Tonight the story begins with paperwork: a ruler’s signature, a decree, an empire’s gears turning. Caesar Augustus wants the world enrolled. Not because he is curious, but because names on a register become taxes, and taxes become leverage. Rome calls this order. Rome calls this peace. Rome even calls it, in its own way, salvation.
Augustus knew the power of religious language. He was Octavian, the adopted son of Julius Caesar; when Julius was officially declared a god, Augustus became the son of god. The title sounded like heaven, but it served the throne. The Pax Romana, the Peace of Rome, was real—roads were safer, borders steadier—but it rested on the threat of the sword. Revolts were crushed. Crosses lined the roads. Fear did a great deal of Rome’s governing.
And so, beneath the banners, the world stayed bruised. Poverty did not vanish. Grief still visited every home. Death still collected its wages. Some enjoyed luxury and excess; many simply endured. This is the farthest the world can go on its own: peace through intimidation, comfort through exploitation, security purchased at someone else’s expense.
Then, on the edge of that empire, another king is born.
He arrives without decree and without armor. No palace makes room for him. The true Son of the Father enters where animals breathe and hay clings to clothing, laid in a feeding trough because there is no space in the inn. Rome counts bodies to fund its will; God comes as a body to be given. Rome announces itself to the powerful; heaven sends its message to shepherds, men with calloused hands and tired eyes, keeping watch while others sleep.
The first word from that kingdom cuts against the grain of every empire: “Do not be afraid;” Fear is the fuel of false salvation. Keep people anxious—about safety, status, scarcity—and they will accept almost any bargain. Christ begins by breaking the bargain. He does not save by terrifying us into compliance. He saves by drawing us into love.
That contrast is not only ancient history. Christmas puts two kinds of peace in front of us right now. One says: protect yourself first, grasp what you can, strike back when threatened, keep the wrong people at a distance, make your comfort non‑negotiable. It is easier. It is often more comfortable. It also keeps producing the same world, generation after generation.
The other says: forgive when you would rather keep the account open. Turn away from contempt. Give when you could hoard. Speak truth without cruelty. Carry the cross of patience in a home where tempers flare, in a workplace where gossip is currency, in a society that trains us to treat people as rivals. This way is costly; Christ never pretended otherwise. But it is the only road that opens into a joy that cannot be taken, and a peace that does not depend on threats.
So the question tonight is not which king do you admire. It is which salvation are you practicing. Our answer is given in how we spend, how we speak, whom we make room for, and whether mercy has a real address in our lives.
The way of Caesar will always offer something immediate, comfortable, and temporary. The way of Christ is harder, but the reward is infinite. So make your choice.