Beloved, tonight we gather in the deep hush of winter, in the glow of candles and the warmth of familiar carols, to hear again the story that has shaped our lives more than we know. It is late—on purpose. Christmas Eve invites us into the hours when the world is quiet enough for wonder to be heard and mystery to be noticed.

Isaiah begins the night with a promise spoken into darkness: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Isaiah knew what it was to live in a world that felt unsteady, uncertain, overshadowed. And yet he dared to speak of light—light that does not come from us, but to us. A light that does not wait for us to be ready. Light that breaks in, uninvited and unstoppable. A light that finds us.

And then Luke tells us how that light arrives. Not with spectacle. Not with armies. Not in a palace. Not with the kind of power that makes headlines. The light comes as a child—small, breakable, dependent. The light comes in a barn behind an overcrowded inn, in a backwater town, to parents who were tired and displaced and doing the best they could. The light comes in a way that almost no one notices, quietly, almost hidden.

Except heaven can’t help itself. Angels burst into the night sky, singing glory over a field of bewildered shepherds. And the shepherds—these ordinary, overlooked workers—become the first to hear the news that will change the world: “To you is born this day… a Savior.” Not to the powerful. Not to the polished. To you.

But tonight we hear not only Luke’s story of the manger—we also hear John’s soaring proclamation: “In the beginning was the Word… and the Word became flesh and lived among us.” John pulls back the curtain and shows us that the child in the manger is not simply a baby born in Bethlehem, but the very heartbeat of God, the creative Word through whom all things came to be. The light Isaiah promised, the light the shepherds ran to see, is the same light that spoke creation into being. And now that light has taken on skin and breath and vulnerability.

John tells us that this Word “lives among us”—literally, “pitches a tent” among us. God moves into the neighborhood. God chooses proximity over power, presence over spectacle. God chooses to be with us in the most ordinary, fragile, human ways.

And that is the heart of Christmas. Not simply that Christ is born, but that Christ is born to you. For you. With you. In the very places where you feel most weary, most stretched, most unsure. Titus reminds us that the grace of God has appeared—appeared, not demanded, not earned, not achieved. Grace shows up. Grace arrives. Grace takes the form of a child in swaddling clothes—in vulnerability—who will grow to teach, to heal, to welcome, to forgive, to love without limit. Grace is not something we climb toward; it is something that comes down to us, in love that refuses to let go.

Psalm 96 invites the whole creation to sing about this. “Let the heavens rejoice and the earth be glad.” Tonight, the choir joins that ancient chorus. Our candles will join the stars. Our voices will join the shepherds’. Our hearts will join Mary, who held the mystery of God in her arms and pondered it in the quiet of her soul.

And maybe that’s what we need most tonight—not more noise, not more certainty, but a place to ponder. A place to breathe. A place to let the light find us.

Because the truth is, we all know something about darkness. The world carries darkness. We know it too well. But Christmas does not ask us to pretend the darkness isn’t real. Christmas proclaims that the darkness does not win. The light shines in the darkness,” John says, “and the darkness did not overcome it.” That is not wishful thinking. That is the gospel.

Tonight, when we pass the flame from candle to candle, we enact the gospel in miniature. It will begin with one small light—fragile, flickering, easily extinguished. But as it moves from hand to hand as we sing “Silent Night,” the room will begin to glow. And suddenly we will see one another’s faces illuminated. We will see how light multiplies. How hope spreads. How God’s love refuses to stay contained and moves from person to person until the whole world is warmed.

So hear the good news again: The child is born. The promise is kept. The light has come. And it is for you.

May this night fill you with wonder. May this light steady your steps. And may the Christ who comes as a child be born again in us—in our courage, in our compassion, in our hope—so that we may carry his light into every shadowed place.

Merry Christmas, beloved. Christ is born. Love has come close. Thanks be to God. Amen.