Why Is This Night Different?
Sermon
Daniel J. Weitner
And Other Reflections On Christmas
Object:
It is 9:30. It is nighttime, Christmas Eve. There is a cold
wind blowing in from the northwest, moisture is pushing in from
the south, and the barometer is sinking like a stone, a sure sign
of snow. Overhead, the cloudy sky is low, leaden, and bright with
reflected light from city streets.
I turn my collar up against the chill. Lynne pulls her scarf over her mouth and nose. The children yank their coat zippers as high as they will go. Almost as if we are taking directions from an unseen conductor, we start singing "Joy To The World" in six- part harmony. Mostly because of happiness. Partly because it gets our adrenaline flowing. We crunch through the snow.
The first service of Christmas Eve is history. The Christ candle on the Advent wreath has been lit, the musicians have played, the choir has sung, the congregation has caroled, and I have preached. Now, the church is temporarily empty.
The sexton has kept the church's electric candelabra on. A minute ago, we exited the church in their warm glow. When we got to the sidewalk, Lynne looked back at them and remarked how beautiful they were.
We approach the house. We see a pair of noses push aside the curtains. This is followed immediately by a duet of muted woofs and howls. As we open the front door, we are greeted by a breath of warm air ... and two beagles.
It is Christmas Eve, and it occurs to me, as it always does, that something is different. The stores are actually, finally closed. The last CD has been bought. The last sweater has been tried on. The last fast-food restaurant burger has been flame- broiled. The last credit card has been plunked down in front of a weary clerk. The last cookie has been baked. All over, doors are being locked and season's greetings are being exchanged by store managers and their employees.
But the fact that cash registers are now silent is not what I distinguish as different this night.
I note that in their home-sewn red and green dresses, my beloved Lynne and our daughters Shana and Kyrsten, are positively aglow tonight. Son Daniel -- and son-in-law Chris -- are handsome in their favorite navy blue suits. I pop a Christmas music cassette into the tape deck. Kyrsten sits on the living room rug and plays with the dogs. Shana puts finishing touches on a handmade gift. Daniel makes cocoa for Santa Claus. Lynne rearranges a few tree decorations. Chris whistles to the cockatiel. Not a single overhead light fixture or table lamp is on anywhere in the house, but the place is as bright as if we had every one of them turned on full power. We read, play, and bustle around the kitchen by the light of Christmas trees, candles, and kerosene lanterns that seem to make the house pulse with a multi- colored warmth.
But the fact that the television is off, that soft music, soft light, and soft conversation fill the air, and that a certain seasonal elegance is reflected by all the inhabitants of our dwelling place, are not the reasons that I know this night to be different.
It occurs to me that there was something odd about walking home from the church. It was not a sound, but the absence of familiar sounds, that called my attention to it. There were cars on the road, but tonight, their drivers were not maniacal pilots of guided missiles, jockeying for the first position in front of traffic lights and vying to see who might go the fastest from one end of town to the other. Tonight there was no foul stench of cursings and profanities which are regularly spit forth from street corners and automobiles and storefronts. In their stead, the sweet fragrance of little children's laughter and family conversation and the love songs of those who have been couples for forty and fifty years.
But the fact that for one brief moment, there is a strange and marvelous stillness in the midst of what had appeared to be a perpetually noisy world -- that is not what is different about this night.
I have pondered this mystery many times. It is 9:30, Christmas Eve, and I contemplate it anew. Suddenly, I find myself a kindred spirit with a son reclining at the Passover table, asking the question that has been repeated by sons for thousands of years: What is it about this night that makes it different from all others? For him, the answer is spread out plainly, as it has been since that terrible, wonderful night that was Israel's last under the oppression of Egypt:
Observe the month of Abib by keeping the passover to the Lord your God, for ... the Lord your God brought you out of Egypt by night.... For seven days you shall eat unleavened bread -- the bread of affliction -- because you came out of the land of Egypt in great haste, so that all the days of your life you may remember the day of your departure ..." (Deuteronomy 16:1, 3).
But as to why this night -- Christmas Eve -- is unlike other nights: that is what I seek to know.
