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What If It’s Not a Merry Christmas?

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Jason Ellison
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When my daughter lived in New York, she visited a church that hosted a special Christmas service on December 23 each year.  It was for members of the community who were grieving. This tiny mountain church understood a reality that often gets lost in our traditional high-octane American Christmas: the event that we celebrate at Christmas is not just for the merry. Therefore, this church made a space for those processing grief to be able to come worship and celebrate the birth of Christ without the need to paste on a fake smile and pretend to feel festive.

Perhaps you need a service like that this year.

Now, you need to know that when it comes to Christmas, I am one of  “those” people.  You know the ones.  The people who can tell you in July how many weeks until Christmas.  As far as I’m concerned, any day after we “fall back” is a legitimate time to crank up Michael Bublé and croon along with him that it is indeed “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”  As soon as the dishes are done from Thanksgiving dinner, my tree goes up. Given my enthusiasm for all things Yuletide, I typically assume that everyone is happy at Christmas because, well, IT’S CHRISTMAS!

The past few years, however, I have become keenly aware that although I am all about a festive Christmas, I need to remember that “festive” isn’t what Christmas is all about. 

I feel an extra burden to be mindful of those for whom the most wonderful time of the year isn’t feeling particularly wonderful.  Just in the last two months, many people whom I love have experienced great loss. The list is long: loss of loved ones, homes, income, health, and marriages, just to name a few. I don’t want to make Christmas harder for them by ignoring their loss or demanding that they paint a happy face on their sorrow.

I don’t know what the actual December 23 service looked like in that little church in the Catskills, but as I have wrestled with the idea of mingling sorrow and joy, loss and hope, I believe two practices are appropriate during a Christmas that is anything but merry.  One is celebration, and the other is lament.

Finding celebration in grief

When I say celebration, I am not talking about the typical giddy flurry of activity that comes at Christmas. I am talking about a deep, reverent celebration of the eternal impact of Christmas.  Honestly, I think those who are intimately familiar with grief are actually best situated to grasp the full magnitude of Christ’s birth.  That babe in the manger didn’t arrive amidst pageants, cookies, and cocoa.  He was born in a cave and grew up to become the suffering Savior—a man of sorrow who was acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:2)  This truth is profound for the sufferer because it means that there is no grief you will ever feel that He didn’t also experience. In His incarnation, Jesus was called Emmanuel: God with us. 

He’s with us still.

Whatever grief you encounter, He feels it with you. In relationship with Christ there is freedom to grieve even as you celebrate His birth.  If this year has brought you great sorrow, you can celebrate that the baby in the manger is a constant companion who fully understands the depth of your pain. 

As precious as the gift of divine companionship is, that is not the only gift Christ came to give; it’s not the only thing to celebrate. Through His sinless life and sacrifice, Jesus brought hope we can cling to. Not only does He have experience-borne empathy for our every sorrow, He has excruciating knowledge of so much more. 

There is an ultimate sorrow that we never have to experience because He bore it for us.  

This act is what we truly celebrate at Christmas, although it often gets lost in the merriment. Mary’s boy-child led a sinless life and then willingly laid it down on our behalf. In doing so, He bore the full wrath of God for the sins that we would commit. 

Therefore, those who repent and turn to Him will never experience the penalty they deserve. Because He paid that price, we can now have access to the supremely satisfying fellowship of God. 

That’s something to celebrate even on the darkest of days. 

Finding praise in Lament

Celebrating the full impact of Christ’s life makes possible the second practice that can bring comfort and growth in a season of darkness: lament. Lament is more than grieving or crying out, although those are both part of it. In his book Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy, Mark Vroegop poignantly describes lament as “a prayer of faith for the journey between a hard life and God’s goodness.”  The practice of lament allows the sufferer to express every agony while still acknowledging the sovereignty of God and the hope that comes from it.  Read through the Psalms and you will discover that lament always ends with trust. By taking the time to celebrate the birth of Christ, we turn our focus to Him in a way that gives our prayers of lament the power to eventually lead us to soul-deep praise.

Perhaps this year seems to have brought you everything you never wanted. If so, I hope you realize that you are seen and you are loved. Christmas is just as much for you as it is for the merry-makers. The evidence of Christ’s love for you is not in the number of greeting card moments in your life. Proof of His love is in the manger and on the Cross. May Emmanuel bring you companionship in your pain and hope in your hardship. As you worship Him in celebration and lament, may you profoundly experience that in Christ you truly have everything you ever wanted.

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