Christmas

I walked out of the church, past the reach of the candlelight, and into the storm. 

At first I hadn't expected it. The wind twisting my hair with invisible fingers, the blackness of the clouds against the night. 

It was strong, and frightening almost. 

The Christmas we know about is never like that. 

We hang up lights to fend off the darkness. We put up trees to hide the barren places in the corners of rooms. We are peaceful. And calm. 

Surely, this is Christmas? 

As I walked into the night, starting towards home, the cold crept down into my bones. All of the warmth from the building was gone. All of the lights from the windows were gone. 

I was alone.

Flashback. Thousands of years ago. Another dark night.

And after the sweeping, horribly strange and wonderful thunder of the angels had subsided, it was quiet again. The shepherds were gone. It was just Mary and Joseph, and this little child they didn't understand. And silence descended. 

Surely, that was Christmas?

But as I rushed forward into the storm, forgetting about my fear, stretching out my arms and running as fast as I could toward home, I realized. 

This is Christmas.

Our storm, the wind in our ears, and the love of God making us so brazenly courageous that we would dare laugh at it all. 

Silence. Calm. Those are part of it.

But perhaps we should remember the storm of Christmas. The storm of life. 

And the hands of the Almighty God urging us forward with no fear. 

No fear. 

“The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel”(which means “God with us”).

God with us. 

Amen.