I wonder. Do you? Do you ever find a fascination with the unusual happenings and curious behavior among human beings at this extraordinary time of year? Would you, as I, like to discover why a lot of people suddenly speak civilly to one another? Why we extend courtesies that we do not even think of any other time? Why claws are withdrawn and fangs are covered over in our relationships? Why in time of war, arms have been laid down and sworn enemies have embraced one another and toasts have been lifted up in each other's honor, if only for a few hours or a day? Why there is talk of love and loveliness, of hope and help, of giving and thanksgiving?
I have wondered about these things. I suspect you have, too.
For the answer, it is necessary to take a journey. A journey back through time to a world so much like our own that we have to make certain we have actually made the trip. You need to know that it is not just any time, but a singular moment in history.
* Like ours, that world is filled with anger, hatred, malice, political intrigue, and murder.
* Like ours, that world makes money its god, and makes God its enemy.
* Like ours, that world calls good evil, and evil good; justice is vilified and corruption is sainted.
* Like ours, that world abounds with loneliness, frustrations, and heartache.
* Like ours, it too is a world of great sadness.
* Like ours, it too is a world of an overwhelming sense of hopelessness.
Yet in an almost-forgotten corner of that world, in an instant of time, something momentous has just happened. It will have a profound effect on every moment to come, on every facet of history from then on.
That "something" is not properly called an "event," in the usual sense of the word. An event arrives heralded and published and greeted with great throngs of people. But at this milestone there are no reporters, no spotlights, and no engraved invitations. It is easy to overlook, to walk by, or to ignore.
But that this great occurrence in the history of humankind comes unannounced or with great fanfare does not make the night different.
That which has just happened is not discussed in the great halls of government. Nor is it analyzed in centers of economy. Nor do captains of industry even note it. In fact, the powerful, the rich and the influential are not present at all. The commoner is. The poor man is. The blue-collar worker is. The unsophisticated person is. Still, the night is not different because of them, plain or fancy.
In fact, observing it as a disinterested spectator, I mark this incident as a total non-event which affects me not in the slightest -- only the actors who are immediately present: a hungry infant, just delivered; his exhausted but happy mother; his beaming father; and a few curious bystanders who try to peek at the newborn's face. The birthing couple is homeless ... not unusual, then or now. The world doesn't hold its peace until the baby goes to sleep ... not unusual, then or now. The press and the noise of commerce, carousal, and consternation goes on unabated ... not unusual, then or now.
But viewed through the lenses of faith, this scene takes on an aspect of uniqueness that is unrivaled in any age. For here and now I know that God has again staked his claim upon a world whose inhabitants had long been gripped by terrible fears. Fear of their own failure. Fear of the future. Fear of death. Fear of judgment. Fear of the awful darkness beyond.
And then I realize: it is not the world that has changed this night! Tonight, the stars are still fixed in their courses. Tonight, the clouds will still drop snow, or rain, or nothing at all.
Tonight, the blare of business will continue without pause. Tonight, the shrill cacophony of profanity and blasphemy will continue to pour forth on street and sidewalk. It is I who have undergone change!
Here in Bethlehem ... here in a hillside cave that passes as a crude stable ... here beside a horse-and-mule feeding-trough ... here next to a frightened, exhilarated teenaged mother and her confused, awestruck husband do I know that God has pitched his tent and taken up residence -- by me!
Here and now do I know why most will pass by and never see what has happened: "He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him" (John 1:10-11).
Here and now do I know why the gift of Christmas was so costly to God: "For God so loved the world that he gave ..." (not loaned, not sold, but gave) "... his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life" (John 3:16).
Here and now do I know why the music and the pageantry and the splendor of Christmas drown out the sounds of rancor and rage: "But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God ... From his fulness we have all received, grace upon grace" (John 1:12, 16).
Here and now do I know why his name had to be Jesus, for his name in Hebrew (the name given him before his birth by the angel of God) -- the name Yeshua -- tells me why he was born: "... for he will save his people from their sins" (Matthew 1:21).
Here and now do I know why it no longer matters what happens in the world tonight -- for the nations will still rage and truth will still be the beggar crying out to be heard and justice will be scorned and God will still be cursed -- because I am told by the Man who grew up from the baby: "But take courage; I have conquered the world!" (John 16:33).
It is 9:30. It is nighttime, Christmas Eve. There is a cold wind blowing in from the northwest, moisture is pushing in from the south, and the barometer is sinking like a stone, a sure sign of snow. Overhead, the cloudy sky is low, leaden, and bright with reflected light from city streets.
