A sermon for Christmas Eve
December 24, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR
Readings: Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14(15-20)
It must have been something to hear, the angels singing in the fields on the outskirts of Bethlehem. I imagine it sounded like Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. If you know that piece, you know that it has cannon fire and bells and brass fanfares. It is loud and glorious and wakes the dead. And surely the fiery angels lit up the sky like fireworks. “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on Earth peace among those whom he favors! Gloria in excelsis Deo!” For the Word Made Flesh, the Son of God, the One Long Hoped For is here at last. I don’t know how it all sounded, but I do know that when God comes among us, there must be music. The night is dark, but the music–the heavenly music–rings out. For how else could heaven and earth welcome their newborn King who is doing a new thing, who has come to save us all?
Luke tells us that the angels visit the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night. It’s not just one angel; it is the armies of heaven. It is pitch black; the shepherds are settled in, laying across the gates of the sheepfolds to keep the predators out; they are dozing off when everything goes haywire. And the music of the universe breaks out in their ears, perhaps with bells and cannons and fanfares and fireworks. The melody carries the promise of God, spoken by prophets over the centuries: Christ the Lord is born among us–good news for all the people. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. Peace has come from heaven into the middle of our chaos. The Good News rings out over our violence. Promised salvation issues its invitation to every human heart. No wonder the angels sing.
The prophet Isaiah gives us a glimpse of the promise of the Incarnation, God coming among us as one of us–we hear a snippet of that melody tonight. Isaiah’s prophecy today is in the form of poetry. Most of his writing is in the form of poetry, with rhythm and meter and rhyme–that is to say, with music. Music is the language of God, and it rises above our ordinary prose, our everyday language of despair and hurt just-trying-to-get-by. When peace comes, it comes in a poetic melody that drowns out the noise of war and lifts the soul heavenward.
Isaiah’s melody, like the angels’ song, is naming what God is doing in the world. That’s what prophets do. Isaiah says that light has dawned on people who forgot what the light was like. The people who feel forgotten and under threat have been given great joy. And all violence, tramping boots and bloody garments, collateral damage and murderous means in pursuit of so-called good ends–all the chaos of sin and death is put on notice by the birth of this child. Redemption and healing and hope come–they are birthed. Peace dawns at last. This is the LORD’s doing, the LORD’s grand symphony, and it is marvelous in our eyes.
We live in a world, not of poetry, but a world flattened by prose: by headlines beyond our control; by telephone calls telling us the news is bad; by stifling conversations without connection. Such is our world; such is the world of Isaiah; such is the world of Mary and Joseph. The Holy Family’s world was flattened by the squashing of liberty in the name of order; by fear of the neighbor and stranger alike; by the inability to rise, not to extravagant heights, but just out of hunger and despair; by far-off commands to register that show no concern for a woman at term, for a people without the ability to breathe free; by a false peace without promise from an emperor who called himself Son of God and Savior of the World.
And for us, too, sometimes the flat prose of the world can overtake, like boots of tramping warriors. Darkness overwhelms; violence accelerates; despair chokes out joy. There is much we cannot control; much we wish were different; much we yearn to change. And sometimes that can feel especially true in this holly-jolly time. In such a world of despair–even in our world–the poetry of God breaks out. The music of God surrounds us; the angels sing their melodies of peace; the shepherds join in the anthems of a new world marked not by violence but by grace; and we, gathered here on a Wednesday night on the other side of the globe, find ourselves part of that cosmic choir proclaiming the coming of the Prince of Peace. Gloria in excelsis Deo. God is doing something new; his grace has appeared, bringing salvation to all, even to you and to me. No wonder the angels sing. How can we keep from singing?
The song of the angels is heard still. And often it is a far cry from Tchaikovsky’s booming symphony with cannon fire and bells. Often it is more like a lullaby drifting over Bethlehem, calming the anxieties of Mary and Joseph, rocking the Word Made Flesh to sleep, powerful enough to banish the forces of deepest darkness, but gentle enough to keep a candle on the windowsill burning. This song is heard each time a voice is lifted in hopeful prayer; each time bells ring to proclaim peace; each time someone overcomes fear to offer a helping hand to a stranger in need; each time a child’s smile breaks down divisions of pride and pain; each time forgiveness is offered, and love is extended, and reconciliation comes. The melody of peace that the angels once sung over fields in Bethlehem and over a forgotten manger is played again and again, and it sounds more like a lullaby that disarms and tells us the world will be different. Hold on–for it will be different and new and peaceful at last. And all because of the babe who has been born today.
The organ had gone out at the little church in Austria. The organ was old; it was no surprise that it had gone out. They could not get it repaired by Christmas. Times were hard in Austria, anyway, with economic downturn and wildfire. But there had to be music–on Christmas eve there must be music. We must join the song of the angels singing gloria–on this night of all nights. We must join the melody of the prophets who proclaim the peace of our God–on this night of all nights. We must join the symphony of souls who rest in Jesus, who have tasted that the Lord is good–we must join their song on this night of all nights. We must sing of the Light of the World who dispels all darkness, all despair, and brings true hope and joy and salvation to all the world, for all the people. Yes, there must be music. For how else could heaven and earth welcome their newborn King who is doing a new thing, who has come to save us all?
I suppose the small church didn’t feel like they could pull off a grand overture. The cannons were locked safely in the armory; there was only the one bell in the tower; the church up the street had already booked the brass band. So the organist grabbed a guitar, and the pastor grabbed a poem he had recently scribbled, and on a cold night in 1818 the world greeted a new lullaby, “Silent Night.” And as the people sang this new song, something tells me that the angels remembered their ancient anthem once sung over the fields in Bethlehem, and they sang along. They sing along still.
Silent night, holy night,
Wondrous star, lend the light;
With the angels let us sing
Alleluia to our King;
Christ the Savior is born,
Christ the Savior is born.
Merry Christmas.
Storied Grace 