"Good News Is Louder Than Fear" (December 24, 2025 Sermon)

Preaching: Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Text: Luke 2:1-20

Ever notice how fear always sounds like it’s holding a megaphone while hope shows up as a whisper? We gather on a holy night to test those voices against the Christmas story, tracing a line from Isaiah’s promise of peace to Luke’s account of a birth under census, empire, and displacement. Along the way, we name the inner guides we all carry—the wise old owl of grace and the barking dog of anxiety—and learn how to discern when fear protects and when it tries to rule the house.

We move from scripture to street-level life, exploring how a phrase like Do not be afraid can grow legs. A whisper mobilizes shepherds. A whisper nudges a congregation to open doors for women seeking shelter and work. A whisper turns into the steady courage to resist propaganda that thrives on division and to choose small, concrete acts that actually change lives. Rather than romanticizing the manger, we confront the reality that Herod still roars and that good news rarely drowns out noise; it simply outlasts it by being truer, kinder, and more durable.

Together we practice that durability. Lighting stubborn candles becomes a rehearsal for how hope spreads: person to person, room to room. We consider how Christ’s quiet power undermines the metrics of might and how choosing compassion—feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, caring for the uninsured, protecting the refugee—redefines strength. If you’re craving a clear way to navigate loud headlines, anxious minds, and weary days, this conversation offers a grounded path forward: listen for the owl, tame the barking dog, and let the whisper lead you into action. If this resonates, subscribe, share with a friend who needs courage tonight, and leave a review with one hope you’re choosing this week.

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Transcript

Prayer For Illumination

SPEAKER_00 0:01

In preparation for our first scripture reading, please join me in the prayer for illumination. God of yesterday today and tomorrow we long to catch a glimpse of your spirit. We cup our ears to hear the sound of the angel chorus. We turn our eyes toward the sky to see if we can find your star. We lean forward in our seat to see if we can feel your presence in our midst. We long to catch a glimpse of your spirit, O God. So on this quiet night, on this holy night, on this joyful night, reveal yourself to us once more. Speak to us through the music and the children. Speak to us through the starlight and candlelight. Speak to us through these ancient words once again. We long to catch a glimpse of you. Amen. Our first scripture lesson is from Isaiah, the ninth chapter, verses six and seven. Listen now for God's word as it comes to you this evening. For a child was born for us, a son given to us. Authority rests upon his shoulders, and he is named wonderful counselor, mighty God, everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Great will be his authority, and there shall be endless peace for the throne of David and his kingdom. He will establish and uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time onward and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this. Holy wisdom, holy word.

