That Loud, Unholy Night.

It's a tradition I love. Every year, at Christmas Eve service, our congregation sings "Silent Night" as we pass the tiny flame from the candles cupped in our hands down the rows of pews lining our sanctuary. Once the room is filled with those warm, flickering heartbeats in the dark, we stand, file outside, and huddle together. All the while, singing,

Silent night, holy night;all is calm, all is bright. 

I adore the song. I truly do. But recently, in the midst of my recitation of the so-familiar tune, my Father reminded me that its lyrics, like so many of our other traditional Christmas imaginings (really now, a blonde baby Jesus?), are far from accurate.

The night was not silent. It was filled with the sounds of donkey-brays and lamb-bleats--with the piercing cries of a woman in labor--with the newborn wails of an infant come into the broken and screaming Earth.

The night was not holy. It was filled with the the violence of a world not yet redeemed--a night with no room for this child who would never know spot nor stain until the day He bore sins that were not His own--a night that within a few years would spark the slaughter of babes as a jealous king sought to destroy the only one who was ever good.

Jesus did not sleep in heavenly peace. He forsook heavenly peace, trading it for earthly sorrow, so that we, through the redemption of our souls and the indwelling of the Spirit (God with us), may know a peace from Heaven that none before us had ever experienced.

Jesus was not Lord at His birth. He gave up lordship to come as a servant. He came in complete submission to the will of His Father. He surrendered His authority, refusing to flee from death, refusing to call the angels to His aid--surrendering to the grave, to the curse of the mankind, to the Enemy--that He might gain the ultimate victory and offer all power and authority to us.

Yes, we know the ending to this story, and it is beautiful. But let us not water down its beginnings for nostalgia's sake. Let us not forget, Beloved, what our Savior endured for us. Let us never take His gift for granted--this dawn of redeeming grace.

Be a Pansy.

The December sun is warm on the backs of our necks as Grandma stoops down to pluck off a few wilted, purple blooms from the plant.

"You have to pick off the dead parts, or the whole plant will die," she explains. "It's called deadheading."

I tuck the information away, in the special portion of my mind I save for things I know will one day be important.

***

I often hear pansy used (and use it myself) as a name to denote weakness. But I've learned that pansies aren't really weak at all. They can bloom in any season, in almost every color. They're strong enough to survive through winter.

Maybe we should all try to be a little more like pansies. Rather than allowing the parts of our old nature to corrupt the new, we should pick off those dead pieces, as Jesus said:

If your hand or foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away (Matthew 18:8).

After all,

You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness (Ephesians 4:22-24).

Maybe we should learn to bloom in any season. Maybe we should learn to love our infinite varieties of color. Maybe we're strong enough to make it through the winter.

Maybe the next time someone calls you a pansy (...okay, well, it happens to me), instead of being offended, you should simply smile and say, "Thanks."

Maybe what the world calls weakness, is really a beautiful strength.