And I finally know what makes this night unlike any other night in the history of creation: I am no longer alone.
I turn my collar up against the chill. Lynne pulls her scarf over her mouth and nose. The children yank their coat zippers as high as they will go. Almost as if we are taking directions from an unseen conductor, we start singing "Joy To The World" in six- part harmony. Mostly because of happiness. Partly because it gets our adrenaline flowing. We crunch through the snow.
The first service of Christmas Eve is history. The Christ candle on the Advent wreath has been lit, the musicians have played, the choir has sung, the congregation has caroled, and I have preached. Now, the church is temporarily empty.
The sexton has kept the church's electric candelabra on. A minute ago, we exited the church in their warm glow. When we got to the sidewalk, Lynne looked back at them and remarked how beautiful they were.
We approach the house. We see a pair of noses push aside the curtains. This is followed immediately by a duet of muted woofs and howls. As we open the front door, we are greeted by a breath of warm air ... and two beagles.
It is Christmas Eve, and it occurs to me, as it always does, that something is different. The stores are actually, finally closed. The last CD has been bought. The last sweater has been tried on. The last fast-food restaurant burger has been flame- broiled. The last credit card has been plunked down in front of a weary clerk. The last cookie has been baked. All over, doors are being locked and season's greetings are being exchanged by store managers and their employees.
But the fact that cash registers are now silent is not what I distinguish as different this night.
I note that in their home-sewn red and green dresses, my beloved Lynne and our daughters Shana and Kyrsten, are positively aglow tonight. Son Daniel -- and son-in-law Chris -- are handsome in their favorite navy blue suits. I pop a Christmas music cassette into the tape deck. Kyrsten sits on the living room rug and plays with the dogs. Shana puts finishing touches on a handmade gift. Daniel makes cocoa for Santa Claus. Lynne rearranges a few tree decorations. Chris whistles to the cockatiel. Not a single overhead light fixture or table lamp is on anywhere in the house, but the place is as bright as if we had every one of them turned on full power. We read, play, and bustle around the kitchen by the light of Christmas trees, candles, and kerosene lanterns that seem to make the house pulse with a multi- colored warmth.
But the fact that the television is off, that soft music, soft light, and soft conversation fill the air, and that a certain seasonal elegance is reflected by all the inhabitants of our dwelling place, are not the reasons that I know this night to be different.
It occurs to me that there was something odd about walking home from the church. It was not a sound, but the absence of familiar sounds, that called my attention to it. There were cars on the road, but tonight, their drivers were not maniacal pilots of guided missiles, jockeying for the first position in front of traffic lights and vying to see who might go the fastest from one end of town to the other. Tonight there was no foul stench of cursings and profanities which are regularly spit forth from street corners and automobiles and storefronts. In their stead, the sweet fragrance of little children's laughter and family conversation and the love songs of those who have been couples for forty and fifty years.
But the fact that for one brief moment, there is a strange and marvelous stillness in the midst of what had appeared to be a perpetually noisy world -- that is not what is different about this night.
I have pondered this mystery many times. It is 9:30, Christmas Eve, and I contemplate it anew. Suddenly, I find myself a kindred spirit with a son reclining at the Passover table, asking the question that has been repeated by sons for thousands of years: What is it about this night that makes it different from all others? For him, the answer is spread out plainly, as it has been since that terrible, wonderful night that was Israel's last under the oppression of Egypt:
Observe the month of Abib by keeping the passover to the Lord your God, for ... the Lord your God brought you out of Egypt by night.... For seven days you shall eat unleavened bread -- the bread of affliction -- because you came out of the land of Egypt in great haste, so that all the days of your life you may remember the day of your departure ..." (Deuteronomy 16:1, 3).
But as to why this night -- Christmas Eve -- is unlike other nights: that is what I seek to know.
I wonder. Do you? Do you ever find a fascination with the unusual happenings and curious behavior among human beings at this extraordinary time of year? Would you, as I, like to discover why a lot of people suddenly speak civilly to one another? Why we extend courtesies that we do not even think of any other time? Why claws are withdrawn and fangs are covered over in our relationships? Why in time of war, arms have been laid down and sworn enemies have embraced one another and toasts have been lifted up in each other's honor, if only for a few hours or a day? Why there is talk of love and loveliness, of hope and help, of giving and thanksgiving?
