First Sunday after Christmas Sermon

As a child, growing up in the church, my siblings and I were never the ones who stood out in any adult-sanctioned way. My sister was never Mary in the Christmas pageant. I never had a singing part – not even in the chorus. What stands out most emblematically in my memory was the year I played a camel’s front-half. At least I got the front. But even in children’s pageants, camels don’t sing – or even speak for that matter. I was left to chew the cud – and to do it quietly at that. But then – one year – it all changed. The youth pastor, whose recognition I wanted madly, asked me – me! – to sing a solo of Silent Night. I gave no pause to consider why the children’s choir director had always passed me by, or why the youth pastor now sought me. In hindsight, it’s all too painfully clear. I was just a name to fill an empty slot. But I didn’t know that then. It was my moment. The life of redemption loomed large before me. I remember practicing in my bedroom – memorizing the verses, giddy with of my impending glory. And then – it was time. I wore my three-piece, hand-me-down tan corduroy suit with no tie – because none had been handed down with it. As I made my way up to the stage, a cautious thought occurred to me, “You know – some of those high notes are awfully high. Maybe you should start out just a bit lower – play it safe.” The music began. I leaned in: “Silent night. Holy night.” O God. It was awful. Four notes in, and I was ruined. I’d started a whole octave below my range. But what could I do now? I had to stick it out for every agonizing verse. It turns out there are a lot more low notes than high notes. It was a total disaster. For years afterwards – even as a college student coming home for the holidays – whenever I visited my parents’ church and “Silent Night” was sung – whole rows of amused parishioners would turn around to smile at me – knowingly. Merry Christmas, indeed. This memory – this shame – was woven into my personal legacy. I couldn’t hear Silent Night without a pang of self-ridicule and embarrassment. Years later, though, I heard another story about Silent Night being sung, and it has become for me a counterpart to my story, a fitting response, a voice of grace. There’s a sense in which God, in God’s ultimate sovereignty, responds to the stories and circumstances of our life and shines light into them. My story isn’t forgotten – it continues to be a part of me – but it is no longer the only voice on the matter. This second story took place sixty-nine years previously. It was Christmas Eve, 1914 – on the Western Front. WWI. You don’t need to know much about the first World War to know how hideous it was. Humanity had advanced enough to know how to kill each other in new and tortuous ways. But on that Christmas Eve, the horror was momentarily suspended. It began when the British troops saw candles being lit in the German trenches across from them and rows of Christmas trees poking up in place of the guns. Curious, they began to pay closer attention. They began to hear voices – singing. There – in the dark, bitter night – they recognized one of the melodies: “Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!” And, as if it were the only fitting response, they joined their English voices to this spontaneous, bi-lingual choir: And in that moment they were no longer soldiers on the western front, but worshipers in Bethlehem. Perhaps even angels. Which isn’t to presume they were suddenly filled with divine insight and clarity or theological acumen, but that their guts knew what tradition had taught them – that we are made for peace. So in that moment, the heavens were pierced and the truth – the holy, glorious truth of God’s Kingdom – penetrated the battlefields of earth. That penetrating clarity is what the angels in Bethlehem perceived. That’s why they filled the sky and sang. For, in that moment, the unraveling of God’s redemptive purposes were suddenly made clear. Jesus had been born – in a particular moment, in a particular place, in a particular body: God with us. Emmanuel. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He came to what was his own (John 1). And, in a flash, God’s plan was revealed to the angels, and the angels were revealed to the shepherds and heaven and earth were momentarily one. And without preparation or hesitation, all creation knew to glorify God. It was an in-breaking of the Kingdom: a glimpse of God’s eternal, redeeming glory. And so it was that Christmas Eve on the Western front: An unofficial armistice had begun and peace broke out. And Christmas began again. In numbers too great to be restrained, the soldiers on both sides laid down their weapons and flooded into no-mans land. For now it was every man’s land. And the lion shall lie down with the lamb. The soldiers brought gifts to each other – whatever could be found to give: a bit of chocolate; cognac. They showed each other photos of their families. By morning’s light, Christmas Day, they started playing football and reveling. And when night fell again, they gathered around fires together, companions, singing Christmas carols. And then the skies were black again. And Herod was trying to kill the baby Jesus, and the soldiers resumed their occupation of killing each other. Years would go by and Pilate succeeded in Herod’s quest and Christ was crucified, and the war to end all wars was replaced by the second world war and all the wars that marched in her footsteps. But in that moment – in Bethlehem, in the trenches – our warfare was accomplished, our iniquity pardoned (Is. 40:1). God sent his son, born of a woman, in order to redeem us, that we might receive adoption as children – and if children, heirs – heirs of God (Gal. 4:4-7). There is an answer. Just as my shameful memory of Silent Night is answered by Stille Nacht and the Christmas Armistice, so all our shame is answered by the Word become flesh. It is God’s answer, God’s Word, and God has spoken. Even if that word has been garbled in our hearing, it still is true, as true as our timid echo of the angels’ refrain: “Glory to God in the highest, and PEACE to God’s people on earth.” To each of our questions there is an answer – an answer that must, in its way, become participant in peace. For Christ, the Prince of Peace, breaks down our divisions, and heals our wounds, and continues to breath his spirit into us, giving us his life, and his hope. And just as God in Christ came in a particular place and time, so will God come to us – answering our deep soul questions and yearnings. For as much as the good news of our salvation is true for the whole world, it is equally true for each of us. Season after season God will whisper the fitting word to the chasm of our souls And there will be wars, and viruses and suffering. And the path to God will seem long, contorted, and often blockaded. But we are not alone. Our wanderings are not without meaning or destination. For the light of the world has pierced the darkness, and it has pierced our own soul, too. And the darkness cannot overcome it. God is alive in us, sanctifying us. Our night may be long, but it, too, shall be turned to day and our tears to laughter, for God has clothed us with the garments of salvation and covered us with the robe of righteousness (Isa. 61:10). Child of God, born in a manger, Child of God, born in us, you have made your home in us, and we shall make our home in you.