The promise of Christmas
Today is the fourth day of Christmas—which means, as far as the Church calendar is concerned, the candles are still lit, the creche is still set up, and the celebration that we began on Wednesday night continues. Christmas won’t end until the wise men arrive on the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6.
There’s a wisdom in the ancient Church calendar, because it takes more than a day to even begin to grasp the mystery of Jesus’s Incarnation. We really need both Advent—a time of preparation—and Christmas—a time of celebration.
But, on the whole, the secular calendar has won this debate. Stores have already moved on to clearance sales and displays for Valentine’s Day. Some of you may have already taken down your tree. And even in the Church, we’re bound to the rhythms of the world outside our doors. The wreaths are still up, but the choir is taking a well-earned rest. The next holiday on most of our minds isn’t Epiphany, but New Year’s Eve.
New Year’s Eve. It’s a time to make resolutions. To get serious. To start fresh. To turn a corner. You’ve probably heard the slogan: “New year. New you.”—which seems to imply that the old you isn’t good enough.
New year’s resolutions are so enticing, aren’t they? We’re sure that this year we’ll manage to lose weight, and get our house in order, and pray every day, and go to the gym, and keep a journal, and read good books, and reconnect with our friends and family.
We’re sure that this year we’ll finally get it all right. This year will be different. This year, we'll figure it out.
The desire to be healthier, wiser, and kinder isn’t bad. It’s human, and sometimes even holy. Where we go wrong is when we decide that the only way to be worthy of love, peace, or hope is to improve ourselves first.
That gets the promise of Christmas exactly backwards.
Today we hear the beautiful and challenging words from the Gospel of John: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God… And the Word became flesh, and lived among us.” John’s Gospel includes no shepherds or wise men, no manger or star. But John tells the story of Christmas just as surely as Luke and Matthew do. “The Word became flesh, and lived among us.”
God took on breath and blood and body. That’s what incarnation means. That’s what Christmas means. God didn’t wait for us to improve. God simply showed up.
I don’t know what shape the next year will take, but I do know this: God became human not to shame us into being better, but to be with us as we are.
It’s one of the oldest stories of them all. It’s the story of the prodigal son—welcomed home before he could stumble through his carefully rehearsed words of apology. It’s the story of every person who understands through experience the words of the hymn Amazing Grace: “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.” And it’s the story of Christmas—of God coming among us, without waiting for us to somehow deserve that honor.
So yes, pursue goodness. Practice generosity. Make your lists and resolutions, if you must. But don’t let the siren song of self-improvement lie to you. You’re not loved because you improve. You might improve because you’re loved. But God’s love comes first.
When New Year’s Day comes around in a few days, try to remember that it will also be the Eighth Day of Christmas. Try to rest in the quieter, more patient wisdom of the Church’s calendar—which doesn’t demand resolutions, but offers a season: a season of celebration, a season of joy, a season to remember that “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.”
This morning’s Gospel gives us no manger, no angels, no shepherds. Just that line: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”
Many early paintings of the Nativity scene placed the Cross in the distance—Golgotha visible behind the stable. The image wasn’t intended to overshadow the joy of Christmas, but to tell the truth. The truth that this child, this Word made flesh, was born into a world that would try to destroy him. But still, he came. Still the light shines.
If your Christmas was quiet, or lonely, or hard; if the year ahead fills you with more dread than hope, you’re not alone—because God has already entered that darkness with you.
Christmas was never about escaping the darkness. It’s about a God who enters it. The Word becomes flesh. The light shines in the darkness. And the darkness did not, and will not, overcome it.