There is a small but persistent mystery at work every Sunday morning, and it has nothing to do with the Trinity (which, frankly, is complicated enough). I speak of the church bulletin: confidently received at the door, firmly held while greeting neighbours, and then — by the time one reaches the pew — gone.

Not misplaced. Not politely set aside. Simply gone.

It vanishes somewhere between the narthex and the pew, that liminal holy space where coats are shrugged off, children are herded, hymns are discussed in advance (“I think it’s the long tune”), and the soul quietly shifts from coffee to contemplation. The bulletin, brave little document that it is, rarely survives the journey intact.

Some are last seen folded carefully into fourths, as though preparing for liturgical origami. Others are discovered later tucked into hymnals, pew racks, or winter coats — emerging weeks later like time-travelers from Ordinary Time. A few, we must assume, ascend directly into heaven, joining the socks and pens that disappear in the laundry.

And yet.

The bulletin is meant to tell us where we are, what we are doing, and — most importantly — what page we are on. Its disappearance should cause panic. Without it, how will we know when to sit, stand, kneel, or hum quietly while pretending to know the tune?

But grace, it turns out, does not rely on paper.

Somehow, worship continues. People follow along anyway. Neighbours lean over and whisper helpful stage directions. The choir sings. The prayers are prayed. The Word is proclaimed. The Table is set. The Spirit does not check for bulletins at the door.

Perhaps this is the theology of the lost bulletin: that while structure is helpful, grace is not fragile. God is not thwarted by missing information. Worship is not cancelled because we do not know what comes next. In fact, there may be something quietly holy about being slightly lost together.

After all, faith itself often feels like walking from the narthex to the pew — carrying good intentions, dropping certainty along the way, and arriving with open hands. We do not always know the order of things. We forget the words. We lose track of the plan. And still, God meets us.

So if your bulletin disappears this Sunday, take heart. You are not failing at church. You are simply participating in a long and honoured tradition of trusting that God knows where we are — even when we don’t know where the paper went.

And who knows? You may just discover that the most important part of worship was never printed in the first place.

A Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
when our plans go missing
and our papers fail us,
teach us to trust your presence.
When we forget the order,
remind us of love.
When we feel lost,
help us notice that you are already here.
Gather us in grace,
steady us in worship,
and lead us deeper than any bulletin ever could.
Amen.

Tody we stand on the first day of a New Year. It’s a fresh start — a new beginning — and that, dear reader, gets me thinking about the whole idea of fresh starts.

There is a particular moment in the spiritual life that does not get nearly enough attention. It is the moment right after we have said, with sincerity and perhaps a strong cup of coffee in hand, “Well. I won’t be doing that again.”

And then — sometimes within hours, sometimes within minutes — we do it again.

We resolve to pray more faithfully, to speak more gently, to listen more carefully, to stop replying to emails “just quickly” before breakfast. We begin again on Monday. Or Tuesday. Or after Epiphany. Or after the next meeting. Or after lunch.

By the time we reach the forty-seventh fresh start, enthusiasm has thinned a little. The trumpet fanfare has been replaced by a modest triangle. And yet — here we are again. Beginning. Again.

This, I am convinced, is where grace lives.

God, it turns out, is not counting our attempts with the weary arithmetic we apply to ourselves. There is no divine clipboard, no celestial sigh at our repeated failures. Scripture gives us a God who specializes not in “I told you so,” but in “Try again.”

Peter asks how often he must forgive. Jesus answers with a number so large it stops being math and starts being mercy. The Lamentations remind us that God’s mercies are new every morning — which is a relief, because by mid-afternoon many of us have already used up the morning’s supply.

Starting again is not evidence of spiritual incompetence. It is evidence of hope. The truly defeated soul does not begin again. Only those who still believe that love is possible, that change might happen, that grace has not run out, bother to try a forty-seventh time.

And let’s be honest: most of the saints did not glide smoothly toward holiness. They lurched. They stalled. They took wrong turns and doubled back. What made them saints was not flawless progress, but stubborn trust in a God who never slammed the door and said, “Honestly, you should know better by now.”

