A Place of Longing - Romans 8:18-25 & Luke 2:1-3

A Place of Longing

Romans 8:18-25 & Luke 2:1-3

Rev. Dr. Rhonda Abbott Blevins

November 30, 2025

I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God, for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its enslavement to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning together as it suffers together the pains of labor, and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope, for who hopes for what one already sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

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In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered.

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Today we begin our Advent series entitled “On the Way to Bethlehem.” The series is based on a book by Pastor Rob Fuquay in which he explores the various places of meaning relevant to the Christmas story—so we’ll be thinking about the manger, the small villages of Bethlehem and Nazareth, a large city still known as Jerusalem. We’ll even consider the region then known as Persia (modern day Iraq) when we get to the story of the Magi after Christmas.

But today we begin our exploration of the important places to the Christmas story with a place we might not consider very important to the narrative—but this place—it’s almost like the air breathed throughout the story. Every breath Joseph breathed in. Every note Mary exhales as she sings her “Magnificat.”

The place? Rome.

It’s so important—if we want to understand the Christmas story with any kind of depth—it’s so important that we remember that the entire narrative is set in the context of the Holy Roman Empire. And for the characters in our story—they aren’t citizens of the Empire, but they are subjects of the Empire nevertheless. Subjects of the Roman Empire were not entitled to the rights of citizens, even though they were required to pay taxes. When Jerusalem fell to General Pompey in 63 BC, all the God-fearing Jews of the land were now subject to and taxed by the Roman Emperor. At the time of Jesus birth, that person was Caesar Augustus.

So Luke begins the Christmas narrative not with the baby Jesus, not with Mary his mother or Joseph his earthly father. Luke begins the Christmas story in Luke 2 with the mention of Caesar:

Why do you think Caesar mandated a census? It was all about the money . . . about the taxes Caesar wanted to collect from his subjects. Do you think the Jewish subjects of the Roman Empire were excited about the census? Do you think they loved paying taxes to Caesar? No way! How many of you love paying taxes?

I recently heard about an IRS auditor who was walking down the street when a mugger stopped him saying, “Give me your money!” The IRS auditor scolded, “You can’t do that!” So the mugger said, “Well in that case, give me my money.”

Not too many people love paying taxes . . . so some people try to get out of paying taxes and cheat. People who cheat on their taxes disgust me. Truly. This is not the world I want to raise my 31 dependents in.

Ok, enough of the tax jokes . . . so many jokes so little time.

I think it’s safe to say that Mary and Joseph weren’t thrilled to travel some 100 miles on foot to return to Joseph’s ancestral home for Caesar’s census. It’s probably safe to say that they were irritated about Caesar’s mandate, and yet they had to oblige.

Rome. This city was the air they breathed. Mandates and decrees emanating from the seat of Roman government affected in their lives in large ways, like having to make a 200-mile round trip journey on foot with a woman great with child. It also affected their daily lives: paying taxes, interacting with the ubiquitous Roman soldiers in the public square, living as marginalized people—subjects but not citizens—all the responsibility without any of the rights that belonged to citizens.

Rome is where the Christmas story begins, with a decree that “went out from Caesar Augustus.” Joseph and Mary had no voice, no power to fight the decree. They simply had to accept it and live their lives the best they could in light of this decree.

I know many of you have traveled to Rome, and to the nation called Vatican City embedded within the city’s borders. Perhaps you enjoyed St. Peter’s square or marveled at St. Peter’s Basilica, maybe Michelangelo’s “Pieta” took your breath away. Outside the Vatican, perhaps you toured the ruins of the Colosseum or sat on the famous Spanish steps.

I’ve been to Rome once, several years ago, and the second most memorable spot for me was a particular subway train car. Now, I thought I was a pretty savvy traveler—I had my small bag containing my wallet across my neck, clutching it the whole time. But with 7,000 people jamming into a small train car, being pushed, pulled, and jostled, I must have let go of the bag to grab the rail. And in an instant, a pickpocket had opened my bag and snatched my wallet, obtaining all my cash and credit cards. I realized what had happened the moment I stepped off the train, never seeing the perpetrator. Never feeling a thing other than the jostling of the subway crowd. I had to spend the rest of the day navigating international calls to cancel credit cards . . . I had to figure out how to obtain money for the rest of my trip given that everything had been taken from me. It was a miserable day in Rome.

I wonder if that’s how Mary and Joseph and their fellow Jews felt about Rome in the first century. Did they feel robbed blind by Rome? Did they feel like victims of Caesar’s oppressive rule? Were they angry because of “taxation without representation?”

Like Mary and Joseph and other subjects of the Roman Empire, we get what it means to live within systems that don’t always have our best interest in mind.

So if we’re going to thrive—not just survive—within these systems, what does that look like? How do we live with agency when the powers around us seem determined to diminish us?

1. Name the System for What It Is

First, we have to see clearly. I don’t think Mary and Joseph were naive about Roman power. They saw Caesar’s census for what it was: extraction, control, surveillance.

