Our Whole Lives
In old New England Protestant churches, ones that have so much history, and that are full of tradition, you don’t want to rock the boat too much when it comes to services like this. And so, I don’t. And I won’t, I promise. But at the same time, I can’t help my own curiosity—I can’t help wondering why we do things a certain way, whether it be the capital-C church, or this small-c church here in Hartland. This is my fifth Christmas Eve here, and this year for the first time, I thought about the hymn that our choir begins with, that one in which the congregation joins in on in verse 3, Once in Royal David’s City. As it turns out, our church is borrowing from the tradition Kings College Chapel, and their Anglican Christmas Eve service; but I also discovered, in my cursory research that this wasn’t originally intended to be just a Christmas carol—it was a hymn written for children to help them remember the Apostle’s Creed, which is why it the hymn goes beyond the simple birth story we all know—it goes all the way to his ascension.
And then, as I was falling into various internet rabbit holes about Christmas carols, I learned for the first time that our final hymn of the service that we sing every year, Joy to the World, isn’t actually a Christmas carol at all. I mean, yes, at this point, it’s morphed into one, but the hymn’s writer, Isaac Watts, intended for this to be a hymn about the future—about the glorious second coming of Jesus.
And so, I was thinking—what does it mean that this service tonight is sandwiched between two songs that weren’t originally intended to be Christmas carols at all? What does it mean that we begin with the story of Jesus’ life, and end with something that has yet to happen? It doesn’t have to mean anything, of course. This can just be a traditional service, full of nostalgia and wonder and familiar, beautiful music. But I think it’s worth thinking of Christmas beyond Christmas. I think it’s worth thinking about what came before, what comes after, and everything in between.
German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, points out that Advent, the season that leads up to this glorious night, is a season of waiting and preparation; and he writes that “our whole life…is Advent.” Tonight we wait and celebrate the arrival of a fragile human baby. Tonight we wait to celebrate the divine contradiction of a king, a savior, human and divine, born as such a vulnerable being. But if we are to really and truly live out the stubborn and persistent Christmas hope, we recognize that our whole lives are Advent.
There’s a Christmas I can remember; I was probably around 8 or so? I burst into tears when my parents started taking the decorations off the tree. I remember it surprised me, this sudden rush of emotion. I wasn’t expecting to cry, to feel a real grief about this season of joy and love and peace and giving being over. But it wasn’t really over. It never really is.
That memory came rushing back to me this year, seeing how much my 2.5-year-old loves our Christmas tree (she makes a point to say goodnight to it every night)—so I hope, for her, that I can practice what I preach, and remember that our whole lives our Advent—that the promise of Christmas and the hope for better days ahead will keep us buoyed during these increasingly dark times; that the hope, the peace, the joy, the love doesn’t end tomorrow when we finish opening Christmas presents. It doesn’t end when we vacuum the dry pine needles from our floor. It doesn’t end until we enter that paradise that’s been promised, the paradise in which all are equal, in which we are all one; the paradise in which joy will come to all the world.
And so tonight we began with “Once in royal David’s city, stood a lowly cattle shed, / where a mother laid her baby in a manger for a bed…” reminding us of our savior’s poor and humble beginnings; and we will end with heaven and nature singing, repeating the sounding joy, and the never-ending wonders of God’s love—and we will remember, there is still so much to work for, and hope for, long after this Christmas season is over. Amen.