Setting The Advent Theme

The Wise Owl And Barking Dog

When Fear Helps And When It Hurts

Mary Oliver And Letting Go

Why We Gather On Holy Night

Good News Versus Empire’s Noise

Whispers That Move People To Action

SPEAKER_01 6:13

This was the first registration and was taken while Corinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged, and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver the child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son, and wrapped him in bands of cloth and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the guest room. Now in that same region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. And the angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, Do not be afraid. For see, I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people. To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you. You will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest heaven and on earth, peace among those whom God favors. When the angels had left them and had gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us. So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. And Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, just as it had been told them. Friends, holy wisdom, holy word. Thanks be to God. Friends, let us pray. Lord, may the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen. If you're just now joining us this season here at Guilford Park, our theme for Advent and Christmas has been titled, What Do You Fear? Insisting on hope, this Advent. So we're talking a little bit, we've been talking about how fear and hope are not necessarily opposite antagonistic ends of a spectrum, but rather can be helpful conversation partners in the life of faith. You got me thinking this week. My therapist has told me that we all have at least two voices inside of our heads. One she calls it is what she says is the wise old owl. It goes by many names. You might call this owl grace, gentleness, wisdom. The psalmist would call this owl the voice that reminds us when we are frenetic to be still and know that God is God. This wise owl, she tells me, whispers words into our ears that encourage, affirm, and comfort us. It speaks words of encouragement when we need them. For example, my wise old owl gently hoots into my ear that I'm a beloved child of God whenever the world tries to tell me otherwise. When I feel like a failure or a bad parent or any other shameful label, my wise old owl assures me that I don't need to do anything to earn God's love, and that nothing in life or in death can ever separate me from God's grace and forgiveness. When I feel overwhelmed by the brokenness in the world around me, this wise old owl reminds me that my job isn't to fix everything, but just to do the next right thing. My wise old owl is not as loud as I wish it was, because its strength lies in its gentle quietness, cultivated through years of experience, years of mistakes, and years of grace received. The voice of our wise owl is always present, but sometimes it can be drowned out by another voice. My therapist tells me that this other voice we all hear is, well, she calls it the loud, obnoxious, endlessly barking dog. This dog's name is fear, or if you prefer, its cousin, anxiety. Sometimes this dog has a mind of its own. Over the years, it has learned specific signals like a doorbell or a notification on our phone about the latest upsetting, violent headline. At times this dog can go wild when we're surrounded by fears that are weaponized against us, fears that more often than not drive us apart instead of bringing us together. Quite often it feels like the quiet voice of our wise old owl doesn't stand a chance when our fears bark up a storm, creating a maelstrom of misery, some of which is thrust upon us, and some of which is a creation of our own. These two voices are always in our heads, and a good therapist can be a helpful conversation partner, helping us distinguish which voice is which and which voice is healthy to listen to in any given moment. Because, friends, sometimes that barking dog, obnoxious though it may be, is a helpful voice. Trisha and I are currently working with our two young girls that it's dangerous to cross the street or a parking lot without an adult. When in that situation, I want Hazel Grayson when we need to listen to that barking dog saying, Bark, bark, there's a car coming. But there are other times when the barking dogs of our fears think that they are the alpha dog of the household of our minds. The poet Mary Oliver speaks of her barking dog in one of my favorite poems called I Worried. And it goes like this. Mary Oliver said, I worried a lot. Will the garden grow? Will the rivers flow in the right direction? Will the earth turn as it was taught? And if not, how shall I correct it? Was I right? Was I wrong? Will I be forgiven? Can I do better? Will I ever be able to sing? Even the sparrows can do it. And I am, well, hopeless. Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it? Am I going to get rheumatism? Lockjaw? Dementia? Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing. And I gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning and sang. My suspicion is you know exactly what that kind of fretfulness feels like. And perhaps you also know the precious peaceful moments when every once in a while we're able to let go and take our old bodies into the morning and sing. And that's what we've done. Well, not this morning. Well, some of us did, but right now, this evening. We've taken our bodies, some older, some younger, and brought ourselves to this place of worship where we will soon light candles, even if they are stubborn as you know what. And listen to our wise old owl selves saying silent nights in a world that is often far from silent. Perhaps you've come here out of tradition because this is your church and you don't know where else you would be this night. Perhaps you've come because of family obligation, because it must uh it's what must be done to keep everyone happy. Maybe you're here for just holding the flickering light of the candle in your hand and that peaceful feeling of singing songs that you've known since childhood. Or perhaps you're here for a mix of those reasons, or maybe you don't know why. But no matter your reason for being here, God has brought us here for a reason, whether gathered in this space or worshiping with us at home