It’s the sixth day of Christmas, and even though this end of the planet is now on the opposite side of the winter solstice, darkness still seems to have a firm, and even unrelenting grip on the world outside of our doors. We know the light is coming. Our calendars and science both tell us so. And yet it’s hard to believe on mornings like these, when dawn seems almost incapable of breaking over the horizon in the distance.
I rise from my spot on the sofa, nearly tripping over Milo, who prefers to sleep just inches from the fire roaring in the hearth before us. After regaining my balance, I reach towards the wood rack to my right, grabbing a log and easing it into the flames, which welcome the incoming addition with an array of cackles and embers and tiny bursts of light that look a bit like a miniature fireworks demonstration.
Heat rises from the hearth’s opening as the pinnacle of the display draws to an end and my eyes begin tracing the rising warmth to the nativity scene set on the mantle overhead where the baby Jesus lays in a scene that was, and in some ways still is, surrounded by lingering darkness.
The light has come, and yet still, the world waits expectantly for the swaddling clothes of this newborn King to be outgrown and cast aside, and for the message of his life to become articulate in a world still muddled by the shadows of sin and death.
Which is something that Christmas invites us to reckon with. The slowness with which God’s restorative action spreads into this weary and war-torn world, and the patience it requires of us to fall into step with the authentic rhythm of redemption. The world around us celebrates rapid results, quick fixes, and instant change, leaving us prone to approaching the manger in search of some cataclysmic change from here to there, from dark to light, from the reign of sin to the promises of Christ’s coming Kingdom. And yet, as we draw near, we find a silent scene, an infant king, a powerless family, and the cackle of glowing embers that rise before us with a series of tiny bursts of light that we are invited to trace upwards to the One who will gradually lead us into new life.
And the same goes for you and me. This unhurried rhythm of redemption, and the patience it requires, applies to our own spiritual formation as well. There is no rapid result, quick-fix, or instant remedy involved in the process that is making us new. Instead, the transformative hand of God waits for us on the other side of those seasons where dawn seems incapable of breaking over the horizons that lay before us, and it greets us with the gifts of endless, though sometimes tiny, embers of invitation that we can follow on our way to being made whole.
Which is something that I have learned to remind myself of as the year draws to a close, and I sit recounting the highs and lows of a year gone by, reflecting on the plot of my life, and begin to cast a vision for the season ahead. I set goals. Dig up new dreams and remember old ones. I pull out old notes and lists and calendars and consider what worked and what didn’t. I look at which targets I reached and which I didn’t and wonder over the whys of each addition and every loss. But what Christmas, and the nativity, and the slow breaking of light in the dark, reminds me of is that all of it, each honest step towards transformation, needs to be in step with an inner metronome that is set to the rhythm of the Kingdom. To operate at any other pace is to be operating alone. Which sometimes requires me to break the massive leaps and bounds up into a series of micro steps. Other times it just looks like being a lot more gentle and patient with myself.
And so I wonder, friends… What new life do you hope to see unfold in the season ahead? Who or what is driving the rhythm of this redemption? What macro shifts would be better broken into micro steps? Where is there gentleness and patience? And where is there haste?
Merry Christmas. Happy New Year.
Thank you for being here with me.
“This unhurried rhythm of redemption, and the patience it requires, applies to our own spiritual formation as well.” I’m often frustrated by this, and yet I’m learning to lean into the invitation of it as well. Thank you for sharing.