Christmas Day

Readings: Is 52:7-10; Heb 1:1-6; Jn 1:1-18

VIDEO

The four Gospel-writers are traditionally associated 
with the four creatures seen in a vision 
by the prophet Ezekiel:
a man, associated with Matthew,
a lion, associated with Mark,
an ox, associated with Luke, 
and an eagle, associated with John.
In folklore, eagles were reputed to have
not only exceptionally keen vision 
for seeking out prey,
but also the ability to stare 
directly into the sun.
St. Augustine observes that John,
in comparison with the other evangelists, 
“flies like an eagle above the clouds of human weakness, 
and looks at the light of unchangeable truth 
with the sharpest and firmest eyes of the heart” (Cons. ev. 1.6.9).
John gazes upon the stories of Jesus’ human life
and sees the dazzling mystery of God shining through.

This is perhaps nowhere more striking
than in the prologue to John’s Gospel,
which is our Gospel reading this morning.
Luke’s familiar nativity story,
which we read on Christmas Eve,
offers us Mary, Joseph, and the newborn Jesus,
the crowded inn and the manger,
the shepherds and the angels,
the “good news of great joy 
that will be for all the people” (Lk 2:10).
And all of this strikes us as quite beautiful
and even miraculous.

But John looks upon these events with his eagle eye
and sees even greater beauty, an even greater miracle.
He stares into the blinding sun of infinite love 
and sees that the story of the birth of Jesus
is a story rooted in eternity,
a story that stretches back 
before any creature ever was,
before Mary or Joseph,
before the shepherds or even the angels.

St. Augustine writes that John is one
“who has passed beyond the cloud
in which the whole earth is wrapped, 
and who has reached the liquid heaven 
from which, with clearest and steadiest mental eye, 
he is able to look upon God the Word, 
who was in the beginning with God, 
and by whom all things were made” (Cons. ev. 1.4.7).
In the beginning, before anything came to be, 
was the Word by which everything came to be,
the Word that spoke into the void,
saying, “Let there be light,”
and the world miraculously came to be.
This Word is God the Son
who is, as the letter to the Hebrews puts it,
“the refulgence of [God’s] glory,
the very imprint of his being…
who sustains all things 
by his mighty word.”

But the eagle eye of John,
that stares undazzled into the light of God,
sees also the darkness of the void
that resists the light,
the nothingness of evil
that refuses God’s gift of being.
Still, “the light shines in the darkness, 
the darkness has not overcome it.”
God speaks his creating Word 
into the world again and again, 
through various prophets and sages 
who announce peace and bear good news,
who tell God’s people 
that God reigns over the darkness.
And now, in these last days,
God speaks into the darkness again—
not in the varied and partial ways 
of the prophetic past,
but in the Word who is made flesh
to dwell among us 
in the fullness of grace and truth.

The eagle eye of John sees God speaking
in the speechless infant born of Mary.
John sees the power of the Word
that called light from darkness
and existence from the void
in the powerless child of Bethlehem,
the child who will give to us who believe 
“power to become children of God,”
so that each of us might become 
by the miracle of grace
what the Word is by nature:
the “heir of all things” 
and God’s own offspring.
John sees that the eternal Word, 
born “from the womb of the Father…
born from the father’s own being” 

(Council of Toledo AD 675),
has become what we are 
so that we might become children 
“born not by natural generation 
nor by human choice…but of God,”
drawn forth from the womb
of the waters of baptism,
freed from sin to live a new life,
given the eyes of eagles 
so that we too might see 
infinite light.

To stare with the eagle’s eye 
into God’s eternal Word
is beautiful and miraculous,
but it is also somewhat terrifying,
for we also see the night 
that still haunts the world, 
hating the light and seeking to overcome it.
The calm poetic beauty with which John recounts
the coming of the Word in human flesh
is the prelude to that same flesh being killed
by the forces of darkness that would reject it;
and we who have been brought to life in him
may well face similar rejection.
For each week we take into ourselves
his flesh and blood, his soul and divinity,
so that we might have his life in us.
But in doing so we take in as well
the call to be light in the darkness,
like fragments of mirror 
that reflect infinite light.
And it is only our faith that shows us
that we shall not be overcome
by uncomprehending darkness.

