I wonder how often I find myself thinking this - usually framed in the "How on earth did I get myself into this....." kind of question. I wonder whether any of the key players in the Christmas story thought this - just now and then - why on earth do I believe in this - why on earth am I doing this. Asking this question does not diminish them or their saintliness but simply makes them human - human as they were.
When I was younger I sang a lot and the church I grew up in sang Matins and Evensong every Sunday (Morning and Evening Prayer according to the 1662 Rite). One of the things I grew to love and value in this tradition was the repetition of the Canticles - especially the Gospel Canticles - the Benedictus, the Magnificat and the Nunc Dimmittis - all given to us by Luke in his highly interactive first two chapters.
These three poems are spoken by the people involved, the first by Zechariah - the father of John the Baptist, the second by Our Lady and the third by the elderly Simeon as he marvels at the infant Christ in the Temple. They are both wonderful and engaging. They speak of promise spoken and promise fulfilled, of a God who has arranged and tended and made good what he handed to His people.
These words are words of hope and it is fitting that we read Zechariah's song the dat before Christmas Eve. The man who did not believe God's action had touched his own life in such an amazing way now revels in light for those in darkness and a new dawn from God breaking upon us.
It is the reality of this new dawn that always answers my question - the reality of a child born and a man who lived and died for me. The reality of God touching humanity and not just touching but becoming wrapped in and about with all that we are. When I say I don't know why I stick with this sometimes odd and even painful road of faith I have turned my head away from the manger. God incarnate is why. Love is why. Zechariah's song eloquently folds together past and present into that one moment of glory, and the eterna promise of life in Christ.
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