Christmas Message
This Christmas homily was given by Rev. John at the Candelight Service on Christmas Eve
The Church gathers on Christmas Eve, not because everything in the world is calm or resolved but because God has spoken and God has come near. We come carrying joy and wonder, yes, but also fatigue, grief, loneliness, uncertainty, and questions we cannot yet answer. Tonight, Luke invites us to look not at the angels or even the shepherds, but at Mary.
Luke tells us, “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” In my opinion, this is one of the quietest lines in all Christmas-time Scripture, and one of the most demanding. These are not just words overheard at the manger. They are the culmination of Mary’s long and costly obedience to God.
From the very beginning, Mary’s discipleship begins with listening. The angel Gabriel approaches her with a word that is not safe, not convenient, and not socially acceptable. She is told she will conceive by the Holy Spirit. This announcement does not come with guarantees of protection or ease. It comes with risk — real risk. Shame, rejection, even the possibility of death. Yet Mary responds humbly, accepting her lot in life as God’s will – “Let it be with me according to your word.”
This is not the naïve faith of a young woman. This is the courageous faith of a trusting disciple.
Mary receives God’s word before she understands it, before she can see how it will unfold and before she knows how others will respond. She accepts the Word not only into her heart, but literally, physically, into her body. Her reputation, her future now lies at stake. From that moment on, Mary lives as one who is shaped by an unimaginable trust in God’s promise. She is courageous, perhaps even fearless.
Then come the confirmations and the complications. Elizabeth recognizes what God has done. Mary sings the Magnificat—a song of hope so bold it still unsettles the powerful. Let us listen to the words she sings only after her faith has been recognized and confirmed by others. She sings out words of deep and profound courage that come not from certainty but from faith, from trust:
He hath scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart.
He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble.
He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He hath sent empty away.
These are powerfully rebellious, provocative, perhaps even treasonous words from a lowly, poor, peasant woman from Nazareth whose life, she knows, is and will be full of many life threatening challenges.
Nothing becomes easier with her acceptance of God’s will. There is travel. There is displacement. There is no room at the inn. The child is born into vulnerability and poverty, not into safety or stability.
Then the shepherds arrive.
They bring with them words that do not belong to them. Words first spoken by angels. They tell Mary that this child is the Saviour, Messiah, and Lord. These titles are enormous, world-altering claims. Mary does not respond with explanation or proclamation. She responds with thoughtful contemplation.
She treasures these words. She ponders them.
Luke uses language that suggests Mary is holding everything together — the angel’s promise, the danger she faced, the birth she endured in this animal’s shelter, the words she hears now — and slowly, faithfully, weighing them before God. She does not rush to clarity. She does not demand answers. She stays present, trusting in the mystery that God is unfolding in her life.
This is what discipleship looks like.
On Christmas Eve, we too are hearers of God’s word. We hear that the eternal God has taken flesh. That divine power has entered the world through vulnerability. That salvation has come not through force, but through love. Like Mary, we may not yet know what this meansv— not fully. We may not see how God’s promises will unfold in our lives, our families, or our world.
But we are invited to respond just as Mary does.
To receive the Word with trust. To treasure it, even when it challenges us and may put us in harm's way. To ponder it, even when it unsettles our expectations. When it goes against all of our own personal plans.
Mary shows us that faith is not about mastering the mystery of God, but about remaining faithful within it. Remaining faithful when it is unknown, uncomfortable, threatening and even frightening.
Christmas Eve does not ask us for certainty. It asks us for attentiveness. For hearts willing to hold God’s promise gently, prayerfully, and patiently. For lives willing to be shaped by God’s presence, even when the path ahead is unclear.
Mary does not explain the Incarnation. She just carries it. She bears the burden of it. She does not control the Word. She receives it. She does not resolve the mystery. She remains faithful to it.
As we leave this place tonight, we do not leave with all the answers, but we leave with Emmanuel, God with us. We leave with the Word made flesh dwelling among us. We leave with Mary as our guide, teaching us how to live as disciples who listen deeply, trust boldly, and treasure God’s saving presence in the midst of this unfinished world.
In a few moments, the lights will be dimmed. The noise will fall away. We will pass the flame from candle to candle, and this place will grow quieter. The lights will be dimmed but our space will grow brighter at the same time.
It seems to me that this is the moment when Mary comes closest to us - or more aptly stated - we can better relate to Mary.
Luke tells us that “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” Not spoke them. Not explained them. Not resolved them. She treasured them. She pondered them - just as we are called to do tonight and throughout our journeys of faith.
Those words she holds are not just what the shepherds say. They are everything that has happened to her from the beginning. The angel’s impossible announcement. The risk she carried with her “yes.” The fear, the trust, the long months of waiting. The journey. The birth. The meek and vulnerable child that now lies before her. The Saviour she’s called to raise. Then these shepherds — unexpected messengers — arriving with words that began in heaven.
Mary does not rush to understand. She is the epitome of patience. She lets the mystery rest within her. She holds it gently. She gives it time.
That, I think, is holy wisdom.
Tonight, we are not asked to figure everything out. Christmas Eve does not demand certainty from us. It asks something quieter and deeper. It asks us to listen. To receive. To make room. To trust.
As we hold our candles, each of us carries our own story into this moment — joys, losses, fears, prayers still unanswered. Into all of that, God speaks again: Emmanuel. God with us.
Like Mary, we may not yet know what this means for tomorrow, or for the world, or even for our own lives. But we can do what she did. We can treasure this Word. We can ponder it. We can let the light dwell with us, even if it does not yet show us the whole path.
Mary teaches us that discipleship is sometimes very quiet. It looks like trust without answers. Like hope held gently. Like light received, not grasped or taken. Like love held firmly, unconditionally.
So in the stillness of our candlelit moment, may we join her. May we treasure what God has done for us. May we ponder what God is doing in us, and may we trust that the light we hold is enough for this night.
God has come.
God is with us.
That is more than we can ask or imagine.
Amen
Prayer at Candlelight
Let us pray.
Holy and gracious God,
in this hush of candlelight,
as the noise of the world falls away,
we come as Mary came—
with hearts full of wonder, fear, hope, and unanswered questions.
Like her, we have heard your Word.
Like her, we do not fully understand it.
And like her, we hold more than we can yet explain.
Teach us, O God, to treasure these things.
Teach us to ponder—not with anxiety,
but with trust;
not with haste,
but with faith.
In this quiet moment,
we place before you all that weighs on us:
the burdens we carry,
the fears we cannot name,
the prayers we have whispered and the ones we have forgotten how to pray.
As you were with Mary—
a young woman of little power and great courage—
be with us now.
Let your presence dwell not only around us,
but within us.
May this light we hold remind us
that you still choose to enter the world quietly,
still speak through fragile lives,
still bring salvation not through force,
but through love.
Give us grace, this holy night,
to leave this place like Mary—
changed by your Word,
carrying Christ into a waiting world,
trusting that what you have begun,
you will surely bring to completion.
We ask this in the name of Jesus,
Emmanuel, God with us.
Amen.