The Rev. Josephine Robertson
All Saints, Bellevue
Christmas Eve 2021
This year, gathered once again in this dispersed sanctuary, surrounded by the fragile flickering of candles I hold fast to the promise of God that good things begin in the dark.
The gentle cadence of Luke’s birth story is so comforting. There’s a reason we read these words year in and year out. Doing so makes them into a sort of song, a liturgy all their own. When we hear “in those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus” we are children again in a darkened church with stars in our eyes, and joy in our hearts.
Our most ancient of religious ancestors gathered in catacombs, huddled together in the dark to listen to the stories of God, surrounded much as we are by flickering candles, beset as we are, by danger. It was in the darkness, the hiddenness where they could gather, hear the stories of their faith, feed their souls. And here we are, gathered in the dark in a strange and hidden way.
It was in the darkness of a rude stable, in the depths of night when Mary, cuddling her newborn child, heard the story the shepherds came to tell. Saw the stars in their eyes, the wonder shining in their hearts. And she tucked all of those things away: stars, and angels, and wonder deep in her heart as treasure.
Luke’s story of Jesus’ birth was written for times such as this, as a reminder that good things begin in the dark. That hope breaks dormancy in the depths of night, that we can only see the wonder of the stars when the sun is shining on the other side of the world. That God comes to us in the places we least expect.
When we talked about the “magic of Christmas” as kids I thought it was the candles, or the presents, or the beautiful service, or even the snow. But no. Here in the darkness of this long, long winter the magic is that Christmas remains. And we remain. Changed, but here. Shaken, but here. Mourning, but here.
Here in the dark, huddled together in our digital catacomb, among the flickering light of our hope. God is born.
Not in a blaze of glory, not with angelic midwives or a swelling orchestra. Not with sweet incense and sounding trumpets, and silk blankets to wrap the Divine Child. In a dark stable, by the flickering light of a few simple lamps. In the quiet where cattle chew, and a donkey sighs. And a baby, much like you and I, takes his first breath of rude cold air and wails his first “I AM.”
Here in the dark that holds all our unknowns, where our future is beyond the horizon. God is born into the world, and laid in our arms. By the flickering lights of our fragile lives we can see the Love that gave up everything to nestle against our hearts.
Tonight a little family shelters in a stable. It wasn’t the place they expected to give birth anymore than we expected to be here, again. But here they are a little island of warmth and safety in an uncertain world. Here we are, a net of flickering lights spread across this sleepy uncertain world.
Tonight hope is born again, we don’t have to understand it, we don’t even have to be able to feel it. Tuck it away in your heart as Mary did. Plant it deep down in the dark soil of your soul and let it sprout and grow there, because good things are born in the dark. The best things, are born in the dark.
Tonight, on a lonely hillside an angel walks among the sleeping sheep whispering good news.
Tonight, a young woman smiles into the eyes of her son.
Tonight, the old old words work their magic in our hearts, planting seeds of hope and new life in cold hard soil.
Tonight, for just a few hours, all is well as we cradle Jesus in our arms and God rocks us to sleep.