We can’t resist what we won’t name. Whether it’s political systems that pit us against each other, economic systems that favor those at the very top of the food chain, or even religious systems that prioritize dogma over people—we have to be willing to say: “this is not the Kingdom of God. This is Caesar’s world, and Caesar wants his cut.”

Naming it doesn’t mean we escape it. But it means we stop internalizing its logic. We stop believing the Empire’s lies about our worth.

2. Find Your People

Mary didn’t travel alone—she had Joseph. The early Christians didn’t face Rome in isolation—they formed communities of radical care.

Systems thrive on our isolation. They want us competing, comparing, convinced that there’s not enough to go around. But when we find our people—when we share resources, care for each other’s children, cook meals, offer rides, hold each other through the chaos—we create little pockets of resistance.

We’re probably not going to overthrow any oppressive system this Sunday, but we can make sure our neighbor eats, like we did last month with (I think!) our largest food collection ever. We can stand up with and for marginalized people in our community, like the battered women and children for whom we’re collecting toys and gift bags this month.

Back to Rome. I told you that a subway train car was the second most memorable spot in Rome for me because it’s where I was pickpocketed. Do you want to know the most memorable spot in Rome from my only visit there? The ruins of the old Roman Forum. Here’s why. It was the day after I was pickpocketed; so the previous day I spent navigating phone calls and figuring out how to fund the rest of my trip. I had one more day in Rome, so I decided that I would see the Forum and other sites in the old city. But as I was walking along the ruins of the Forum, a little band of Gypsies—two women and 5,000 children—they surrounded me. They swarmed around me, started pushing me, pulling me, disorienting me. One of the women grabbed my backpack from me and took off. Now, it didn’t have my credit cards or cash—those were firmly in the hands of the pickpocket from the day before. But you know what my backpack did contain? My Passport! I was not about to let that Gypsie woman run off with my Passport because I was ready to get the heck out of Rome and back home to the good ole US of A! I broke through the 10,000 children and chased her down. I grabbed my bag and my passport from her and took off running the other way. I. Was. VICTORIOUS!

So the question I want to pose today is this: how do we claim victory in light of Empire or systems or even circumstances that are beyond our control? I have some ideas . . .

1. We Claim Our Power

The first thing we can do is claim our power. Now, we know there are some things out of our control. Like Mary and Joseph, we are subject to decrees and mandates from DC, Tallahassee, City Hall, or even our H.O.A.

The Roman Empire tried to reduce Mary and Joseph to numbers in a census—bodies to be counted, taxed, controlled. But Mary’s Magnificat from Luke 1 is her refusal. Here’s part of Mary’s Magnificat from Luke 1:52-53:

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things
and sent the rich away empty.

Mary’s Magnificat is a song of resistance. Mary claims her power by proclaiming that God sees her, knows her name, and has chosen her for something sacred. She is not just Subject #47 from Nazareth. She is the mother of the Messiah.

We claim our power when we refuse to let any system—political, economic, or religious—tell us we are less than beloved children of God. Paul says we are “heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ.” That’s our identity. Not our credit score. Not our productivity. Not our usefulness to Caesar.

2. We Practice Hope as Resistance

The second thing we can do is to practice hope as resistance.

In the section of Romans 8 we read together, Paul writes that we are “saved in hope.” Hope isn’t optimism. Hope isn’t pretending everything is fine. Hope is the stubborn, defiant belief that this is not all there is—that the groaning is giving birth to something new.

Mary and Joseph walked to Bethlehem inside an oppressive system, but they carried hope with them. They participated in God’s future breaking into the present.

We claim our power when we refuse despair. When we rebuild after a hurricane. When we string up Christmas lights in light of it getting dark at 5:30. When we keep showing up for each other even when the news is bad. Hope is not passive waiting—hope is active participation in the world we believe is coming.

3. We Live as If the Kingdom Is Already Here

Finally, we must live as if the kingdom of God is already here.

The most radical thing Mary did wasn’t just give birth to Jesus. It was living as if God’s promises were already true—even while Rome still ruled, even while Herod still terrorized, even while the powerful still sat on thrones.

We claim our power when we live now according to the values of God’s kingdom: generosity in a world of scarcity, mercy in a culture of punishment, belovedness in systems of shame. We don’t wait for permission. We don’t wait for the system to change. We start living the resurrection life right now, right here, in the midst of Rome.

Conclusion

So here’s what I want you to hear today: You are not powerless.

Yes, we live in systems that want to reduce us to a number, a tax bracket, a consumer, a cog in someone else’s machine. Yes, there are forces—political, economic, cultural—that profit from our exhaustion and despair.

But we carry something they cannot take from us. We carry the image of God. We carry hope that refuses to die. We carry the stubborn, sacred belief that another world is possible.

Mary walked into Bethlehem as a subject of Rome. She left as the mother of God.

Paul says creation is groaning—but groaning toward something. Toward freedom. Toward glory. Toward a world where Caesar doesn’t get the final word.

So name the systems. Find your people. Refuse to let them define your worth. Practice hope as resistance. Live as if the Kingdom is already breaking in.

Because it is. Right here. Right now. In you.

The empire still stands. But so do you.

And that, my friends, is where the revolution begins.

Carla CreeganDecember 1, 2025