Monday meditation: ‘God Came Down,’ Part 4: Claiming his gift
Christmas dawns with vibrating anticipation in the wiggly bodies of little children who can’t wait to see what’s under the tree.
Moms and dads are eager to see their delight, although their happiness may be blunted by exhaustion. There were so many toys to assemble and gifts to wrap after the children were finally in bed on Christmas Eve! And ahead comes a day of meal prep and kitchen clean-up, sometimes combined with trips across town for family hubbub and hilarity.
Christmas comes quietly for others. They’ll be alone, except for two hours of ham and green beans with children who will stop by for a visit crammed in among their full day of obligations.
And those are the lucky ones. I’m thinking of so many thousands in care facilities this morning. Christmas will look much like any other day for them, except for maybe a little better meal or some plastic poinsettias decorating the dining tables.
But most don’t mind. They’ve enjoyed the flurry of Christmases past, and they’re happy today simply to sit back, listen to the carols playing in the hallway, and rest.
Regardless of our situation, rest may be what we all want most. Christmas can take its toll, either through long lists of tasks it demands or in a dark, secret longing simply to get it over with.
Regardless of our situation, rest may be what we all want most.
Perhaps some readers will be able to rest today—or some other day in the no man’s land between Christmas and New Year’s. It’s something to hope for.
Hope may be what drives us to keep celebrating Christmas, despite its demands. Christmas holds the promise that there’s something more than the worries and weariness of this life. We do well at Christmas to pause long enough to remember that.
Christmas holds the promise that there’s something more
than the worries and weariness of this life.
Maybe we could listen again to the familiar carol with its bold assertion about the birthplace of Jesus:
“The hopes and fears of all the years
are met in thee tonight.”
Given the current turmoil in Israel, there may be more fear than hope in Bethlehem this Christmas. And it’s true for some caregivers, too. Our daily duties, our weekly surprises, the monthly changes developing so slowly that sometimes we need an outsider to help us admit them—all this may lead us to fear whether we’ll be able to handle what’s coming next.
But now we’ve come to Christmas. And if we’ll stop and read the simple narrative again, if we’ll look carefully at this morning’s Bible art depicting what happened and think about all the portrayals we’ve seen through the years, perhaps we can discover a calming of our fears and a rekindling of hope.
The carol hints at what many hope for most:
“Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting light.”
Surely the writer was thinking of how Jesus described himself a few decades after his birth. “I am the light of the world,” he said. “Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”
His promise gives us something substantive to hope for at Christmas.
Light to discern the best path forward.
Life so much richer than simply handling one more day’s obligations.
So, yes, we do well somehow to rest this Christmastime. But let it be a rest imbued with a special kind of anticipation, the gift of hope:
“O come to us, abide with us
our Lord Emmanuel!”
Read: Luke 2:1-7 ESV
Pray: O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel!
Illustration copyright Classic Bible Art. All rights reserved. For more information about securing a library of this beautiful art for yourself, see here or here. Some art in this series is available for license at Goodsalt.com.