A Holy Night

Originally published in the December edition of the Anglican Highway

Can you imagine a world with stars brightly shining–a world ready to embrace our dear Saviour’s birth? 

Can you imagine a world that lays in sin and error pining–awaiting Christ’s appearance–that our soul might feel its worth?

Can you imagine a world experiencing a thrill of hope–a weary world rejoicing–as yonder breaks a new and glorious morn? 

Can you imagine such a world? Can you see its possibility? Can you see beyond what some might consider to be "practical" or "realistic," to glimpse a world that is imaginable and true?

In last month’s column, I explored the biblical call and the church’s deep need: a wild and prophetic imagination that will help us break free from our addiction to certainty and control. 

Each year at Christmas we face this temptation: to turn the story of Advent and Christmas on its head, removing the reality of anxiety and displacement, oppression and fear. Like the temptation to tell our congregation’s story without the muck and filth of real life, we oversimplify and edit, seeking to create comfort without the mess. 

And yet, Jesus is almost exclusively found in the midst of the mess. 

All of which is why it comes as some consolation to me that this Christmas has no chance of being perfect. It comes as some consolation to me that this world, like the one into which Jesus was born, finds itself in sin and error pining. This world, like the one into which Jesus was born, is weary.

I am weary. Perhaps you are too. 

And if you are weary, that’s okay, because Jesus will be found here again this year, in the midst of this year’s particular mess. This world, much like the one into which Jesus was born, the Holy Night of which we sing, finds itself weary, experiencing trial and slavery, oppression, and weakness. 

While our neighbours may use words other than “sin” and “error” to describe the mess we’re in, many would tell us (were we brave enough to ask) that all is not right with the world. If we asked with care; if we deeply listened; we might hear them tell of the world after which they long, a world that (so far) they can only imagine. 

“Can you imagine a world,” they might ask:

Where hierarchy is flattened, where conflicts cease; Where all people journey together, on level ground; Where all have enough; where all know that they are enough? 

“Can you imagine a world,” you might hear them say:

Where the homeless, the refugee, or the person displaced comes home to a cozy apartment filled with friends and a fridge full of delicious food; Where the lonely come home to the companionship of friends with whom to give and receive love? 

“Can you imagine a world,” they might share: 

Where the victims of cultural genocide come home to a community recovering the ancient ways, embracing them, learning to speak anew; Where bombed out villages come home to a ceasefire and access to much needed supplies; Where sexual and gender minorities come home to a chosen family invested in their protection, in their right to life free from harm? 

Whatever conversations we find ourselves in, and whichever words we use, I pray that we will be able to respond: 

“I too can imagine such a world. It’s a world of which I dream and after which I long.”

For this is the kind of world to which the prophets bear witness. This is the kind of world to which Jesus' life, death, and resurrection point. It's the kind of world Jesus calls us to imagine, to dream, to scheme about, and yes, to embody. 

Advent, with John the Baptist’s fire and brimstone preaching, with Mary’s punk rock anthem, with the apocalyptic revealing of the world as it is (even as we watch and wait for the world as it ought to be), points us on this way.

And so may we, this Advent, unleash the dreamers and unleash the dreams, choosing always for God’s kingdom, choosing always for hope, choosing always to work with others towards a world in which all chains are broken; a world in which all oppressions cease.