through our live stream, all of us hoping for some small voice to remind us that if all is not well, then all is not over. Perhaps, like me, you have a deep, deep longing for something, something, anything, to cut through the chaos, the clamor, the noise, the nastiness to remind us that God is still at work in the world and that that barking dog of your fears won't have the final word. So if you're eager for that reminder, as I know I am, we need to confront the following paradox. In a sermon titled, Good News is louder than fear, we must acknowledge that good news, well, it isn't always louder than fear, but it is stronger. For example, consider the world into which Christ was born. He was born into an occupied land controlled as a colony of the Roman Empire. The empire took up all the oxygen in the room. Its rulers, like Herod, who governed Judea, made sure that they were the loudest voice in the room. And more often than not, their goal was to instill fear that kept marginalized people in their place. The logic of people like him, I suppose, is that might makes right and that he who makes the most noise controls the narrative. But sometimes men like Herod learned the hard way that narratives can be lost in rather surprising and unforeseen ways. We might remember that Pharaoh was brought to his knees by a god who sent a group of women and girls to save a baby in a basket floating down a river. Herod likewise heard tell of an infant to be born that would fulfill a prophecy, and he sent the magi to hunt this kid down so he could kill him. Compared to the noise of an empire that counted on the sound of clanging armor and weapons to instill fear. The birth of this baby in some backwoods town under the under their jurisdiction may have seemed like a harmless whisper. Nothing to worry about. But some whispers don't stay harmless or quiet for long. Do not be afraid. It is a whisper that can inspire a young girl to stand up for herself in a world that tells her to be quiet. Peace among those whom God favors. Is a whisper that has mobilized people across our country to protect our immigrant and refugee neighbors from harassment and predatory incarceration. I am bringing you good news. Is a message that started as a whisper earlier this year in this very congregation that led us to open up our doors to more than a dozen women this summer to provide an overnight shelter and food while they sought steady employment and affordable housing. You will find a child is a whisper that has unsettled Pharaohs and Herods for more than 2,000 years, because the kingdom this infant brought operates from a kind of math that confounds those who live by the sword. Because the kingdom of heaven, born in a manger on that still silent night, has never depended on brute strength or the bully pulpit to accomplish its work. Instead, it relies on the whispers of the faithful who remind each other that although the loud forces of violence have always claimed to be the final authority, such talk is built on a throne of lies. In truth, the Savior born to us has no need for an earthly throne. God doesn't observe our definitions of power to bring salvation. Christ delivers his own power, but not in a way that men like Herod ever expect. Still the truth remains. Christ is born, and Herod still rules. Christ is born, but the empire's violence persists. In the years to come, Jesus will grow inch by inch. He will be like any other baby, spitting up and giggling, crying, and burping. He will learn to roll over and then crawl and then couch surf and eventually take his first uncertain wobbly steps all by himself. And throughout all of this, the empire will continue to roar and rage while Jesus gently coos in Mary and Joseph's arms. But that whisper will grow. That coup will turn into courage. And those first wobbly steps will turn into other steps that will carry Jesus all over a world full of fear, no less than the one that you and I currently inhabit. And so tonight you and I rest in this good news. Though Herod's come and go, Christ remains. Though this year in many ways has seemed to be a victory for the barking dogs of fear over the wise owls of belovedness, compassion, and justice, Christ whispers hope into our weary ears. And you and I get to choose what to do. With that whisper. We can let it flicker out like a candle in the wind, or we can use it to light other candles. We can light someone else's candle. And then that person can carry the light on, as we will do in a few minutes. And in Christ's name, we can keep sharing that light until it's no longer a whisper spoken in fear, but a song sung in defiance. As one commentator I read this week puts it, it's easy to believe that fear is louder than good news. Just turn on the TV, scroll your feed, glance at the headlines. Fear dominates. But on this night, on this holy, trembling night, Luke dares to tell us otherwise. Into a world defined by empire, surveillance, and oppression, a birth breaks in. Not in a palace, not under protection, but in the shadows of census and displacement. Luke isn't writing a neutral tale, she said. He's offering a counter-narrative to Roman propaganda. So, friends, let us not be swayed by loud, fear-mongering propaganda in its many forms. Yes, let us listen to the barking dogs of fear when their voices are literally keeping us safe, like crossing the street, as I mentioned, but let us not be swayed by the barks that tell us to fear one another or our neighbor. Let us not be seduced by the barks of division and violence and enmity. Instead, let us have the whispers of this silent night grow into a steady, drumbeat, persistent, steady beat of hope. Not some empty hope that remains in the abstract, a concrete hope, one that feeds the hungry, houses the homeless, cares for the uninsured, protects the refugee, and sees empathy not as a weakness, but as the very thing that keeps you and I human. That, friend, is the kind of hope that may start as a whisper, but never stays as a whisper. That's a kind of hope that may begin as a helpless infant but grows into a kingdom that will outlast the Herods who claim to have total authority in our lives. That's a kind of hope, y'all, that keeps us coming back year after year to celebrate this timeless story, to proclaim together that yes, good news is louder than fear. In the name of God, the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God's beloved children, say. Amen.