The Unsacred
This year I've struggled to find the Christmas spirit, to capture that "Christmasy feeling" that makes me feel warm and excited and special. I can't put my finger on the reason, but I had to force myself to set up the tree. I pulled out only a few decorations. And I've had no interest in the usual Christmas movies. Is it even Christmas at all?
The one thing I do look forward to each year, though, is our church's Christmas Eve service. We dress up in our nicest clothes, interrupt whatever celebrations have been happening with friends and family, and pile into the sanctuary. The lights are dim. The music is soft. At the end of the service, we light candles and sing "Silent Night" by their flickering light. It's a moment of simplicity and stillness in the midst of the noise of the season. It's my favorite night of the year.
Last night I woke up with a stomach bug. As a result, I've spent the day in bed. We've had to postpone our annual Christmas feast (the one where each person gets to pick any item from the grocery store they'd like, and we sit around Muppet Christmas Carol as we enjoy foods we only eat once a year). I've had to miss out on time with my family. And worst of all, I've had to miss my beloved Christmas Eve service.
I listened as my family got ready and traipsed out the door for church. I felt a deep sadness, as though the holiday this year has somehow passed me by. It seemed to encapsulate a lot of what I've felt this past year: my health has held me on the sidelines, watching others enjoy the things I love and feeling the weight of a growing sense that life is passing me by.
Pulling out my phone, desperate for some kind of "Christmasy moment," I looked up a recording of my favorite carol "O Come, O Come, Emanuel." I found a version recorded in Jerusalem in English and Hebrew. I closed my eyes as I listened to the beautiful words. It was a moment of simplicity and re-focusing.
I imagined the night of the first Christmas, that night when a weary Mary and Joseph must have wondered how things could be so wrong. Miles from friends and family, without a place to stay, penniless and on the verge of delivering a baby. Nothing was right. Nothing was warm. Nothing, I know, felt like the "warm glow of Christmas." And yet, it was a sacred moment. The most sacred moment in our history.
I thought of other less-than-ideal sacred moments. Moses in the desert, searching for lost sheep belonging to his father-in-law having fled his Egyptian family, stumbling on a burning bush and the voice of God. Jacob, on the run from his brother, afraid and alone with a rock for a pillow, seeing a vision of the angels ascending and descending between Heaven and earth. Peter, exhausted after a long and fruitless night of fishing, dragging his empty nets to shore to discover Jesus at the edge of the water with an invitation to leave it all and follow him.
It seems to me that God almost prefers the unsacred moments. The moments that are too ordinary, too boring, too fraught with stress or fear, too disheartening to be considered sacred. They aren't the moments I would choose. After all, doesn't a sacred space always mean a warm, inviting glow? A feeling of everything being just right?
What if instead the moments God chooses to mark and make sacred look more like ruined plans, unfruitful ventures, unexpected and unwanted twists and turns in our story? What if Christmas is the ultimate reminder of the unsacred and unwanted made sacred and beautiful?
I don't know where you find yourself this Christmas Eve. I hope all your plans have come to fruition and you find yourself surrounded by family and friends and the warm glow of the season. But if, like me, your night finds you alone in a sick bed with ruined plans, in a season of unfruitful work, or in the midst of painful and unexpected plot twists, remember you are not alone. The Christmas that started it all unfolded much like this. And yet the God of the unsacred spaces found a way to make it the most holy, beautiful, and sacred night of all. There's hope for our unsacred, broken places too.
The one thing I do look forward to each year, though, is our church's Christmas Eve service. We dress up in our nicest clothes, interrupt whatever celebrations have been happening with friends and family, and pile into the sanctuary. The lights are dim. The music is soft. At the end of the service, we light candles and sing "Silent Night" by their flickering light. It's a moment of simplicity and stillness in the midst of the noise of the season. It's my favorite night of the year.
Last night I woke up with a stomach bug. As a result, I've spent the day in bed. We've had to postpone our annual Christmas feast (the one where each person gets to pick any item from the grocery store they'd like, and we sit around Muppet Christmas Carol as we enjoy foods we only eat once a year). I've had to miss out on time with my family. And worst of all, I've had to miss my beloved Christmas Eve service.
I listened as my family got ready and traipsed out the door for church. I felt a deep sadness, as though the holiday this year has somehow passed me by. It seemed to encapsulate a lot of what I've felt this past year: my health has held me on the sidelines, watching others enjoy the things I love and feeling the weight of a growing sense that life is passing me by.
Pulling out my phone, desperate for some kind of "Christmasy moment," I looked up a recording of my favorite carol "O Come, O Come, Emanuel." I found a version recorded in Jerusalem in English and Hebrew. I closed my eyes as I listened to the beautiful words. It was a moment of simplicity and re-focusing.
I imagined the night of the first Christmas, that night when a weary Mary and Joseph must have wondered how things could be so wrong. Miles from friends and family, without a place to stay, penniless and on the verge of delivering a baby. Nothing was right. Nothing was warm. Nothing, I know, felt like the "warm glow of Christmas." And yet, it was a sacred moment. The most sacred moment in our history.
I thought of other less-than-ideal sacred moments. Moses in the desert, searching for lost sheep belonging to his father-in-law having fled his Egyptian family, stumbling on a burning bush and the voice of God. Jacob, on the run from his brother, afraid and alone with a rock for a pillow, seeing a vision of the angels ascending and descending between Heaven and earth. Peter, exhausted after a long and fruitless night of fishing, dragging his empty nets to shore to discover Jesus at the edge of the water with an invitation to leave it all and follow him.
It seems to me that God almost prefers the unsacred moments. The moments that are too ordinary, too boring, too fraught with stress or fear, too disheartening to be considered sacred. They aren't the moments I would choose. After all, doesn't a sacred space always mean a warm, inviting glow? A feeling of everything being just right?
What if instead the moments God chooses to mark and make sacred look more like ruined plans, unfruitful ventures, unexpected and unwanted twists and turns in our story? What if Christmas is the ultimate reminder of the unsacred and unwanted made sacred and beautiful?
I don't know where you find yourself this Christmas Eve. I hope all your plans have come to fruition and you find yourself surrounded by family and friends and the warm glow of the season. But if, like me, your night finds you alone in a sick bed with ruined plans, in a season of unfruitful work, or in the midst of painful and unexpected plot twists, remember you are not alone. The Christmas that started it all unfolded much like this. And yet the God of the unsacred spaces found a way to make it the most holy, beautiful, and sacred night of all. There's hope for our unsacred, broken places too.
