Christmas Eve is the night when the whole world seems to lean in a little closer — listening for something holy, something hopeful, something that sounds suspiciously like the choir warming up in the parish hall because someone forgot to unlock the church early.
There is nothing quite like the traditions of this night. Families arrive in their finest woollens — many of which the children begin shedding like festive pine needles before the first carol is done. The ushers stand ready with bulletins, candles, and the resolve of seasoned flight attendants. There is always that one family whose carefully timed entrance coincides with the Collect, achieving an annual liturgical photo finish. And no matter how many times we remind people that the candles tip to the flame, not the flame to the candle, someone will inevitably do the opposite, leading to a brief yet spirited moment of community fire-prevention.
But beneath the sweet chaos lies the heartbeat of Christmas: the tenderness of God slipping quietly into the world, choosing a manger instead of a palace, a barn instead of a throne room, a young couple with more questions than answers.
On Christmas Eve, we let ourselves believe again — believe that love can surprise us, that hope can still find a foothold, and that the angels might well be singing even if the sound system is not fully cooperating.
We return to the story because the story returns to us. It does not ask for perfection — only openness. It does not demand polished faith — only a heart willing to kneel beside a manger and whisper, “Yes, Lord, come.”
And so we gather — wax drips, choir coughs, rustling coats and all — to welcome the Christ who comes not because everything is perfect, but because we aren’t. We welcome the Light that shines in the darkness, even the particular darkness located behind the organ where the custodian forgot to replace a bulb.
May this night fill you with wonder. May it remind you that even in our stumbling, mismatched, marvelously human way, God draws near. And may the joy of the manger find room in your heart — between the last-minute gift wrapping and the elusive search for tape.
For unto us a Child is born… and somehow, everything is different.
Companion Prayer
Holy and gracious God,
On this most wondrous night, open our hearts to the mystery of Your love.
As shepherds once hurried and angels once sang,
help us to move with joy toward Your presence.
Bless our gathering, our worship, our laughter,
and even our imperfections,
for You choose to dwell in the real, the ordinary, the fragile and the hopeful.
Jesus Christ, Light in the darkness—
be born again in us,
that we may bear Your peace into the world.
Amen.