God’s patience is not indulgence; it is commitment. God keeps showing up because God has no intention of giving up on us. Every new beginning — however tired, however sheepish — is met not with disappointment but with welcome.

So if today you are beginning again, quietly, without banners or bold resolutions, know this: heaven is not rolling its eyes. Heaven is smiling. Grace is already there, holding the door open, saying, “Come in. I was expecting you.”

And if this happens to be your forty-seventh time — well — welcome back. You are exactly where grace loves to work.

A Prayer

Gracious God,
You meet us not at the finish line,
but at the place where we begin again.
Thank you for patience wider than our failures
and mercy fresher than our resolve.
When we are weary of starting over,
remind us that you never grow tired of welcoming us home.
Give us courage to try once more,
trusting not in our perfection,
but in your faithful love.
Amen.

New Year’s Eve is a marvellous thing. It is one of the few nights of the year where the Church calendar and the secular calendar line up in a kind of ecumenical détente, as if to say, “Fine, let’s both try again tomorrow.”

Every December 31st, I am struck by the same phenomenon: people become philosophers. Even those who have spent the past 364 days arguing about parking spaces or the liturgical merits of burlap banners suddenly begin speaking in hushed tones about fresh starts and new beginnings. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the collective rustle of humanity attempting to turn over a new leaf, only to discover it’s still attached to the tree and, frankly, a bit soggy.

As a priest, I am contractually bound — somewhere between the Baptismal Covenant and the parish coffee hour schedule — to believe in the possibility of new beginnings. It’s literally my job to point out that grace doesn’t expire at midnight. Unlike the cheese platter in the parish fridge, grace does not develop interesting new odours the longer it sits. It is endlessly renewable, infinitely available, and requires no resolutions, gym memberships, or colour-coded bullet journals.

But I do love the theatre of New Year’s Eve: the hopeful countdown, the clinking glasses, the earnest declarations of “This year will be different!” — which, said with sufficient enthusiasm, almost sound believable. Stephen Leacock himself would have delighted in the solemnity with which people announce their plans to become organized, serene, and gluten-free, all before the clock strikes twelve and someone drops a plate of nachos.

Yet beneath the glittering absurdity, there is a grace-filled truth we dare not overlook: we can begin again. Not because of our heroic resolve — Heaven help us — but because God delights in giving us fresh mercies morning by morning… and apparently even year by year.

The turning of the calendar is simply the world’s clumsy way of echoing what God has been whispering all along:
“You are not stuck. You are not finished. You are held. And you can begin again, with Me.”

So whether your New Year’s Eve involves a quiet night at home, a raucous gathering of friends, or the deeply spiritual practice of falling asleep before 10:30, know this: grace patiently waits for your eyes to open tomorrow. It doesn’t matter if you leap into 2026 with gusto or shuffle into it like an Anglican trying to find page 230 in the BAS during Morning Prayer — God is already there, smiling, ready.

May your new year be filled with holy surprises, gentle mercies, and fewer committee meetings than you fear (though I cannot guarantee the last one).

Happy New Year, dear friends. And remember: if you must make resolutions, keep them simple—“Be kind. Love well. Don’t leave the Christmas poinsettias in the sanctuary until Lent.”

Companion Prayer

God of all our days,
As the old year draws to a close,
gather up our gratitude, our regrets, and our weary hopes.
Bless us with the courage to begin again,
the wisdom to trust Your mercy,
and the joy to step into a new year held firmly in Your love.
Renew us, guide us, surprise us with grace.
Through Christ who makes all things new. Amen.

There are certain hymns in any hymnal that one approaches with reverence, trembling, and possibly the phone number of a chiropractor. Those hymns exist in every hymnal ever published. These are the hymns with eight verses, four key changes, and harmonies so complex you suspect the composer was having a difficult afternoon.

We’ll call these pieces of musical turpitude Hymn 742, for the sake of ease.

Now, I won’t name a hymnal in particular, because they are all equally culpable, and because clergy everywhere deserve plausible deniability when cornered by choir members wielding sharpened pencils. But it’s that hymn you flip to and immediately think, “Oh dear heavens, how do you even count this? Is this English? Why are the altos already shaking their heads?”

