It is the question Fred Craddock said we preachers should write at the top of every page of our sermon notes, but today let’s put a bow on it, because it’s an awfully good question for this season, too.  For that matter, we could apply it to our relationship with God, our worship, our profession of faith, and, shoot, pretty much every moment of the day.  For a verbless, two-word question, it packs quite a wallop and rattles more than a few assumptions, trite clichés, and easily quoted truisms.  Even the most profound and thoughtful theological reflections are not immune to its power.

So what?  That’s the question.

At our church yesterday we were inspired by a beautiful service of Lessons and Carols.  But inspired to or for what?  We are spiritually sprinting headlong toward Christmas and will be there in a matter of days now.  So—when we get there, and before we have raced past it—what?  For our lives and for the world, so what?

I am haunted by the U2 song, Peace on Earth.  “Jesus in the song you wrote, the words are sticking in my throat—peace on earth,” Bono sings.  “Hear it every Christmastime, but hope and history won’t rhyme—peace on earth.”

“Peace on earth,” we sing.  So what?  We put a lot of energy into proclaiming and celebrating Christmas, and when it is all done, is the world any different?

I cannot answer for the world or for the Kingdom of God in the world or for God’s plans or even for the church, but I can answer for myself.  This year I will stand with the shepherds once more and hear the angels’ song.  I will stand beside a feed trough and listen to the baby’s breaths.  I might even sit down for a bit by that manger and allow myself to ponder.  Is there a Word in that silence?  Can there be salvation in a baby’s presence?  Is this the climax of a story that can change the world?  For some reason, my soul says yes.  The strange claim that what the world calls powerless has the power to save has, well, a strange claim on me.

Which brings me to the “So what?”  This year, I vow not to leave the manger empty-handed.  This year I will leave with the baby in my arms, and I’m going to carry him on through January and beyond.  No doubt, carrying a baby around will change some things.  I might have to slow down a bit; I might have to lower my voice a little.  I might have to be more patient.  And what if that baby really is God’s eternal Word, God’s truth, God’s example of what life ought to be.  Then I better walk carefully, because it’s nothing less than the hope of the world I’m carrying.

And if he is the hope of the world, I should share him, right?  But how?  I mean, you don’t hit people over the head with a baby; you can only invite them to open their arms.

So, here, I’m inviting you.  Take him.  Really.  Ponder him for a while.  He has a claim on your soul, too, doesn’t he?  There is something in the story that nags at you.  There is something in the angels’ song that speaks to your hopes.  There is something powerful in this powerlessness, isn’t there?  It could even be the hope of the world, couldn’t it?  So what?

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