How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given;

So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven.

No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive him, still the dear Christ enters in.*

The birth of a royal baby is big news. 

In 1982, when Prince William was born, thousands of people waited outside the palace during Princess Diana’s 16 hour labor.  When the Royal Proclamation of the baby’s birth was hung outside the gate, a roar of cheers went up from the crowd.  They waved British flags in celebration and erupted in “God Save the Queen”.  The soccer games being aired on the “telly” were interrupted with the royal announcement.  Guards at the palace wore special uniforms for 24 hours and there were 101 gun salutes across the English countryside. 

I also gave birth in 1982 to my first child.  There were no cheering crowds outside Methodist Hospital, no gun salutes, no breaking news on channel 3.  Ours was a quieter affair.  In fact, I remember the room being rather hushed and softly lit.  After her first husky cries, my little wide-eyed wonder settled right down to check out her new parents.  Maybe the hospital was noisy, but I didn’t hear anything.  Maybe other babies were being born in the rooms across the hall, but I didn’t pay any attention.  I was receiving this gift that had just entered in; into my arms, into my heart.

Just think of the possibilities of what God could have done to announce His Son’s birth.  Thousands upon thousands of angels could have lit up the skies.  A royal proclamation could have thundered from the heavens, shaking the gates of King Herod’s palace.  Michael and Gabriel could have set off some fireworks.  But instead, the wondrous gift was given on a silent night.  Angels put on a display for a handful of social outcasts and their sheep.  A star was observed by some foreign dignitaries in another country.  Instead of crowds cheering the new birth, cows and donkeys rustled and snorted in their stalls.

God doesn’t go in for flashy displays very often.  He tends to impart His blessings in quieter ways.  This world of sin makes it hard to notice Him sometimes.  But, oh, He delights to enter in our hearts, still.

*O Little Town of Bethlehem

During one Christmas season, my big brother dated a girl named Gloria.  Being twelve years younger, I did what all annoying little sisters would do: I belted out the chorus to “Angels We Have Heard On High” whenever he was around.  “Glooooo-Ooooo-Oooooo-ria!”  Although Gloria didn’t last long as a girlfriend, I still love singing that chorus.  The melody makes you want to really let go.

The hymn writers all seem to agree that the angels sang that holy night. 

“The world in solemn stillness lay, to hear the angels sing.”

“This, this is Christ the King, whom shepherds guard and angels sing.”

“Sing choirs of angels, sing in exultation; O sing all ye citizens of heaven above.”

“Glories stream from heaven afar, heavenly hosts sing Alleluia.”

“Hark the herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn King.”

“The shepherds feared and trembled when lo! above the earth, rang out the angel chorus…”

And of course, “Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains.”

Yup, the angels must have been singing.  Or were they?  I hate to burst any bubbles, but Luke 2:13 states, “Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying….”  I know.  It just doesn’t seem right.  This is where the “Halleluia Chorus” is supposed to come in.  There has to be music.  Every epic scene has a soundtrack. 

Hoping to find a way to wiggle out of this, I looked up the Greek translation for the word “say”.  I was sure it probably meant, “to say, or sing”.  Alas, the word is the equivalent of “to speak, or tell”.  Not much wiggle room there. 

I have two theories on this:  First, in heaven, angelic voices are so beautiful that their talking has a lilt and a resonance that sounds musical.  My second theory is that the shepherds were tone deaf. 

Going with the first one. 

O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray;

Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.*

I find it fascinating that God chose to send His Son as a baby.  You know, Jesus could have just appeared, walking out of the desert one day as a grown man.  Or He could have descended from Mount Sinai amid thunder and lightning, like Moses.  He could have even busted through the heavens on a chariot, like Elijah.

But the Son of God had to be born, because He has to be born in us. 

Each year, I ask God to give me a new insight on the Christmas story, something to deepen my appreciation and keep it fresh.  I consider it my Christmas gift from Him, and He never disappoints.  This year, my gift came through a friend of mine who said, “Isn’t it something that God trusted us with a baby?”  Oh…my…    Just think of all the things that could go wrong: problems during delivery, ear infections, camel accidents, the terrible twos, teenager trials.  Just think of all the time spent waiting for Him to grow up and begin ministry: 30 years.  Wouldn’t it have been more efficient to send an adult Jesus and just get the thing done? 

But, no.  God trusted the world with a helpless, vulnerable infant who was completely dependent on sinners like me.  *Shiver*  God is still trusting us to let Him enter in and cast out our sin.  Today. 

*”O Little Town of Bethlehem”

Joy to the world, the Lord has come!

Let earth receive her King.

Let every heart prepare Him room…

In February, I expect to be making some phone calls and announcing, “Joy has come to our family!  Our first grandchild has arrived!”  Then I will hop on the next plane west and hurry to meet the little guy.  I will look into his sweet newborn face and receive him into my arms.  My daughter and son-in-law will wrap their firstborn in blankets and take him home, where there will be a room all prepared for him. 

When Jesus was born, the joy extended beyond the usual family and friends to the whole world.  That’s a lot of joy.  Yet, He didn’t get the warmest of receptions: a barn for a delivery room, a box of straw for a crib and smelly sheep herders for visitors.  It didn’t get any easier as Jesus got older, either.  The church folks hounded Him, the prostitutes and extortionists were His groupies, and His hand-picked band of brothers didn’t understand Him.  A rather chilly reception, I’d say.

Thankfully, every Christmas we are reminded that, yes, Jesus came because God so loved the world, but He really just wants to take up residence in each one of our hearts.  So it’s time once again to see if there’s room in there.  Have I crowded Him out or made Him feel unwelcome?  Have I prepared a place so I can receive Him with joy? 

As soon as Thanksgiving leftovers are stacked in the fridge, we start playing Christmas music at our house.  I love JT’s version of “Baby It’s Cold Outside”, Down Here’s funky “Good King Wenceslas” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” but my faves are the carols found in my old red Methodist hymnal.  I started playing the organ in my small church when I was a sophomore in high school.  Although I never got the hang of the foot pedals, the keyboard was manageable and my limited skills seemed to be good enough for our rural congregation.  I spent a lot of time practicing hymns, which was pretty good preparation for my life as a pastor’s wife.

Hymns are funny.  They are familiar and comforting, yet they sometimes use words that are archaic and strange.  For instance, “bring forth the royal diadem and crown him Lord of all” leaves me wondering, “What exactly is a royal diadem?  And how is a royal diadem different from a regular diadem?”  Another example: “Here I raise mine Ebenezer, hither by thy help I’m come.”  I raise my what?  I mean, mine what?  And not one person I know ever says “hither”.  Why do we talk this way in church?

Yet the hymns have a richness that we often overlook.  In the old standby “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” the phrase “what a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer” always gets me.  Prayer is a privilege?  Many times I’ve thought of prayer as a duty or a discipline, but to look at prayer as a privilege gives it a new twist.  And there’s the Methodist hymnal’s famous opener, “O for a thousand tongues to sing my great Redeemer’s praise.”  Most of us have enough trouble with our one and only tongue, but Mr. Wesley wished for a thousand tongues so he could use them all to praise God.  What a concept!

Too many times, I just sing along during worship without giving any thought to what the words really mean.  So during this Advent season, I’m going to dig into some of the Christmas carols out of my old red hymnal and see what treasures are waiting there.  You’re welcome to join me!