Christmas Eve – Mark Winward
But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see – I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” (Luke 2:10–11, NRSV)
For just a moment this evening, I invite you to pause and consider the immensity of what we are celebrating. The claim at the heart of Christmas goes far beyond our sentimental memories of this story depicted in Christmas pageants. The central claim of Christmas is truly staggering – and if we dare to consider it, nothing will ever be the same. Think about it: the God of all creation became one of us.
When we begin to grasp even a bit of the grandeur of the universe, that claim becomes almost overwhelming: The Creator became one of us. Science describes a cosmos so vast that our minds struggle to hold it. Douglas Adams captured that sense of scale in his whimsical science fiction, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, when he wrote, “Space is big. Really big. You just won’t believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is.” Yet for all that sense of wonder, Adams couldn’t imagine that such immensity might point beyond itself to Something greater than us. Astronauts, however, often speak of something called the “overview effect.” Seeing the Earth from space, suspended in darkness, many experience a deep sense of awe – sometimes even a spiritual awakening. Others feel disoriented or shaken, confronted by both the fragile beauty of our world and the cold vastness beyond it. And the more we explore the universe, the more immense it seems to become.
To put that scale simply: if you could drive to the sun at highway speed, it would take nearly two centuries to arrive. That distance is just one astronomical unit. A light-year is over 63,000 times the distance from the earth to the sun – and the observable universe stretches across an estimated 93 billion of light-years. If scientist have correctly estimated the age of the universe to be 13.8 billion years, it would take 82 million times the age of the universe for you to drive across it. Now if your eyes glaze over with all those numbers, it’s because such sheer magnitude defies our ability to grasp it. And yet, in a small corner of that vast universe lies our rather unremarkable galaxy. Within it, an unremarkable star. Orbiting that star, a small, life-bearing planet. On that planet, God created human beings in his image – capable of memory and reason, creativity and love – intentionally designed from the beginning for community with one another and with God.
And we turned away. Again and again, God called us back, longing for relationship with us, but we ignored that call. That alienation from God isn’t merely an abstract theological problem; it shows up in very real ways – in our loneliness, our fear, our pride, our broken relationships, our sense that something isn’t as it should be. We try to fix it ourselves, to live life on our own terms, but the distance remains.
Then God did the unimaginable.
The Creator of that planet, that star, that galaxy, that incomprehensibly vast cosmos didn’t abandon us to our rejection of him. Out of love – pure, costly love – the great “I Am,” the beginning and the end, became one of us. God broke into human history. God embraced our human limitations. God became flesh. In that moment, humanity was forever changed. In a forgotten corner of the Roman Empire, in a small shepherding town, in a stable no one would have noticed, the universe shifted. For a brief moment, that stable became the center of all creation, because the ruler of the universe had come to find us.
If we really take this claim seriously – that God became human – then every other miracle in Scripture seems almost secondary by comparison. Burning bushes, walking on water, even the empty tomb all flow from this astonishing truth. Christmas is the foundation upon which everything else stands.
How you interpret the meaning of this night will inescapably lead to your answer to the question Jesus himself posed: “Who do you say that I am?” That question confronts each of us tonight. Not “What do you think of Jesus’ teachings?” Not “Do you admire his example?” But who is he for you? Is he merely a distant historical figure, a wise teacher from long ago? Or is he the living God who stepped into human history and comes even now to meet you?
The extraordinary claim of the Gospel is that all of us – rich or poor, powerful or powerless, confident or uncertain – stand on the same ground. We are estranged from God in ways we can’t repair on our own. Scripture calls that reality sin: our persistent tendency to turn inward, to insist on our own way, to live as though we do not need God. The result is a separation we can’t bridge by effort or good intentions. That is why the baby in the manger matters. That is why the angels erupt in song. John’s gospel captures the meaning of this night in words many of us know by heart: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” (John 3:16)
We hear those words so often that we risk missing their impact. God so loved the world. Not humanity at its best, not the world cleaned up and put together, but the world as it is – fractured, fearful, and lost. God’s response to that world wasn’t condemnation, but self-giving love.
The good news the angels proclaimed is that this child – wrapped in cloths and laid in a feeding trough – came to bring life. Life for anyone and everyone. Not just survival, not just moral improvement, but abundant life rooted in a restored relationship with God.
This child grew into a man who gave himself completely, even to the point of death, so that our alienation would not have the final word. And death itself couldn’t hold him. The one we remember in the manger lives still. Some know his presence as comfort. Some know his strength in moments of weakness. Some know a joy that carries them even through sorrow – a joy we freshly glimpse at Christmas.
So what does this mean for us? It means that God’s priorities are remarkable different than that of this world. Where our politics divide and categorize, God draws near and unites. God isn’t impressed by status or power or whatever your identity may be. God came so that no one would be beyond his reach. God sent his Son so that you might know him, and in knowing him, learn to love as you are loved. Imagine for a moment that the King of all Creation is, quite simply, is in love with you. But he came not only to be loved in return, but so that his love might flow through you into a world still aching for hope and reconciliation. My prayer for us this Christmas is that we might welcome him anew, walk with him in the year ahead, and discover more deeply his strength, his joy, and his life – given for you, and for this wounded world. Amen.