On Christmas Eve, we talked about miracles and the veil between heaven and earth rent by angel song and the birth of God, the love of God borne into the world by a baby.
The next morning, wondering what to say next, I remembered the story of our first child’s first Christmas, or the first one that she knew. She was old enough to be aware of the event, but not old enough for anticipation, so that everything was a surprise, an unexpected delight. She had a very good Christmas.
But the real surprise was the next morning, when she got up and came downstairs and discovered all of her opened gifts still under the tree (there wasn’t much of that small room that wasn’t under the tree); still there, still hers, still an unexpected delight. She was overjoyed all over again.
The next morning, for Mary, Jesus was still there. It was only the beginning of his story. It was only the middle of our story with God.
Perhaps that was something of what John meant, when he talked about light coming into the world, and the darkness had not overcome it; it blazed on, even so.
So that with every act of love and forgiveness and grace that we receive, and with every act of justice and mercy and love that we offer, we may remember that the story of God’s love has no ending.
After even the longest night, when we awaken the next morning, we find that the darkness has not overcome it.