more resilient than they could imagine.
There is a beautiful theological term for this called kenosis, or "self-emptying." Just as the Divine empties itself into the constraints of humanity, George Bailey empties himself year after year, setting aside his dreams of travel to help others find a home. Both follow the spiritual logic that fullness comes through relinquishment. We are not here to argue about historical censuses or the physics of angels; we are here to practice seeing differently. Both stories refuse easy escapes—the baby in the manger will eventually face betrayal, and George Bailey still has to deal with a missing eight thousand dollars and a predatory Potter. What changes is not the circumstance, but the capacity to see redemptive meaning within it. The star over Bethlehem and the ringing of Clarence’s bell both point to the truth that heaven’s light shows up exactly where we’ve learned not to look. We are invited to trust that our small, ordinary lives are part of a pattern of meaning much larger than we can perceive.
Throughout the Christmas season and the coming year, let us remember that the sacred is often hidden in the ordinary—in the "Building and Loans" of our lives, in the small kindnesses we offer, and in the moments when we feel we have the least to give. May we embrace our own vulnerability as a doorway for the Beloved’s presence. Let us trust that our lives ripple outward in ways we cannot see, weaving a tapestry of redemption that spans from the hills of Bethlehem to the streets of our own towns. May our eyes see the light shining in the dark corners of our world, and give us the courage to show up for one another, believing that every life is indeed a wonderful life! Amen.
All Blessings,
++Sharon
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