A Kyrie Christmas

 

Jesu Juva

John 1:1-14                                                                   

December 25, 2020

Christmas Day                                                    

Dear saints of our Savior~

          The hymn we just sang is ancient.  It’s at least a century older than Luther.  Originally, it was a Christmas folk song with just one stanza.  Then Luther got ahold of it, added six more stanzas, and made it into a major Christmas hymn—unpacking the mystery of the incarnation.  The English translation has been periodically revised and edited over the years.  The one thing that has stayed the same is the final word of each and every stanza:  Alleluia!  Four syllables of praise to the Lord.  Alleluia!  It’s a perfectly appropriate word for this day of celebration.

          There’s just one problem.  This ancient hymn—including Luther’s expansion of it—never ended with an alleluia.  Those four syllables of praise are not found anywhere in this hymn.  Instead, the actual final word for each stanza is kyrieleis—an abbreviation for Kyrie Eleison—which, in English, means:  Lord, have mercy.  It’s not alleluia; it’s kyrieleis.  It’s not four syllables of praise; it’s four syllables of desperation.

          I did some research on this—exchanged emails with at least one expert on such things—and no one can say with certainty exactly why or when the switch happened.  But it’s not too hard to figure out.  Alleluia is a happy word—a celebratory word—a word brimming with positive associations.  But Lord, have mercy?!  That’s the prayer of the helpless.  That’s the refrain of the desperate.  That’s the plea of lonely, locked down lepers.  Lord, have mercy?!  That’s a real buzzkill for what’s supposed to be the hap-happiest season of all.  Kyrieleis is an unexpected dose of gloom beneath the glitter of Christmas.

          If ever there was a year to put the “Kyrie” back in Christmas, this is it.  We each have our own list of losses for 2020.  For people who like to be “in control,” this year has taught us that we aren’t in control.  Nothing is predictable.  Covid can be a convenient scapegoat for everything that’s gone wrong this year, but we know better.  If we are honest, then we know that we ourselves have contributed to the problem, not the solution.  We ourselves have engineered and orchestrated untold damage and pain by our own sinful words and deeds.  Oh, we can usually manage to be more nice than naughty on Christmas morning.  But the rest of the year we’re quite comfortable pretending to be God in the place of God.  Christmas is the perfect time to confess your mess—to declare your desperation, to herald your helplessness:  Kyrie eleison.

          We also need to remember that the very first Christmas—the actual birthday of Jesus—that was a Kyrie Christmas.  Mary and Joseph weren’t whistling “alleluia” when they came limping into Bethlehem.  The real Christmas isn’t the one painted by Norman Rockwell or sung about by Bing Crosby.  The real Christmas is the one written about by Matthew, Luke, and John, and sung about by angels.  Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem because of taxes—because the money-hungry tyrants in Rome forced them to undertake the dangerous journey from Nazareth at a time when Mary was “great with child,” and had no business straying so far from home.  There was no warm, sanitized room awaiting them in Bethlehem, but a cold, dark barn or cave.  There was no bed, but only a floor covered with hay and manure.  Where’d they get light?  Where’d they get even a bucket of warm water?  A towel or a washcloth?  Let’s not romanticize it or get sentimental.  It must have been misery.  It’s not the way any baby—least of all Jesus—should have been born.

          And yet it was.  Far from home, in the dark, in the cold, in the mess, in the manure, to a fearful, first-time, teenage mother—God was born.  Kyrie eleison!

          This Kyrie Christmas—the real, unvarnished Nativity—is one we can all identify with.  It’s a story that gives meaning to the gloom we sometimes feel beneath all the glitter.  God’s mercy for our messy lives is now located in the flesh and blood of His dear Son.  This mercy is exactly what we need.  This mercy gives meaning and hope to our own dark, cold, messy Christmases—which often are not very merry or bright.  The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.  And in that good news we can find peace, contentment, and joy.

          For Christmas—the real Christmas—is not about presents, or food, or even family and friends.  It’s about God taking on our flesh and blood, being born as one of us, to share our grief, to bear our sorrows, to save us from our sins.  In Jesus, God has united Himself with us so that, whether in the best of times or the in the worst of times—whether it’s an “alleluia Christmas” or a “Kyrie Christmas,” God is with us—in terrible tragedies and in moments of sheer joy.  God is with you.  In Jesus, your sin has been atoned for.  In Jesus, you are forgiven.  In Jesus, you have life that lasts forever.  Nothing can separate you from His love.

          If you had been there, on that cold, dark night when Jesus was born, the first sound you would have heard would have been a cry.  How fitting is that?  God—your God—knows what it means to cry, to suffer, to be helpless, and, yes, even to die.  You do not have a Savior who is unable to sympathize with your weaknesses, but One who has experienced all of them.  That means that, no matter what your pain may be, He redeems it.  He meets you in the midst of it, with mercy.  Kyrie eleison!

          In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.