2008 Christmas Eve Sermon

2008 Christmas Eve Sermon

Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright.

On this night, for one hour, more or less, we are silent, and all is calm. Pretty calm. Kids are wiggling in their mothers' laps. Many are stretching their toes to reach the pew in front of them. (The kids, not the mothers.) Some, having given their feet a good rest, are now rhythmically kicking the pew. Wooden pews make a good, resonant sound when struck with uncomfortable shoes. We all know church is the last place kids want to be on Christmas Eve. That's OK. Adversity teaches character. We're pretty calm. And somewhat silent. Half of us have had the creeping crud since early November. Christmas Eve services are always punctuated by coughs, sneezes, and snorts. At least one cell phone always goes off. Answer it. On Christmas Eve it could be a call from God. We're pretty calm. We're reasonably silent. And how bright you all look. Grammatically the song should go, all ARE bright. Because we is. We're pretty calm, reasonably silent, and just as bright as a roomful of Presbyterians can be.

Except. Except the song isn't about the people who gathered 'round yon virgin mother and child. The song isn't about the us; it's about the night. It's not, "Silent us, holy us: all are calm, and in-ge-ni-ous." The song is about the night. The night is silent. The night is holy. The night is calm. The night is bright.

Somewhere along the way, Christmas got changed. Christmas Eve got changed from being about the night to being about us. Christmas got changed from being about Jesus to being about us. Our presents. Our purchases. Our adventures in competitive decorating. Our sense of satisfaction. Our feelings of disappointment. We find ourselves ranking Christmases. How did this year compare to 1975? Was the pie as good as his mother's? Was it a good Christmas, or a bad Christmas?

But listen to the song, the holiest of songs that we end the service with every year. It's not about us. Christmas Eve is about the night. The silent night, the holy night. Christmas Eve is about the night... and the day that follows.

--

One of the unplanned traditions of our family is being the last to leave the church on Christmas Eve. We're usually the ones who turn off the lights and lock the doors. It's really very sublime. I can't speak for Kristen and the girls, but I, for one, love the silence. The holiness of the night echoes in solitary footsteps through the halls. The streets on the way home are nearly empty. Ministers and the drive through workers at Krystal are among the lucky few blessed to know. "O, little town of Mrrrrvul, how still we see thee lie." Flashing traffic signals of red and green, gently blowing in the breeze. Step out of the car and the chill of the air fills your chest with its sacred stillness. You sigh, and the smoke of the Holy Spirit swirls before you. All the words have been said, all the songs have been sung, there's nothing but quiet in the visible breath of the silent, holy night.

God is so quiet.

Bethlehem was so crowded there was no room at the inn. There was a manger full of animals. The city couldn't possibly have been quiet. But listen to the songs of Christmas Eve. None of them mention the noise of the streets. None of them mention the grumbling citizens forced to return home to be taxed. The songs are all about the silent streets, the little baby who no crying he makes. Still, still, still. Let all mortal flesh keep silent. Even the angels we hear on high sing not boldly, but so sweetly over the plains. No crashing cymbals. No trumpets. The Christmas Eve songwriters know we're singing about a God who's best described by silence.

God is so quiet.

When we're waiting for God, when we're waiting for a sign from God, when we're waiting for relief from God, the silence of God is maddening. You know how it is to want something so badly, and to not have any idea if you're going to get it. An answered prayer. A loved one home. A day of good health. You pray and you pray, and still, God is so... silent. And yet, on Christmas Eve, that same silence is holy. Maybe it's because the rest of the year we're not really so sure our prayers will be answered. So the silence is frustrating, angering. But on Christmas Eve we don't just believe - we really, really know - God will be with us when the morning comes. On Christmas Eve we don't just endure, we enjoy, we give thanks for a silent night of God. We praise God for the silence of this holy night. Because we have faith, because we know morning light will break through the darkness. Be still, scripture says. Be still and KNOW that I am God.

God is so quiet.

It might be possible to know God when we're not still. But our chances of knowing God are so much greater if we can be still and silent in those dark nights of the soul. Those nights become not just bearable, but holy, when their quiet reminds us of God who is quiet. Just as God came to Bethlehem, a taxed and crowded place, so God comes to us in the midst of our chaos. God turns a long night of waiting into the dawn of joy. We know we want to believe that, but on Christmas Eve we know it. The silence will be filled, the darkness will be overcome with light. The silent night is holy, because we know Christmas will be here tomorrow. Day follows night.

--

At our house tomorrow, the breaking dawn will bring the noisy sounds of ripping paper, torn ribbons and excited squeals. And then Kristen and the girls will wake up and things will really get loud. This is our puppy's first Christmas, so I'm pretty sure chasing will be involved. "Catch him before he eats Polly Pocket!" And Ma in her kerchief and I in my cap will be wond'ring aloud if we ever will nap.

Somewhere, a Krystal drive-thru worker will be heading home with a leftover sack of ten. Her Christmas may not be as loud, but we pray it'll be fulfilling. As you go to bed tonight, say a prayer for all the people who are working tonight or tomorrow. Say a prayer for all the people who don't have a place to work. Say a prayer for all the people who don't have a bright and noisy Christmas morning. Pray for them God's Christmas hope for all the world - that where there is darkness, there will be light. That where God is too silent, the angels will keep watch until the morning dawns. Because as much as we love the holiness of the night, the day of Christ is lovelier. The silent night may be holy, but the day of Christ is holier. All may be calm and all may be bright, but on the day of Christ's coming, all will see and all will know - the mountains will sing and the earth will rejoice in Christ its newborn, resurrected King.

Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. Tomorrow, all will be bright. Tomorrow all will be brighter and holier than we could ever imagine. Let all the earth rejoice. Rejoice in your heart. Rejoice in your songs. Rejoice in the light of the candle that tomorrow will shine over all the earth. Merry Christmas.