Selecting it for Sunday was — naturally — an act of deep theological purpose. The words seemed to fit so well into the readings and the message, or at least that’s the explanation I’m sticking to when the choir director next raises an eyebrow. In truth, I had forgotten that Hymn 742 contains no fewer than three modes, a descant that would challenge a migrating Canada goose, and a time signature that changes mid-stanza just to see who’s paying attention.

Yet the brave choir approachs it with the resolve of saints and the optimism of people who clearly didn’t read ahead.

Behind the scenes that morning, page-turning was its own ballet. One soprano flipped too soon and landed briefly in hymn 743, which is entirely about the Resurrection but in a minor key — an unsettling combination. A tenor accidentally folded his page in half, rendering the harmony a theological mystery. And one noble baritone was valiantly singing verse three during verse two, thereby creating a new form of Anglican jazz.

And still — bless them — they sang. They sang with courage, heart, and only occasional looks of quiet panic. By verse four, we were all in this together, choir, congregation, clergy, and the Holy Spirit, who (I am convinced) nudged us mercifully back into the right key more than once.

When we finally reached the last triumphant chord, the choir exhaled like mountaineers who had summited Everest without oxygen. I half expected someone to plant a flag in the chancel.

But oh, the beauty of it. The shaky beginnings, the courageous middles, and the glorious finish — this is the Church. This is what community looks like when we set out together, slightly unsure, yet committed to the journey, trusting that God will turn our mismatched notes into something resembling grace.

Hymn 742 has earned a permanent place in parish lore. And next time we sing it, the choir will be ready — with faith, fortified nerves, and perhaps laminated pages.

After all, courage comes in many forms. Some wear vestments. Others carry tuning forks.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You who delight in joyful noise — regardless of its accuracy — thank you for the courage of all who lift their voices in praise. Strengthen our choirs, our musicians, and all who dare to lead us in song, especially through hymns that test our faith and our sight-reading. May our harmony reflect your grace, our laughter your joy, and our every shaky note a reminder that perfection is never required—only love.
Amen.

There are many movable objects in a parish church. The flower stand that migrates like a confused Canada Goose. The music stand that appears in unexpected places, usually just in time for someone to trip over it. And, of course, the Advent wreath, which seems to grow larger each year until it could theoretically qualify for its own postal code.

But none of these compare to the Baptismal Font.

Ah yes—the Font: that noble, immovable, ever-present reminder of God’s stubborn delight in us. It is usually situated in the most inconvenient spot imaginable. You can almost hear the conversation from the building committee years ago:

“Where should we put the font?”
“Somewhere meaningful.”
“And where is meaningful?”
“Preferably where the clergy will run into it at least twice every Sunday.”

And so it stands, steadfast and immovable, like a granite bouncer guarding the mysteries of grace.

And in true Anglican style, once it has been set in that place for a week or two, it is a cherished tradition, and we built up theology about why that spot was chosen in the first place. Upon my arrival at St. George’s Cathedral, one of the first stories of that place that was shared with me was of the decision to move the font from the Liturgical West entrance to the front of the Cathedral where the liturgy of Baptism would be visible to the gathered congregation. That story was titled “The Great Fontroversy” We Anglicans don’t often move furniture easily, or happily.

I have personally barked my shin on a font more times than I care to admit. I have rounded a corner in full pastoral stride — cassock billowing like the sail of a somewhat confused schooner — only to meet the font with a thud that reminded me of both my baptismal vows and my mortality. If nothing else, it has been an excellent teacher of humility.

And here, perhaps, lies its holiness.

The font is intentionally in the way — not to frustrate us, but to remind us who we are. Whether you are carrying the Gospel book, a stack of bulletins, or a casserole destined for the parish potluck, you cannot avoid passing the place where it all began. The font interrupts us because grace interrupts us.

Every time we walk by, it quietly proclaims:
“You belong to God.”
“You have been marked as Christ’s own for ever.”
“Remember your vocation — yes, even on a Tuesday.”

