God Chose to Become Small | Advent (Christmas Eve) | Chad Belew

Thanks, bud.

There's something about these moments.

We don't want to rush them, right?

Music fades, the room kind of gets quiet.

The story isn't really being explained, it's just being felt.

It's usually where Christmas actually happens.

Tonight the kids have been telling us a story of Advent.

One word at a time, joy, hope, peace, and kids who just ended us with love.

And now we come to the final candle.

It's not an idea, not a concept, but a name.

It's Jesus.

What I love about the way they just described love is it's a simple truth that God chose

to become small.

Luke says, "So Joseph also went up to the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem,

the town of David, because he belonged to the house, the line of David.

He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting

a child.

While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her

firstborn, a son.

She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger because there was no guest room available

for them.

God chose to become small.

Not this grand entrance, not impressive, not distant, small enough to be held, small enough

to cry, small enough to need warmth and care and touch.

That alone should stop us for a moment."

This is the God of the universe that chose to be small.

Chose to come as a baby, because if God wanted to overwhelm us, God could have.

If God wanted to dominate, God could have.

If God wanted to arrive with certainty and control, God could have.

But God didn't choose power, God chose presence.

One of the words we've been returning to again and again, this Advent, is this word "ah."

Maybe an easier word for it is wonder.

Wonder is what happens when we slow down enough to notice that life is bigger than our fear.

Under it quiets the ego, it softens the edges.

It pulls us out of ourselves and reminds us that we belong.

Belong to something larger to each other.

Maybe the most off-filled, wonderful moments for most of us ever to experience is the gift

of life itself.

The birth of a baby, their first breath, the moment when everything else fades and the only

thing that matters is this fragile life that you are holding.

And that's how God enters the world.

A God that is love comes to us as a newborn.

Not protected by status, not insulated by power, not removed from pain or vulnerability.

God enters the world in the most dependent, fragile state a human can be in.

And that tells us something about love.

Love is not about control, love is not about being right, love is not about standing over,

but love looks like vulnerability.

Love looks like closeness.

Looks like saying, "I'm not afraid of your humanity."

In fact, in the sharing of our struggles, real love moves closer to us.

And notice who gathers around this moment where love comes in and is the most vulnerable

that a human can be.

Not the elite, not the powerful, not the polished, probably people from the arsenal.

Like shepherds and outsiders and people on the fringe.

Because awe doesn't organize us into hierarchies, awe gathers us into community.

A baby doesn't compete for power, a baby invites care.

Because without it, the baby doesn't have life.

In that quiet moment, the world's systems, like pride and ego, dominance, fear, they're

gently bypassed.

Not confronted with force, not defeated with violence.

Although God could have done that, he did not.

He just rendered them unnecessary.

And that's what awe does.

It makes the small holy again.

It makes us human, and it makes the human sacred again.

So the next song we're going to sing, it matters so much to me.

It's become my favorite Christmas song by far, "O Holy Night."

It wasn't just written as a pretty Christmas song.

From the very beginning, this song, it's writer, it's composer.

They were outside of the church status quo.

It pushed against systems.

If you look at the history of it, it's a beautiful.

The song itself carried this dangerous idea.

There's a verse in it that says, "Truly he taught us to love one another.

His law is love, and his gospel is peace.

Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother.

And in his name, all oppression shall cease."

In the song made its way to America, it became this anthem for abolitionist.

People who believe that if God truly came close, then no system that dehumanizes could

stand unchallenged.

And in one of the moments that feels like history itself bending toward wonder, "O Holy

Night," became the first song ever played over the radio waves.

On Christmas Eve in 1906, inventor Reginald Fissenden played it on his violin.

And he played it on the violin and cast it out on the radio.

Can you imagine hearing that sound for the first time ever coming out of it?

Maybe it was just somebody speaking, but this night, this Christmas Eve, Fissenden played

his violin and music began to come through the radio, this song, "O Holy Night," and

I mean the violin, like, "You kidding me?

I love string instruments."

Can you imagine being the person on the other end of this radio hearing this?

What is happening with my radio right now?

How is it doing this?

For me, I imagine it would have been one of those moments where, and I get it, maybe

this is just me, but it would have been one of those moments where tears would have filled

my eyes, and I wouldn't have known why.

I'm like, "I'm not sad, why am I crying?

Why are your tears in my eyes?" and it's those moments that, "Ah, captures you."

The first song broadcast to the world wasn't about power, it wasn't about empire, it wasn't

about control, it was about a holy night, a vulnerable birth, and a love that refuses

to stay abstract.

I don't believe it's a coincidence, that's incarnation echoing forward.

At Christmas Eve, it isn't about asking you to have everything figured out, because if

it was, then we'd all be in trouble, especially some of you, right?

Not you.

It's not asking you to fill a certain way.

It's not asking you to ignore what hurts.

Some of you walk in tonight full of joy and gratitude, and others walk in carrying grief

and loss or loneliness.

Some of you are heading into family spaces that feel complicated and strained or unsafe.

In the story, this holy night doesn't shame that at all.

The Christmas story doesn't say fix yourself, it says, "God has come close."

Not to rush your healing, not to silence your questions, but to sit with you in the middle

of it, because that's what love does.

Just a moment, we're going to light this last candle.

I love this part of the night, because it's such a simple picture of incarnation.

One small flame, and I'll take that flame, and I will share it, please don't burn the

building down, but I will light the first few candles, and then you will pass the flame

to each other.

This one small flame, it will become a room full of light, because love doesn't stay

contained when you experience it, it moves, it spreads, it multiplies.

This is what the Christ of Advent looks like now.

Let's see if I can grab this thing.

Are you staying with me?

I'm not going to be here.

I love that I got to pass the flame to some children, because I think it's the kids that

actually understand what love is, and how to grasp it, they don't understand the concept

of it, but they understand how to share it.

This is what the Christ of Advent looks like now.

It's love received, becoming love shared, it's wonder experienced, becoming wonder practiced,

it's God coming close, and then moving through us.

So tonight, as this light moves across the room, here's the invitation I want to leave

with you.

Slow down enough to notice wonder.

Pay attention to the small, holy moments.

Let awe soften you.

Let it quiet the need to prove, to defend, to divide, to be perfect, because love doesn't

arrive with noise, love arrives quietly, in a breath, in a touch, in a shared flame, still

inviting us to wonder, still inviting us to listen, still inviting us to trust, and still

inviting us to love.

This is what the Advent season is about.

This is what Christmas is about.

We've turned it into all this other things, but really it is this baby coming to us to

show us what love looks like, the vulnerable, the moments of wonder and awe.

It just looks like being human together.

So as you go out today and have your Christmas events, family gatherings, pull yourself into

the moment, be present, and look for the little things of wonder, the little parts of awe,

the parts where you see humanity loving each other, because that's what Christ has invited

us into.

As you leave tonight, whether you're walking into joy or into something heavy, may you carry

this light with you, not as pressured, not as performance, but as presence.

May you have a merry, merry Christmas as you go out and you love well, because that is who

you're made to be, and this is the moment that you remember that.

You go wonder, go love and love well.

You're made to be, you're made to be, you're made to be, you're made to be, you're made