I have wondered about these things. I suspect you have, too.
For the answer, it is necessary to take a journey. A journey back through time to a world so much like our own that we have to make certain we have actually made the trip. You need to know that it is not just any time, but a singular moment in history.
* Like ours, that world is filled with anger, hatred, malice, political intrigue, and murder.
* Like ours, that world makes money its god, and makes God its enemy.
* Like ours, that world calls good evil, and evil good; justice is vilified and corruption is sainted.
* Like ours, that world abounds with loneliness, frustrations, and heartache.
* Like ours, it too is a world of great sadness.
* Like ours, it too is a world of an overwhelming sense of hopelessness.
Yet in an almost-forgotten corner of that world, in an instant of time, something momentous has just happened. It will have a profound effect on every moment to come, on every facet of history from then on.
That "something" is not properly called an "event," in the usual sense of the word. An event arrives heralded and published and greeted with great throngs of people. But at this milestone there are no reporters, no spotlights, and no engraved invitations. It is easy to overlook, to walk by, or to ignore.
But that this great occurrence in the history of humankind comes unannounced or with great fanfare does not make the night different.
That which has just happened is not discussed in the great halls of government. Nor is it analyzed in centers of economy. Nor do captains of industry even note it. In fact, the powerful, the rich and the influential are not present at all. The commoner is. The poor man is. The blue-collar worker is. The unsophisticated person is. Still, the night is not different because of them, plain or fancy.
In fact, observing it as a disinterested spectator, I mark this incident as a total non-event which affects me not in the slightest -- only the actors who are immediately present: a hungry infant, just delivered; his exhausted but happy mother; his beaming father; and a few curious bystanders who try to peek at the newborn's face. The birthing couple is homeless ... not unusual, then or now. The world doesn't hold its peace until the baby goes to sleep ... not unusual, then or now. The press and the noise of commerce, carousal, and consternation goes on unabated ... not unusual, then or now.
But viewed through the lenses of faith, this scene takes on an aspect of uniqueness that is unrivaled in any age. For here and now I know that God has again staked his claim upon a world whose inhabitants had long been gripped by terrible fears. Fear of their own failure. Fear of the future. Fear of death. Fear of judgment. Fear of the awful darkness beyond.
And then I realize: it is not the world that has changed this night! Tonight, the stars are still fixed in their courses. Tonight, the clouds will still drop snow, or rain, or nothing at all.
Tonight, the blare of business will continue without pause. Tonight, the shrill cacophony of profanity and blasphemy will continue to pour forth on street and sidewalk. It is I who have undergone change!
Here in Bethlehem ... here in a hillside cave that passes as a crude stable ... here beside a horse-and-mule feeding-trough ... here next to a frightened, exhilarated teenaged mother and her confused, awestruck husband do I know that God has pitched his tent and taken up residence -- by me!
Here and now do I know why most will pass by and never see what has happened: "He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him" (John 1:10-11).
Here and now do I know why the gift of Christmas was so costly to God: "For God so loved the world that he gave ..." (not loaned, not sold, but gave) "... his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life" (John 3:16).
Here and now do I know why the music and the pageantry and the splendor of Christmas drown out the sounds of rancor and rage: "But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God ... From his fulness we have all received, grace upon grace" (John 1:12, 16).
Here and now do I know why his name had to be Jesus, for his name in Hebrew (the name given him before his birth by the angel of God) -- the name Yeshua -- tells me why he was born: "... for he will save his people from their sins" (Matthew 1:21).
Here and now do I know why it no longer matters what happens in the world tonight -- for the nations will still rage and truth will still be the beggar crying out to be heard and justice will be scorned and God will still be cursed -- because I am told by the Man who grew up from the baby: "But take courage; I have conquered the world!" (John 16:33).
It is 9:30. It is nighttime, Christmas Eve. There is a cold wind blowing in from the northwest, moisture is pushing in from the south, and the barometer is sinking like a stone, a sure sign of snow. Overhead, the cloudy sky is low, leaden, and bright with reflected light from city streets.
And I finally know what makes this night unlike any other night in the history of creation: I am no longer alone.
