Christmas Day  |  John 1:1-14

Merry Christmas! We’ve survived the solstice and as much as we might not yet believe it in our bodies, the light is coming back. It is winning now. The darkness cannot consume our world.

There is an exquisite tension in our ancient tradition — long ago they would offer the three different Christmas stories at three different services as Christians made their way through the Christmas night. We would gather in the evening of Christmas and hear the genealogy from Matthew, which reveals the twisty, revolutionary character of God’s commitment to us, not to our obsession with male authority. 

Then, in the night, we’d hear the gospel from Luke, with its stirring trip to Bethlehem, the lack of room in the inn, the swaddling Jesus and laying him in the feeding trough. Then the shepherds are called by angels — they visit the newborn king, worshipping and honoring and Mary is cherishing it all. All of it together: a beautiful, pastoral image.

Finally, in the morning of Christmas, the church would gather a third time. And we would hear the prologue from John — its sweeping language of origins, participations, and communion in a holy endeavor of cosmic proportions. 

I love this pattern, even if we don’t necessarily want to follow it the way they drew it up a millennium ago, breaking up our festive night. 

In the Beginning

The evangelist reminds us of the beginning, the origin of things — and the universality of God’s presence. It would be centuries before we’d have the language of trinitarian theology to draw from, and through which we will continuously reimagine this story. But the central truth is presence, almost like family, from the beginning. And the Word that would become to us, Jesus, was also there then. This is timeless and eternal, present and yet always so, perpetually and permanently. 

We know this, and yet we remind each other — because we need to. That there is no time when the Word wasn’t. There was no pre-Incarnational time in which people lived without his presence — and yet (and we need this interjection here!) there is something miraculous happening here — in which God is changing the present and the future. 

This is a character of God that is observable from the beginning. That God breathes new life into the cosmos, into creation. And new things happen. It isn’t perpetually static, but perpetually loving and relational. From the beginning, new things are born. Including old things reborn. Eternal personas given temporary existence. Life. To live together, with others, vulnerably and gratefully.

The Testimony

John isn’t Jesus. And Jesus doesn’t just arrive as the Word. The Word needs testification, for people to announce what they have perceived. Like a scientist uncovering the character of mold, a poet articulating the mystery of flight, a theologian wrestling with the dynamism of God’s creative prowess, we are all seeking and naming and bringing forth the Word in our own lives. The Word must be said or written or shared. And the Word needs our voices, our vision to bring forth the new things it is up to.

For John the Baptist, this was presence before Jesus could be, offering the world repentance, hope, the Messiah to come. 

For John the Evangelist, it is Good News of a God of Love who uses the frail form of an observer, sharing what he knows.

And then, for every disciple, apostle, or saint who comes after — it is about receiving witness and sharing it. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. And we get to embody that Good News ourselves. Our voices share it, speak it, testifying to the presence of God here. Now. Alive. With hope and joy and grace.

The Light

There is a deep connection between our humanity and our mission — between the divinity and the human, created reality. We are inseparable, I suspect. Indistinguishable. 

And yet there is some small need to acknowledge the fundamental difference between creator and creation. A separation that is essential and vastly overstated and overprotected. Because we don’t want to get it twisted, which may be worse: to get it backward. That the light begins with us rather than God.

There is a long tradition of speaking of God as the only one who can create. The implication is that God can create from nothing and we must make from what is. I’m not a huge fan of the words we use to distinguish this difference, but let us honor its intention at least for the moment. The point is to keep the distinction without denying the common character of the creator and those they create.

We, like God, like the Word, reflect the light that comes into the world. We, then, are like mirrors, prisms, glass, atmosphere, gossamer and silk and God’s light twinkles off our ridges and corners. We make the light visible in our world, not because we are the source of light, but because we amplify it and project it and invite others into spaces where it is visible, like an expedition to other places to see the northern lights.

The Flesh

The glory has come and taken human form, to be here, in our nature. To be as us. This is still stunning, rebellious, incredible. Christians fight to prevent this very truth from being realized, from being acknowledged and known. We speak of the divine with ease, and the majesty, the power, too. But of the human, of the physical nature, of Jesus as person, genuine person, that is too much. Too transgressive. Fully divine and yet never (truly, truly) fully human.

A human Jesus is scary. It means Jesus could be corruptible, too much like us. A victim of his emotions and bad ideas. Flawed logic. Impure thoughts. Not suitable to God.

The flesh part, the vulnerable part, the weak part — that’s the real transgression. A bridge too far for some. The only thing that makes sense to others. 

But it is in the flesh that we have seen his glory. That we have seen it. We have known it. That we can testify to it, too. It is ours to witness and share, to know, like a gift, given to us, wrapped tightly with double-sided tape, a red ribbon and bow in the corner. The kind of gift that makes you feel guilty to unwrap, but they keep waiting for you to tear into, because inside is the thing: the grace, the truth.