Oh, these words… these words. In the midst of everything else on this night – the mounting anticipation, the soaring music, family gathered, the candlelight – on this night it is these words that ring true and clear.
“In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered…”
Oh, these words… we long to hear them, all of Advent our hearts have been aching to hear these words again. These words speak to us across time… they come to us from far away and long ago… they emerge from deep in our spirits where they have been lodged for a year or a lifetime… they echo to us from the land of our own childhood.
“She gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.”
Oh, these words.
Garrison Keillor says that “Childhood is the country we had to leave behind, and at Christmas we get to go back and try to speak in our very first language.”
And so tonight, we surround ourselves with these words and try to speak again.
We try to speak: in story and song, in candlelight and prayer, in feast and fellowship. We try to speak these words and tell the good news that comes to us from that little town where “the hopes and fears of all the years are met… tonight.”
These words hold all our hopes and fears.
We fear – because the night is dark and long.
We hope – because a light shines in the darkness.
We fear – because the earth still aches for peace, and the wars will still rage tomorrow, and those we love are still far from home.
We hope – that God’s peace will find us tonight and bring an end, forever, to our warring ways.
We fear – because we know our bodies are frail, and illness threatens our time with the ones we love, and we are reminded daily of just how fragile life is.
We hope – because these words tell us that God shared a body like ours, in skin and blood and breakable bones…
We fear – because tomorrow we will feel the grief of loved ones lost, because we can hardly bear to imagine Christmas morning without them.
We hope – because the promise of new life begins here on this silent and holy night.
We fear – because Christmas won’t be perfect, toys will be broken and families will argue.
We hope – because Jesus was born in a manger, with the dirt of the animals, the incredible messiness of humanity, and there is no perfect Christmas, and God’s grace abounds in spite of it all.
We fear – that there will be no room in the inn when God comes to us
We hope – because God always finds a way.
We fear – because we can barely comprehend what is happening here
We hope – because understand it somehow anyway.
We fear – because it all seems so hopeless.
We hope – because the angels sing.
We fear – because the night is dark and long.
We hope – because we hear the heavenly host proclaiming good news, singing with a joy that surrounds us and soaks up our fears and lights up the sky.
“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 Christ the Lord.”
We fear – because this good news is too incredible to explain.
We hope – because in these words the unspeakable is spoken.
It is “our very first language” – the language of these words, The Word, who became flesh and dwelt among us.
And so tonight, we try to speak again. We fear, we hope, we pray, we rejoice… for God has come to earth.
It is good news of great joy.
Let us pray:
God of light, hear us as we lift our praises high to you, singing with joyful celebration at the good news of this night. Hear our hopes and our fears and give us words to speak again. Grant us and all the world peace that the night might end and light might shine.
Come to us.
Come, Lord Jesus, Come.
Amen.
