Was late getting to the Christmas carols this season, and when I did, the first one I heard rang a little ... hollow.
“O come, all ye faithful
Joyful and triumphant …”
Have tried (mostly) to be faithful, and like to think ‘m plunging along with the devoted ones, but cannot in candor say that ‘m feeling entirely joyful, this Yuletide, and certainly not triumphant.
As years go, this one went on a while, and not to an especially satisfying conclusion. The unexpected project that ate up most of the last six months was an exercise in frustration, more than anything else. The country I love is in the grip of some singularly wicked people, and the wonderful truths it has stood for are being aggressively scrubbed from the memory banks of history.
All over the world, souls more faithful than mine are under brutal, relentless attack for their devotion to Christ. In quieter ways, the assaults are growing here, too. There’s no reason to think that’s going to change, under the vicissitudes of our new masters.
Some of my favorite friends drifted quietly off into the fog this year; their familiar voices now only faint echoes in the growing darkness. Others are facing heartbreaks, spiritual setbacks, and physical sufferings for which even my deepest sympathies can offer little solace.
Yes, sweet blessings abounded, and mercies galore. But, in truth, “come ye to Bethlehem” has little more appeal to me this Christmas than “come to supper” had for me some twilights as a boy, hearing my mother’s summons but suspecting chicken livers were on the menu.
So, it caught me off-guard when the next carol I heard offered a stark and compelling alternative:
“ O come, O come, Emmanuel, And ransom captive Israel, That mourns in lonely exile here, Until the Son of God appear.”
That, honestly, sounds a lot more like it. Just come, Lord, already, and get us out of all this.
Which leads to the reflection that our Lord says rather a lot about “coming.”
“He who comes to Me shall never hunger, and he who believes in Me shall never thirst.”
“Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
“Let the little children come to Me.”
“The one who comes to Me I will by no means cast out.”
‘m thinking now of Peter, sitting uncomfortably that dark night in the pitching boat …watching Jesus somehow walk on the roiling water. Some part of Peter longs to wade out to Jesus, but not everything in him is really up for the exercise.
“Be of good cheer,” Jesus calls to him, sounding for all the world like a Christmas carol. “It is I; do not be afraid.”
To which Peter replies (sounding like a man so tired he actually wants an ultimatum): “Lord, if it is You, command me to come to You on the water.”
“Come,” Jesus says – and Peter takes the step no one else has ever taken since. He’s tired, he’s wary, he’s not excited as he should be. He doesn’t seem especially joyful or triumphant.
But he knows that voice. And he’s willing to get his feet wet again.
“Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”
It surely feels like a time of need.
So many lost and aching souls in need of deliverance. So many powerful men and women in need of God’s humbling salvation. So many listless Christians in need, perhaps, of an ultimatum:
“If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me.”
Christmas is a reminder to joyless, beaten souls, that the one who bids us come ... came first. That He is meeting us so much, so very much more, than halfway.
The star shines. The angels sing. The Baby, bathed in light, beckons from that dark, wooden manger.
"Until the Son of God appears ..."
O come, all ye faithful.
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