Christmas comes to us this year with a lump in the throat and sadness as we carry the shock and grief from the horrific attack on the community at Bondi Beach
on Sunday 14 December during a Hanukkah gathering.

What should have been a safe space among the beauty of God’s creation at Bondi beach, marked by family, faith, prayers, song, and light was shattered by evil.

Yet the darkness will not prevail.

When something like this happens nearby, we feel it in our bodies: the tightness in the chest, the over protectiveness of our loved ones, the question—How can this be? And if you’ve found yourself praying one moment, and then finding yourself angry the next, please know that you are not alone. The Bible is honest enough to hold our anger, our fear, and our confusion.

And still Christmas speaks. Not as denial. Not as “look on the bright side”. Christmas speaks in God’s decision to draw near.

The first Christmas was not calm. It arrived amid displacement, poverty, political violence, and anxious hearts. Mary and Joseph were not floating through Christmas carols, they were trying to find shelter.

The Shepherds were not living in a nativity-set peacefully, they were keeping watch in the dark. And into that world the angels said:

“Do not be afraid... for see, I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people... Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace...” (Luke 2:10–14)

So in these days, we name what must be named: violence is not God’s will.

Hatred is not holiness. Antisemitism is sin. Anyone who weaponizes faith has lost their way. And part of our Christian witness is to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our Jewish neighbours and friends, and with people of all faiths and none, offering respect, protection, and practical love.

This is who we are as Australians. This is who we are as Christians.
Here is one of Christmas’ quiet miracles: when hatred tries to divide, Love binds us together. God is love.

The turning of a calendar to 2026 doesn’t magically fix a broken world. But it does invite us to choose what we will carry into it, and what we will refuse to normalise. We can refuse to become numb. We can refuse to let cynicism be our spirituality. We can refuse to let fear be the loudest voice in the room.

Instead, we continue to pray this promise into our hearts:

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 15:13)

Hope, in the Christian sense, is not wishful thinking. Hope is the holy defiance that says:

God is still here. Love is still possible. Light is still stronger than darkness.

So what might Christmas hope look like, in the wake of shock?

It might look like checking on a neighbour, especially someone who feels targeted or unsafe.

It might look like teaching our children courage without feeding them dread.

It might look like speaking with kindness online, where cruelty and prejudice is cheap.

It might look like showing up at worship, at community gatherings, at vigils, with a steady presence that says, You belong. You are not alone.

This Christmas, may Christ, the Prince of Peace be born again in the places that feel most fragile: in our grieving, in our solidarity, in our public life, in our families, in our streets, in our prayers.

And may the light that shone over Bethlehem steady us as we enter 2026.

Blessings — Rev. Carmel Sheraton