It’s a gentle nudge back to identity. Or, when one’s shin is involved, perhaps a slightly sharper nudge.

Our baptismal life is not something tucked neatly out of the way, like the Christmas decorations that vanish mysteriously until someone remembers the attic. Baptism is centre-stage, inconvenient, impossible to ignore. It obstructs our well-planned routes and reminds us that discipleship is rarely smooth or linear. God’s call tends to stand in the middle of our best-laid plans, saying, “Over here, please.”

So the next time you sidestep the font — or collide with it — take a moment to smile. Even that obstruction is gospel. Even that interruption is grace. And even your bruised shin is a reminder that whatever path you are on, your journey begins and ends in the love of the One who called you by name.

Thanks be to God… and to the font, steadfast sentinel of vocation and identity.

Companion Prayer

Holy God,
You have called us by name and made us your own.
As we pass the waters of baptism — whether gently or with a startled bump —
remind us of who we are and whose we are.
Guide our steps, steady our hearts,
and keep our vocation ever in view,
that we may walk in faith, hope, and joyful service,
in the name of Christ our Lord. Amen.

Today, were it not the first Sunday after Christmas, which supercedes other Feast days, would be kept as the Feast of the Holy Innocents.

There are days in the church year when the calendar feels as though it has slipped its sensible shoes and wandered into territory too heavy for polite conversation. The Feast of the Holy Innocents is one of those days. Just after Christmas joy spills across the church — before the poinsettias have even begun their slow wilt — we are brought face to face with the cry of children who never had the chance to grow into their names.

It is not a story we tell easily. King Herod’s rage, the flight into Egypt, the tiny lives cut short — none of it pairs naturally with leftover shortbread and the warm glow of Christmas lights. Yet the Church keeps this feast precisely because it tells the truth: that Christ was born into a world capable of both tenderness and terror. And God chose to dwell here anyway.

But Holy Innocents is not simply a historical marker lodged somewhere between Bethlehem and Cairo. It is heartbreakingly contemporary. Innocence is threatened every day: in children caught in the crossfire of conflict, in youth navigating violence in their neighbourhoods, in those whose hope is eroded by poverty, prejudice, or neglect. Some suffer quietly, out of the spotlight — kids who show up at school hungry, who carry worries far too heavy for young shoulders.

And so this feast calls us, gently but insistently, to widen our vision. To see the vulnerability around us. To honour those who, like the infants of Bethlehem, bear the cost of the world’s brokenness without understanding its logic.

Yet the Gospel insists on this too: God is with them. Emmanuel, in the arms of Mary and Joseph fleeing danger, is still Emmanuel in every shelter, every school, every refugee camp, every food bank, every home where kindness refuses to give up. The Christ who once escaped Herod’s fury is the Christ still protecting, still healing, still insisting that every child is treasured beyond measure.

Perhaps our task today is simple, if not easy: to guard innocence wherever we find it, and to restore it where we can. To speak peace into children’s lives. To be the steady presence adults are called to be. To ensure that the world, or at least our small corner of it, becomes a safer place for little ones to laugh and grow without fear.

It is holy work. And Christ goes with us.

Companion Prayer

Holy God,
who gathers the lost and shelters the vulnerable,
we remember today the Holy Innocents—
the children of Bethlehem, and every child whose life
is touched by violence, hunger, or fear.
Give us courage to protect the young,
compassion to comfort the wounded,
and wisdom to build communities
where innocence is cherished and all may flourish.
Hold every child close to your heart,
and make us instruments of your peace.
Through Jesus Christ, who became small for our sake. Amen.

I sat this morning thinking of a sermon preached in my parish on the Sunday after Christmas –when I had been graciously given the morning off, and the Rev. Dr. Jim Horne stepped into the breach. He spoke of all the Holy Days that the church has placed between Christmas morning and the start of the New Year, and how they seek to remind us of the most central truth of all about the great truth we have so recently celebrated.

