What if It’s Not a Merry Christmas?

When my daughter lived in New York, she visited a church that hosted a special Christmas service on December 23 each year.  The service was for members of the community who were grieving.  I found it beautiful that this church understood a reality that often gets lost in our high-octane traditional 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. 

I suspect a service like that might draw quite a crowd this year.

Now, if you know me, you 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 at maximum volume 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!

This year, however, I am keenly aware that although I am all about a festive Christmas, I need to remember that festive isn’t what Christmas is all about. 

Perhaps it is because 2020 has been such a dumpster fire, but I feel an extra burden to be mindful of those for whom the most wonderful time of the year isn’t feeling particularly wonderful.  For reasons COVID and otherwise, many people whom I love have experienced great loss this year. 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.

This awareness has brought that December 23 church service to my thoughts often lately. I don’t know what the actual 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 difficult Christmas.  One is celebration, and the other is lament.

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.  You see, 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 is still with us.  Whatever grief you encounter, He feels it with you. In relationship with Christ there is freedom to grieve—even as we celebrate His birth.  If this year has brought great sorrow to you, you can celebrate that the baby in the manger is your constant companion as you journey through grief. 

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 one 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.

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. 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. Lament always ends with trust. In 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.” 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 praise.

Perhaps for you 2020 is characterized more by grief than by gladness. Maybe this year Christmas isn’t feeling very merry. If so, I want you to know that you are seen and you are loved. 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. Christmas is just as much for you as it is for the merry-makers. May you find companionship in your pain and hope in your hardship as you worship Him in celebration and lament. 

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