Yet on this Christmas we rejoice,
for we do see with the eyes of eagles.
Like John and the prophets of old,
we shout for joy, for in the Word made flesh
we see directly, before our eyes,
the Lord restoring Zion,
the world created anew,
eternity invading time,
light dispelling darkness,
life conquering death.
We pray even while it is still night,
for that day when “all the ends of the earth 
will behold the salvation of our God.”
And we pray that God, in his mercy,
might have mercy on us all.

Christmas

Readings: Isaiah 9:1-6; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14

After living more days that we can count 
amidst death and desolation,
the cure has been announced,
the promises of an end 
to the deadly contagion
that has afflicted our world.
This happy news is greeted 
with skepticism by some
and with joy by others,
but even those who believe this good news 
know that there are still dark days ahead.
Victory is assured,
but it will take time—
and we do not know
how much time—
before we can let down our guard
and live and move freely, 
as we are meant to live.
But the corner has been turned,
the deadly foe has been defeated,
and a better day is coming.

This enemy of which I speak, 
of course, is sin—
the deadly contagion that has spread
throughout the human race 
down the centuries—
our primal alienation from God 
that is the yoke that has burdened us.
It is sin that has separated us from others,
sin that has robbed us
of the sustaining breath of the Spirit,
sin that has condemned us to eternal death.
But today we celebrate
the glad tidings of victory,
the announcing of sin’s defeat
by the one who is called
“Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero,
Father-Forever, Prince of Peace,”
the “good news of great joy
that will be for all the people,”
the news that 
“a savior has been born for us 
who is Christ and Lord.”

Yet, even as we celebrate good news,
we know that sin still stalks the world;
we see its effects around us 
and feel its power in our souls.
The new age has dawned 
and defeat of our ancient foe is assured,
but we still, as St. Paul writes,
“await the blessed hope,
the appearance of the glory 
of our great God and savior Jesus Christ.”

In our waiting, we can fall prey 
to one of two temptations.
On the one hand, we can be tempted
to disbelieve the good news of so great a victory
because the signs of triumph
are so small, 
so easily overlooked—
as obscure and hidden 
as a newborn child 
laid in a feeding trough in a stable.
It is easy to doubt news so astounding:
the eternal God 
has come to dwell with us in time.
It is easy to doubt a victory
that our eyes cannot yet see.
On the other hand, we can also be tempted
to think that God’s victory means
that the struggle for justice and mercy is over,
that it doesn’t matter what we do, 
that we no longer need to guard ourselves from sin
or work for a world that is less cruel,
less marked by the yoke of sin.
We can forget that we still have a role to play,
still have the path of cross and resurrection ahead of us,
still have an unknown length of days before us
until the reign of Christ arrives in its fullness.

Christmas calls us to resist both these temptations
by being people of hope and patience.
Hope and patience should not be confused
with optimism and resignation.
Hope is not the belief 
that things will work out fine on their own,
but rather that God is even now,
in ways that may escape our eyes, 
at work in our world to defeat evil.
Patience is not throwing up our hands
and sinking into resigned desolation;
patience is rather the chief remedy for desolation,
the active choice to wait for the God
who can heal our lacerated souls.
This is always a hard discipline:
to genuinely believe that God has won the victory,
and yet to recognize that we must still live and labor
amidst the ruin that sin has made of our existence.

This Christmas more than most
we need this hard discipline.
We need to be people of hope and patience
as we hear news of vaccines 
that can protect us from the novel coronavirus,
even as we continue to live amidst a global pandemic
that has killed 1.7 million people worldwide
and over 330,000 people in our country alone,
that has turned our lives upside down,
that has isolated and separated us 
precisely when we most need each other.

This Christmas more than most
we need the gift of hope 
to believe better days are coming,
and the gift of patience 
to combat the desolation 
of hard days still ahead.

This Christmas more than most
we need to hear the good news of great joy
that God is with us in our waiting;
we need to hear 
the message of the angel to the shepherds:
“Do not be afraid.”
Do not be afraid to hope and believe.
Do not be afraid to patiently wait.
Do not be afraid
because God in Christ 
has plunged into the depths 
of human desolation and pain
and planted there the seed of the kingdom,
the seed of hope and patience
that can sustain us through our darkest days.
Christ is born for us today.
Let the heavens be glad and the earth rejoice,
for he comes to save us from our ancient foe.

May the joy of this day 
make us people of hope and patience,
and may God have mercy on us all.