There is something marvellously Anglican about celebrating St. John on December 27. Christmas dinner has barely settled, the last of the shortbread crumbs still cling to the clerical collar, and someone — somewhere — has tried to return a gift without a receipt. And into this post-festive fog strides St. John, the beloved disciple, with a Gospel that begins not with shepherds, angels, or frankincense, but with: “In the beginning was the Word.”

Nothing like a little cosmic theology to pair with leftover turkey.

John has always seemed to me the patron saint of those who like to step back from the fray and say, “Yes, yes, the manger is lovely, the shepherds are charming, but have we considered the metaphysical implications of the Incarnation?” He’s the apostle who brings you from Away in a Manger straight into a seminary lecture — yet with such beauty that even the sheep would stop chewing and ponder.

And of course, there’s the other great Johannine theme: love. Not the mushy sort that Hallmark sells by the carton this time of year, but the sturdy, weather-resistant love that holds communities together when someone forgot to plug in the Christmas tree or the choir missed their entrance at Midnight Mass. John insists that love is not just a sentiment, but the very architecture of our life in Christ.

He tells us over and over that to love God is to love our neighbour — and that the two cannot be separated, no matter how strongly we might wish to on days when our neighbour is practising the spiritual discipline known as “being difficult.”

On this feast day, I imagine John standing somewhere near the church hall, gently smiling as we sort out the post-Christmas chaos. He sees us wrestling with recycling bags, packing away nativity figurines (always one shepherd missing), and debating whether the poinsettias have one more Sunday left in them.

And he whispers his great theme: “Little children, love one another.”

It’s simple, yes. Almost annoyingly so. But perhaps John knew that if the Church could get that one thing right, everything else — creeds, doctrines, vestries, coffee hours — would fall beautifully into place.

He also knew, I suspect, that we’d need the reminder again on December 28. And 29. And indefinitely.

But perhaps what I love most about St. John is how he holds together wonder and daily life. His soaring theology of light shines right into kitchens, hospital rooms, and parish offices piled high with forms that no one remembers creating. John tells us that the Word became flesh not to impress us, but to dwell among us. In our humanity. In our confusion. In our attempts at grace.

And if the light shines in the darkness, then surely it can shine in the week between Christmas and New Year’s, when time becomes a vague suggestion and clergy cannot remember what day it is.

So today, we give thanks for St. John — for his Gospel, for his example, for his reminder that love is not optional Christian equipment, and for his steady assurance that the Light still shines, even when we can’t find the switch.

Companion Prayer

Holy God,
On this feast of St. John the Evangelist,
fill our hearts with the love he proclaimed
and the light he saw shining in Christ.
Help us to dwell in that love,
to share it with patience and good humour,
and to trust that Your Word continues
to make its home among us.
May we walk in the light that no darkness can overcome,
today and always. Amen.

by a mildly weary but spiritually hopeful parish priest who has definitely earned a nap.

If Christmas Day is the glorious crescendo of the season, then Boxing Day is the theological equivalent of a long, slow exhale. It is also the day when half the country stampedes toward the mall as though the Magi themselves are handing out discounted frankincense at the food court.

I, however, have opted out of the Great Boxing Day Migration. After all, nothing in the Creed requires us to chase a bargain, and even St. Paul — who had a great deal to say about running the race — never once suggested doing so in a department store while competing for the last electric kettle.

No, today I am engaging in a more ancient, more dignified spiritual practice: sitting very still.

It is a powerful discipline. One that requires deep faith, patient endurance, and the ability to ignore the siren song of half-price pajamas.

The Rectory this morning looks as though a small and determined herd of festive goats passed through during the night — ribbons, wrapping, one slipper in the hallway, and a mysterious piece of shortbread on the staircase that simply cannot be accounted for. Boxing Day is aptly named, for everything now waits to be placed in a box: recycling, leftovers, new gifts you’re not entirely sure what to do with, and the last fragments of your own exhausted self.

But here, in this gentle aftermath, is a quiet holiness.

For Christmas is not only about the dazzling moment of the angels’ song. It is also about what comes after — the world catching its breath, Joseph finally sitting down, Mary pondering in her heart, the shepherds returning to their fields with stories to tell and laundry to catch up on.

