The Miracle of Christmas

I remember so many details about the day my brother was born. When I woke up that morning, my parents had already left to go to the hospital, and my aunts made me breakfast. It was a Tuesday, but I didn’t have to go to school. Even so, I felt a sense of urgency in my morning routine. I threw on my favorite shirt, a Heather gray tee with the word “Sewanee” written in purple Old English letter across the front. 

I remember that the sun was out and it was a warm, spring day. I remember that my brother weighed 8 pounds and 1 ounce, and I remember the feeling of that weight in my arms when I held him for the first time. I remember the tiny wisps of blond hair on his head and how strangely sharp his tiny fingernails were. I remember the pink and yellow button that said “I’m a big sister.” I remember my aunts asking isn’t he beautiful? 

But all of these trivial details about that day were just fluff and nonsense compared to what his birth meant for my life. I had brother. I was someone’s sister. I was no longer alone on my childhood adventure. His entrance into the world changed my life forever, and that would have been true no matter what he weighed or what the weather was like that day or what my favorite shirt was that week. He was a miracle to me.

I realized recently that my brother’s grand entrance into the world is not the only birth narrative I can recall in such great detail. I’m not talking about the birth of my second brother three years later, although that was another lovely and life-altering day. I mean the birth of Jesus. I can tell that story backwards, forwards, and blindfolded, and I bet most of you can too. 

For centuries, Christians have recalled, rewritten, reenacted, and expounded upon the Nativity story. We know all the characters, from his parents to the local shepherds to the heavenly host. We know the order of events, from the journey to Bethlehem to the visit of the Magi. We’ve logged minute details like how to spell “myrrh.” 

We cherish all these details because the story is important to us, and we celebrate these memories at Christmas. But this morning, after we’ve had a couple of days to sleep off our food comas and break a new toy or two, after the sentimentality of the occasion has begun to ebb, our Scripture reminds us that all of our traditions surrounding this birth pale in comparison to what it actually means for our lives. 

The Gospel of John takes us out of the specifics of the birth, which we’ve been reciting lately from Luke, and plants us in the beautiful illustration of its cosmic implications. No straightforward theological explanation could suffice for something as magnificent as the Incarnation — God made manifest among us. Only the graceful poetry of the Word of God could come close to capturing the impact of this Incarnation on all of creation. 

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. 

Christ’s presence on earth in human form is a turning point in the history of salvation. And John’s opening words remind us that although we recall the Incarnation in a particular time and place, namely first century Bethlehem, it is deeply and eternally connected with the very creation of the cosmos. These two things, Creation and Incarnation, cannot be separated. It was always God’s intention to sanctify the created order, to make the earth and all its inhabitants holy and redeemed. 

So while the Nativity is a treasured foundational story of our faith, its significance extends beyond it’s particulars. The birth of a savior in a weary world, this Divine presence in human form, means that our broken, mortal bodies are precious to God, that light can shine out of the darkest places, that the people and places the world has forgotten are precisely where the Kingdom of Heaven breaks in, and that in a world of sterile, scientific facts and details, miracles are absolutely possible. 

In 2020, our trust in the sacredness of creation, and especially our human bodies, has been challenged. We’ve had to squint to see the light in the darkness. This holiday season, we needed the comfort and familiarity of the Nativity story more than ever. (If you haven’t watched our little ones in their virtual Christmas pageant yet, I highly recommend it!) But as John reminds us, the impact of the Incarnation is cosmic in reach, breaking through even in a global pandemic. 

In the midst of all darkness this year, there are bright signs of new life all around Christ Church.We have managed to stay connected, to keep up the traditions of our faith: worship, prayers, outreach, learning, and fellowship. We’ve had several of our own new births. We’ve found ways for members to get baptized, confirmed, and married. We have begun renovations on our space.

In the (hopefully not too distant) future, we will look back and tell our own stories from this year, recalling in great detail our triumphs, our losses, and likely some humorous misadventures. Everyone’s details are different, but we all have in common that our lives are forever altered, that the impact of our experience is bigger than the particulars. And here at Christ Church, we’ll remember that even though we couldn’t participate in our usual holiday festivities, Christ was still born in a stable in Bethlehem to save us all. A Christmas miracle indeed.  Amen.