This is an adapted form of the sermon I preached on Christmas Eve, December 24, 2023. The gospel reading was Luke 2:1-20. As usual, I preached this as a dialogue sermon between Kermit the Frog (of whom I can do a remarkable impression) and myself. The bolded text is Kermit’s lines.

Merry Christmas Johnsonville!

Well, hello, Kermit. Merry Christmas to you too! How have you been?

Can’t complain. The frog abides.

The frog abides?

Indeed he does. How about you?

Just a little tired. Christmas Eve being on a Sunday kind of takes it out of me.

So…anyway, we were talking about Quirinius.

Wait, what?

I said, we were talking about Quirinius.

The governor of Syria in the Christmas story?

Yes.

When were we talking about him?

Christmas Eve, last year. You must be tired. How could you forget?

How could I forget? How can you remember? That was a whole year ago.

Yeah, and I’ve been thinking about that ever since. What do you think I do all year between these Christmas Eve visits?

I don’t know. I thought you went traveling or something.

Where?

I don’t know. The Grand Canyon, maybe?

So…anyway. We were talking about Quirinius.

The governor of Syria.

Right. So, I’d like to tell everybody a little story I wrote about Quirinius.

The governor of Syria?

No. Different Quirinius.

There’s another Quirinius?

Sure. You’re not the only Michael, are you?

Guess not. Wait a minute. Is this the story of Quirinius the Shepherd?

How do you know the story of Quirinius the Shepherd? I just wrote it! Did you hear me practicing yesterday?

Well, to be honest, Kermit, you and I kind of share a brain.

That’s…weird. I don’t want to think about that. Can I tell the story now?

Can I tell it with you?

Yeah, that sounds good.

Okay. You start.

Long ago, about two thousand years ago, in the land of Judaea there was a shepherd boy named Quirinius. He lived in the fields with a band of Jewish shepherds. Now Quirinius was unusual boy; even his name was unusual. Quirinius was an orphan with a Roman name, living in Jewish territory. The shepherds had taken him in as a young child. They were the only family he could remember. He often wondered about his parents – were they Roman? Were they important? And what did that mean about him? He never knew. But even though he often wondered who he really was, he was so grateful to the shepherds. Even though he was different, they made him feel like he was one of their own.

One day, it started to rain in Judaea. It rained and rained for two and a half days. Quirinius and all the shepherds hunkered down as it poured. Their clothing was drenched. Their tent flaps were tearing. Everything had the pungent aroma of wet sheep. The shepherds told stories about a great flood and a man named Noah. Quirinius wondered if those stories were coming true again. Finally, after two and a half days, the rain stopped. Late in the afternoon, it finally stopped raining. The sky cleared, and a glorious rainbow appeared in the sky. To Quirinius, the rainbow looked like hope.

The shepherds immediately began to string up lines and hung up their wet tents and clothing. Then they got to work rounding up the sheep. The flock had scattered all over the hill. Quirinius, perhaps because he was the youngest and smallest, had always felt a special kinship with the lambs of the flock. So he went about counting the lambs, to see that they were all there. One, two, three, four. And so on. Oh no, he thought. There’s one missing. One, two, three, four. And so on. Still one missing. He had to find it.

He went down the hill into the valley below. He knew that sometimes the lambs would wander down there. As he reached the valley, the sun was setting. He walked around, looking and listening carefully for any sign of the missing lamb. What he heard was a rush of water. He followed the sound of the water until he found himself staring at the dry creek bed at the base of the valley. Only it wasn’t a dry creek bed tonight. It was a rushing river, overflowing its banks and flooding the valley. Quirinius carefully took one step into the water, and the flow of the river knocked him down immediately. The river was about twenty yards across. There was no way he could cross it. Nobody was getting across this for at least another two days, until the rains dried up. And then he heard it – a plaintive bleat. He looked up. It was dark now, and the stars were out. He could just make out the shape of the lost lamb, standing on the far side of the river. It must have crossed the creek bed before the waters rose. He had to get it back over on this side, but he had no idea how.

Suddenly – a flash of light. Quirinius looked down, and the river itself was glowing, shimmering, as though something tremendously bright was reflecting in it. It couldn’t be the moon – that wouldn’t shine this brightly. The lamb was transfixed, staring at the light in the river as well. Quirinius looked up to see where it was reflecting from, and he saw that the top of the hill was shining brilliantly. He could just make out the other shepherds standing there, and in front of them was a figure shining as bright as the sun. And suddenly the light expanded, and there were more figures. He could faintly hear speaking, or singing perhaps, but he couldn’t make out the words. And then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. The figures vanished, and the light faded away.

He looked back at the lamb. The lamb was still staring at the river. Quirinius  followed its eyeline, and saw that in the water, the light was still somehow shining, even though the angels who shone the light had gone. And as he watched, the light in the river began to shift, to transform, to harden, to manifest. It spread across the surface of the river, forming a flat surface, like a glowing sheen of ice upon the water. It was a bridge, connecting him to the lamb. Quirinius gingerly put one foot on the bridge of light, and it felt hard and sturdy. He started to walk across. He could feel the water rushing beneath his feet, but he was above it, perfectly safe. He was walking on the water! In a moment, he had picked up the lamb and put it on his shoulders. He walked back across, and carried the lamb as quickly as he could through the wet grass up the hill.

He arrived at the top, the lamb still wet and warm on his shoulders. The other shepherds saw him, and said, “There you are, Quirinius! We’re going to Bethlehem right now! Come with us!”

Quirinius asked them, “Bethlehem? What’s in Bethlehem?”

They said, “The Savior is in Bethlehem! A band of angels just told us that a savior has been born there! The Messiah is here, Quirinius. The Messiah!”

Quirinius thought for a second, and then smiled and said, “Actually, I think I just saw the Messiah myself.” The lamb on his shoulders bleated, and he gently placed it on the ground. “You go on ahead,” he said. “Somebody has to stay with the flock. I’ll stay here.” As the other shepherds hurried away, Quirinius sat down and thanked God. “I may not know who I am, but I know that you love me. And that’s enough.” The end.

Hey, that’s a good story, Kermit. A good Christmas story.

Thank you. I thought so too. I just have one question about it.

Yeah? What’s that?

Why was the shepherd boy named Quirinius?

Wait, I thought you were the one who came up with the name.

No, that was you.

I get so confused as to whether you’re me or I’m you.

Me too.

Oh wait, I do actually know why his name was Quirinius.

Why?

Because right after last year’s Christmas Eve sermon, when we talked about the other Quirinius…

…the governor of Syria.

Right. Right after that, someone I love asked me to make next year’s Christmas Eve sermon all about Quirinius.

Oh. That’s what this was all about?

What do you mean?

That whole story, the rain, the angels, the bridge, the lamb – all that was just to do something nice for someone you love?

Well, yeah. Isn’t that part of what Christmas is all about?

Well, yeah. That’s what I always thought, but you’re always telling me, “No, Christmas is about Jesus and about God’s presence and about the incarnation and about the kenotic outpouring of the shekinah of the Almighty.”

I do not talk about the kenotic outpouring.

Yes you do.

Well, I shouldn’t. That’s ridiculous.

Yes. We are in agreement there.

Anyway. So nice to see you again this year, Kermit.

You too. Maybe we can tell stories every year from now on.

Hmm. Maybe. I’ll have to give that some thought. I’ll let you know next year.

Sounds good. Well, Merry Christmas everybody!

Merry Christmas, Kermit.

Photo by Jaka Škrlep on Unsplash