Christmas Morning 2025 – John’s Prologue
A couple of weeks ago I came across a poem that is nearly five hundred years old, and it is among the most beautiful things I have ever read about Christmas. It was written by St John of the Cross, a poet and theologian of the sixteenth century, and I wanted to share it with you this morning. He writes:
If you want
the Virgin will come walking down the road
pregnant with the holy, and say,
“I need shelter for the night, please take me inside your heart, my time is so close.”
Then, under the roof of your soul, you will witness the sublime intimacy,
the divine, the Christ
taking birth forever,
as she grasps your hand for help,
for each of us is the midwife of God, each of us.
Yet there, under the dome of your being does creation come into existence eternally, through your womb, dear pilgrim—
the sacred womb in your soul,
as God grasps our arms for help;
for each of us is His beloved servant
never far.
If you want,
the Virgin will come walking
down the street
pregnant with Light
and sing.
It almost brought me to tears. I read it over and over, and I found myself wondering why it moved me so deeply. I think what I love most about it is the invitation.
If you want, he writes. If you want.
Everything in this poem turns on that phrase.
Mary is never assured of comfort. She is never promised safety or ease.
She is not given a clear explanation or a guaranteed outcome. She is asked only if she will make space. And she does.
God asks her, in effect, if you want, and she replies, yes — I want.
And because she does, everything changes. And what this poem dares to suggest is that we are offered the same choice.
I love that we have a choice.
Jesus does not arrive by force, overwhelming us with divine presence.
He does not break in, dominate, or demand. He waits to be welcomed.
He asks for room — in a body, in a home, in a heart, in a life that is already complicated and unfinished.
Which means Christmas is not about getting everything right. It is not about spiritual readiness or emotional tidiness. It is about letting God be born into what is already real. Into tired bodies. Into anxious minds. Into homes that feel too full or too empty.
Into lives that carry joy and grief side by side.
God comes anyway.
Not loudly or triumphantly.
But quietly. Vulnerably.
Trusting us with something precious.
And that changes what holiness looks like.
Holiness today will probably not feel dramatic.
It may not feel radiant or impressive.
It may look like patience when you are exhausted.
Kindness when you would rather withdraw.
Forgiveness that comes slowly.
Hope that is stubborn rather than certain.
Christmas happens wherever someone says — even without words — that divine and eternal invitation, you can come in. IF YOU WANT.
So if this morning you feel joyful, God is there. If you feel numb, God is there.
If you feel worn thin, unsure, or holding things together by grace alone — God is especially there.
Because God is not looking for the perfect place.
Only a place that is open.
And if you want —
God will make God’s home with and in you.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.
Amen.
Holy Adventures 