And so today is our turn to ponder. To breathe. To remember that God often speaks not in the headline moments, but in the hush that follows them.

Perhaps the true gift of Boxing Day is permission:
Permission to rest your feet.
Permission to sit among the wrapping paper and know you are blessed.
Permission to be still long enough for gratitude to catch up with you.

If you find yourself tempted to race to the mall, pause. Remember that peace is rarely found in a checkout line. Instead, consider settling into a chair, wrapping your hands around a warm mug, and letting your soul untangle itself like a string of lights on December 1st.

For the One whose birth we have just celebrated bids us come — not to a sale, but to rest.
And I, for one, am answering that call wholeheartedly… preferably while wearing my new pair of comfortable socks.

A Companion Prayer

Holy and Resting God,
On this gentle day after the miracle,
Grant us the gift of stillness.
Help us breathe deeply of Your peace,
Find joy in the quiet,
And receive the grace of unhurried time.
As we rest in Your presence,
Renew us for the days to come,
That we may carry Christ’s light
With refreshed hearts and thankful spirits.
Amen.

Christmas Day has a way of gathering us, as if some great cosmic bell is rung and we all instinctively look toward the table. Not just any table, mind you, but the table — the place where tureens steam, candles flicker, chairs scrape, and where someone inevitably asks, “Are we sure the turkey is fully cooked?”

It is one of the small miracles of the Incarnation that on the very day we proclaim God made flesh, we also test the structural integrity of our dining room chairs. The prophet Isaiah may have spoken of feasts rich with marrow and well-aged wines, but he tactfully omitted mention of Aunt Martha’s fruitcake, which is indestructible enough to qualify as a geological formation.

Yet there is beauty here — profound, incarnational beauty — because gathering around a table is something God seems particularly fond of. Scripture is full of meals, from Eden’s orchard to Emmaus’ roadside bread-breaking. And today, as Christians of all shapes and varieties kneel at the altar rail or hold out hands at the Lord’s Table, we gather at the feast God prepares for us: humble bread, shared cup, and the astonishing declaration that Christ is among us, nourishing us with nothing less than himself.

If the family table is where we remember who we belong to, then the Lord’s Table is where we discover why we belong at all. At both tables grace flows — sometimes with the elegance of a Dickens novel and sometimes with the unpredictable splash of gravy from an over-enthusiastic ladle operator.

Because let’s be honest: Christmas dinner is holy, but also its own small adventure. There is always one child who covertly slips Brussels sprouts to the dog. Someone tries to carve the turkey with great solemnity, despite the fact that the knife hasn’t been sharp since 1987. Someone offers a toast that begins reverently and ends with a long anecdote about a neighbour and a mischievous snowblower.

And yet — it is good. It is very good. Because love is present. Because Christ is present. Because the Word became flesh and pitched his tent among us, apparently quite willing to sit beside the person who talks too much, the one who laughs too loudly, and the one who arrives late but brings the best dessert.

As we come to the altar on this Christmas Day, we discover that God, too, gathers us not because we are perfect but because we are loved. Christ welcomes the whole, mismatched, occasionally quirky family of God and simply says, “Come. Eat. Be strengthened. Go in peace.”

And then we head home to do it all again around the dining table — the roast, the potatoes, the spirited debate about whether the Christmas crackers were worth the money this year — and somehow it all feels like an extension of that holy feast. Another table where Christ quietly sits, smiling, perhaps pretending not to notice the dog gnawing on a festive napkin.

So may this Christmas Day find you gathered — at the family table, at the Lord’s Table, at any place where love is served and grace is tasted. And may you know in the deepest parts of your being that you are welcomed, cherished, nourished, and never, ever alone.

A Christmas Blessing
Holy and gracious God,
on this day when heaven meets earth
and love meets longing,
gather us at your table and remind us
that every good gift is from you.
Bless our feasts, our families,
our quiet places, and our joyful noise.
Feed us with your mercy
that we may share your love
in every place we gather.
Through Christ, our newborn King. Amen.

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.