Christmas in the Dark [Christmas Eve 2017]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Luke 2:1-20

Christmas in the Dark

Christmas: it comes under the cover of night, like a covert mission by a holy Spirit. As a weary world sleeps, Christmas comes – so silent and unnoticed that it is shocking. The light of the world smuggled into the deep darkness.

When I close my eyes and picture Christmas this is always what I see. My imagination carries me into the night. I see the shepherds in the fields, huddled for protection against a deep darkness that has long since gone extinct. I see the angels, their radiant light made all the more impressive against the backdrop of midnight sky. And I see the precious nativity scene, with that tiny angelic baby perfectly framed by his human and animal admirers, lit only by an impossible star. And I see Charlie Brown and Linus pondering the profundity of the tiniest tree in the cold, dark lot. I know that last one is not biblical, but it always seems to slip in none the less. This is Christmas and it always comes under the cover of night.

When we imagine the coming of Christ into our world today, that event so often referenced in our prayers and liturgies, we often picture Christ's second coming in glorious majesty. And it never looks like this – typically, in fact, quite the opposite. We expect Christ to come, not as a weak, vulnerable infant, but in great triumph, not in under the cover of darkness, but shining like the sun in broad daylight, not into the intimacy of a couple's life, but on the world stage so that every eye shall behold him. In the imaginations of our hearts we anticipate an appropriate entrance for the King of Glory – everything his first coming was not. Christmas is a romantic idea – if you don't think about it too much. But if you think about it at all, you will see that it was far from glorious. That first Christmas was much too gritty to fit into even the most primitive of birthing plans. It was far below the dignity of the King of kings and Lord of lords. We can't help but imagine something better, something grander, and, we are Episcopalians after all, so something with a bit more pomp and crisper execution. Perhaps that's why we have planned a more regal re-do.

Because when Christ came, his coming into our world was far from regal. Christmas was the light of the world smuggled into the deep darkness by an uncouth God and an unwed virgin. And it happened far from the spotlight. Very few eyes beheld him at his appearing – just those of his mother and Joseph and perhaps those of a beast of burden awaken by anguished labor pains. He did not look like a king; he looked like a newborn baby. His tiny body was greeted not by the decadent grandeur of palatial estates. Kings and queens, princes and princesses slept through this birth; so far above this peasant family were they that the knowledge of such a lowly birth could never ascend such ranks. The only royal purple in the manger was that of his pulsating umbilical cord. His only divine declaration the desperate cry of newly freed lungs. His tiny legs curled and crooked; his tiny eyes struggling to open; his tiny lips desperate for his mother's milk. This is how Christ first came. And the dark world around him scarcely noticed.

God's greatest plan and it started not with a bang, but shrouded in deep darkness – the darkness of the night, the darkness of the womb, the darkness the accompanies one born into a family with no status or wealth. That is how Christmas came. “It came without ribbons!... it came without tags!... it came without packages, boxes, or bags!” There was none of the fanfare of a royal birth; none of the excitement that surrounds the debut of a hotly anticipated celebrity spawn. There were no TMZ cameras, no paparazzi, nothing went viral. Christmas night came and went without even as much as your standard, run-of-the-mill facebook announcement. But “somehow or other, Christmas came just the same.”¹

And I suppose that tells us something about the one who conceived this plan. I think that perhaps the circumstances of that first Christmas give us a glimpse into the heart of God. God entered into the darkness – hidden in a virgin womb, silent for nine months. Silent, but present. Silent, but there.

I think that Christmas was not a new thing. I think that Christmas was simply a new way to do an old thing. God was always and forever Emmanuel - “God with us.” God was always with the children of the Earth, as close as the breath that gives us life: walking in the Garden, and hearing the desperate cries of the slaves in Egypt, and pitching a tent in the heart of the camp as the people journeyed through the desert, and feeding lonely prophets in the wilderness, and clearing a path out of exile, and holding the prayers of the lonely and forgotten, from one generation to the next. God did not enter the scene on Christmas. God was always there. Not always like this, but always there. Often hidden in plain site, but always there, always and forever Emmanuel.

It is in the dark corners of the Christmas story, that we find Emmanuel. Our God is not afraid of the dark. The shepherds might have felt like they were all alone in the cold, darkness of the fields, but Heaven was hiding just beyond the dark curtain of sky – ready at a moment's notice to fill their hearts and ears with the songs of the angels, to open their eyes to the blinding light of eternity. Mary might have felt like she and Joseph were all alone in that stable – no room in the inn, away from home and family, unnoticed by a great, big world, but God was right there, hiding under her skin, growing silently in her body, filling her with the Divine Word that spoke the worlds into being. Those who walked in darkness were never truly alone.

Christmas comes under the cover of night, like a covert mission by a holy Spirit. As a weary world sleeps, Christmas comes – so silent and unnoticed that it is shocking. The light of the world smuggled into the deep darkness.

Of course. In the darkness is where we most need the light.

And in the darkness is where we find Emmanuel - “God with us.” Sometimes hidden, sometimes silent. But always there.

No matter how deep your pain. No matter how difficult the road you walk. No matter how dark the night seems. No matter how lonely your heart feels. No matter how daunting the future looks. You will never hurt alone. You will never walk alone. You will never be alone.

That is the miracle of Christmas: the God of the Universe gets under our skin, yearns to be close to us, does whatever it takes to be with us. It's not a story of the past; it is a story that never ends. It is a story that is always true. Emmanuel is here - “God is with us” - always and forever. Even in your deepest darkness you are not alone. Because, you see, your God is not afraid of the dark.

1How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Dr. Seuss.