Two stories of Christmas

There are two stories of Christmas, and I love them both.

We tell the second story of Christmas every Christmas Eve. We do it in high style in Jackson at St. John’s. Almost always a fresh layer of snow, babies chirping, children squeaking, some families even put down feuds to stuff into pews in a packed church. We sing and pray and preach. We dim the lights and pass out a candle’s flame, as we sing Silent Night. Our hearts soften. Does it get any better than this? We dote on one another in anticipation of tomorrow’s feast and St. Nick’s Annual Adventure down our chimneys. I love that second story of Christmas we tell on Christmas Eve. I need it, once a year.

I love the first one, too. It’s the one I need all other days. That story about a God who sends a herd of angels and shepherds and a few wise dignitaries from the East to watch over first-time parents in the filthiest of labor and delivery wards. It’s the one who keeps an eye on this family, as they flee across a border at the threat of violence and death. It’s the one about a God who is fluent in action in the face of the most radical vulnerability.

All other days, I need that first Christmas story. All other days I need that God—the one who turns darkness to light, fear into hope, and hatred to love. Give me that one all other days.

Love,

Jimmy