Christmas Eve Ponderings.

It’s Christmas Eve.

The house is sleeping, but the few of us Gilbaughs in the living room. Alissa is watching Gilmore Girls by the fireplace. Sam is reading his Dietrich Bonheoffer biography by the light of the Christmas tree.

Everything around me is simply sentimental. I can smell the ham on the stove, waiting for tomorrow’s family dinner. There are toys and books from my childhood scattered across this familiar turf, recently played with by the little ones I love so dearly. Even the constant hum of the dishwasher is welcome, reminding me I’m home.

All is calm. All is bright.

It really is a silent night.

But [and yes, with me, there is always a “but”] what I’m caught on tonight as how non-Christmas-y this all is. I mean, the tree and the lights and gifts area all so familiar and dear, but it strikes me that this is an utter contrast to the “real meaning of Christmas” [which, in and of itself, is another post for another time].

I can’t imagine that genesis night of we hold as “Christmas” was all that silent, calm or bright. I can only imagine the screams of the young virgin, wrenching under the immense pain of child labor and delivery. In my mind’s eye she can taste the salt of sweat and tears mingling as they race down her face and linger on her tongue. I see blood on the ground and a young girl crying out for her mother miles and miles away. I smell the stench of the barnyard animals and see their looming shadows lumbering around the stall as Mary protectively wraps strips of her own clothing around her infant boy. I see her count his fingers and toes and wipe him clean using her spit and the hem of her skirt. I see her afraid and alone and angry and confused.

No. It wasn’t silent, calm, or all that bright.

More sweat than silence; more calamity than calm; more loneliness than light.

So what is this we are celebrating? I mean, let’s be real. What we’re about to do in 57 minutes is simply a pagan holiday in which we eat good food and try to outdo each other in the gift exchange. And that’s okay, I think. Christmas is okay. The sentimentality is fine … good even. I love the gingerly wrapped gifts I just placed under the tree. I cannot wait to see Caleb’s face when he opens the remote-control truck I got him, or to help the girls try on the head bands I made for them. I want my mom to love her gift and I want B to unwrap each package, saving the paper the way she does. This sentimental stuff is, well, wonderful. And I love that in about three minutes I’m going to curl up on the couch next to Alissa and watch Gilmore Girls until Christmas is officially here.

But with those three minutes, I just want to say this: I think I’ve forgotten. In all the radio commercials and sermon introductions, I think I thought that Christmas was really about being with family and spending time together and love and hope and all those pretty little words.

But Jesus is bigger than that. No. He’s altogether different.

The incarnation of the Godhead is a wonder that no earthy tongue can utter. That God Himself would take on human flesh, walk out earth, sit in our filth, learn our language, and take our place is a miracle for which there is no vernacular! How can we articulate this love-act of God? How can we make humanly tangible heaven’s enthroned Majesty? How can we articulate the magnitude of this incarnating act of the Divine? Is there an expression? Is there a language that can host this immense glory?

I guess … then it makes sense … why Jesus is called “the Word”.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.