There’s a moment on Christmas Eve when everything seems to hush. The lights dim, the bustle slows, and something in us moves forward. We’ve heard this story so many times—Mary and Joseph, the journey, the stable, the manger—but tonight it feels different. Tonight we’re not just remembering a story; we’re stepping into it. We’re standing on holy ground, in that thin place where heaven bends low to earth.
Because Christmas Eve is a threshold. It’s the moment before the dawn breaks. The moment when hope is held in the quiet, like a candle cupped in the hands. It is the stillness before the song begins, the pause before the angels speak, the breath before the world changes forever.
And into that quiet, God comes.
Not with fanfare. Not with power. Not with the kind of glory we might expect. But with vulnerability. With smallness. With the cry of a newborn child. God who shaped galaxies chooses to be wrapped in cloths. God who spoke creation into being chooses to learn how to speak. God who holds all things together chooses to be held.
If you or I were planning the arrival of the Son of God, we might choose a palace or a grand announcement. We might choose a moment that would impress the world. But God chooses a stable. A feeding trough. A young couple far from home. A night like any other.
And that tells us something important:
God meets us where we are, not where we think we should be.
Some of us arrive tonight with joy—hearts full, families gathered, traditions we cherish. Some of us arrive with weariness, carrying the weight of a long year. Some with questions that have lingered unanswered. Some with grief that feels sharper at Christmas than at any other time. Some of us feel close to God; some feel far away and wonder if God notices.
But the miracle of Christmas is that God draws near to all of us.
Not just to the perfect. Not just to the sorted.
And not just to the confident.
But to the ordinary, the searching, the hopeful, the hurting.
The shepherds were the first to hear the news—ordinary workers doing an ordinary job on an ordinary night. And heaven opens above them. “Good news of great joy for all people,” the angel says. All people. Including you. Including me. Including those who feel unworthy, unnoticed, or unsure.
A church was putting on its annual nativity play. The innkeeper was a shy boy who had exactly one line:
“There is no room at the inn.”
But when Mary and Joseph knocked on the cardboard door and asked for a place to stay, the boy panicked. He looked at them, looked at the audience, looked at his teacher… and blurted out:
“Well… there should be room. Come on in!”
The whole place erupted in laughter. The teacher buried her face in her hands. Mary and Joseph looked delighted.
And yet—wasn’t he right?
We spend so much time rehearsing the line “no room”…
No room in our schedules.
No room in our hearts.
No room in our priorities.
No room for silence, for prayer, for wonder, for God.
But the child said what Christmas invites us to say:
“There should be room.”
And God doesn’t need a perfect room—just an open one. A corner of the heart. A moment of attention. A willingness to be interrupted by grace.
Tonight, as we stand on the edge of Christmas, the invitation is simple:
Make room.
Not a perfect room. Not a tidy room. Not a room that has everything sorted and polished. Just a little space in the heart.
A whispered prayer.
A moment of honesty.
A quiet “Lord, if You are near, help me to notice.”
Because the light that comes tonight is gentle, but it is strong. It does not force its way in, but it does not fade easily either. It shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it. Not the darkness of fear. Not the darkness of sorrow. Not the darkness of uncertainty. The Christ-light is steady, persistent, and full of mercy.
So as we move toward the manger, toward the Christ-child, may we carry this truth with us:
God is with us.
God is for us.
God has come close.
And that is enough to bring hope to the world.
Enough to steady the weary.
Enough to comfort the grieving.
Enough to awaken joy in the discouraged.
Enough to remind us that even in the smallest places, God is at work.
Tonight, heaven leans close.
Tonight, love takes on flesh.
Tonight, the world is changed.
Inspired by Jesus, may you have a really happy Christmas, and beyond… Amen.
Comments