And Heaven and Nature Sing
You can read my husband’s companion piece on here on his blog Boundary Effects. Check it out!
As a child, I loved Christmas. My heart would fill with a wild, thrilling hope every December as I awaited Christmas Eve. I loved decorating the tree, being in the church Christmas pageant, opening my stocking from Santa. What began as a childlike wonder has only grown deeper and more profound with time. Every year I eagerly await a magical time when the world itself feels kinder. As I’ve said before, I love the holidays. The lights, the cookies, the gifts, the carols — most especially the carols. Whether here in New York or the year I spent in London, gathering with church friends for a rousing hour or two of carols has been a highlight of my December. Of course, this year the holiday season looks a little different, and a church carol sing was not in the cards. I wouldn’t be stopped, though, and rallied my family for a virtual carol sing on Facebook Live, and for an hour and a half we took requests from church members and friends, ranging from Alaska to London. The next week, during our daily Zoom team check in call, I told my coworkers about the carol sing.
“Important question!” piped up one of my colleagues. “Did you cry?”
This might strike you as an odd question, but let me assure you, it is not. As my coworkers discovered last Christmas, carols bring tears to my eyes. The sensation begins deep in my gut, followed by a catch in my throat and a clouding in my eyes, and then the tears flow freely. They aren’t tears of sorrow, but of something deeper. It isn’t just carols that bring me to tears, it’s everything about this time of year. Seeing the warm glow of the Christmas lights adorning the trees downtown for the first time each year, watching the claymation version of the study group from Community, even just writing this post, all reduce me to tears. Even in the overwhelming advertisements and sales or in the long lines to see Santa, I see something beautiful. I can’t totally explain why, other than at this time of year, something truly special happens, and I see the world transformed. In the carols, in the decorations, in Christmas itself, I meet something so far beyond my existence, that my only recourse is to weep.
What’s so special about the garish lights in the shopping malls and the seemingly omnipresent sounds of All I Want For Christmas Is You, though? Surely that’s just capitalism destroying this precious, holy time. My husband goes into this line of thinking in his blog, and, as he shares, we think of Christmas as holy and sacred, because of how we celebrate it. Yet, every year, I find myself seeing something beautiful, precious, even sacred in the gaudy decorations at Walmart and the workplace Secret Santa celebrations. The common, even ugly, things of our world are purified, perfected by the birth of the Christ child and I see the entire world celebrate that fact.
At this time of year, I find myself reminded of the shepherds, minding their sheep when suddenly the entire sky sings good news:
And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with great fear. And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying,
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!”
The shepherds were not people of fine standing; the manager was no holy, consecrated place. Yet, that image of the baby boy in a manger of hay is one of the holiest moments. When I look around and see the candy canes and tree decorations, I feel like the shepherds. Like the shepherds, who were common and yet were the first to worship the newborn king, my normal experience of my daily life is suddenly filled with heralds of the Good News. No matter where I look, the world itself is singing for joy, believing in forgiveness, and longing for wholeness. Whether it’s the Hallmark movie describing the big city lawyer finding value and love in the charm of a small town or the grocers at the store asking if we want to donate to a local charity, our entire society responds to the birth of Christ. God himself, born as a child, reshaped the very make up of this world, proclaiming freedom for the captive, justice for the weak, and wholeness for the broken.
At the heart of Christmas is, and always has been, love. “Truly he taught us to love one another, his law is love and his gospel is peace,” goes one of the lesser known verses of ‘O Holy Night.’ This truth is what we celebrate. God himself becomes incarnate, to live life alongside us - to experience all our grief and anger and sorrow. This radical act of love is what remakes our world, and what remakes each and every one of us. As that love transforms and fills all things, even the Santa at the mall becomes a messenger, one of those angels, reminding us of the good news. It’s as if we all were back in Bethlehem, as if we are the shepherds and the whole world is singing to us that the Savior is born. Christmas doesn’t come because we gather in prayer and worship or wear nativity pageant costumes to act out the story. Christmas is here because the Christ child has already come to us. Christ is here in the gaudy decorations at Walmart just as much as the nativity scene in the church, if we only let our eyes be opened to see Him.
The beauty of Christmas is that it speaks into our brokenness, wherever we are. The shepherds weren’t seeking God, and yet, they saw His face. Whether we seek Him or not, Christ is here, made manifest at Christmas. When I see the tacky decorations or hear yet another cover of Last Christmas, I don’t see consumerism and secularism destroying this precious season; I see every knee bowing to worship the infant king. We sing carols and share cookies and wish each other joy because we desire the wholeness that Christmas promises. The miracle of Christmas is that even amid our brokenness, our shattered relationships and uncertain futures and deep regrets, that wholeness is already here. This year, when we are unable to gather and worship as we might wish or reunite with family for whom we long, this promise means all the more. But there have been darker times than this one, and every year the Christ child comes and every year earth herself responds with joy when it sees His face. So, in the face of such love, such a gift as this one, how can I do anything but weep, and with the earth herself, sing out for joy.
“The children in each different place, will see the baby Jesus’ face, like theirs but bright with heavenly grace, and filled with holy light. Oh lay aside each earthly thing, and with thy heart as offering, come worship now the infant king, ‘tis love that’s born tonight. ‘Tis love that’s born tonight.”
