Marry the Mystery

A sermon for Christmas Eve 2025 preached at Edenton Street UMC

As I begin tonight, I want to share that some of my thoughts tonight have been inspired by the poet Steve Garnaas-Holmes, whose words about this season have been rattling around in my heart and mind for weeks now. Two phrases in particular are ones I want us to reflect on together this Christmas Eve. The first?: “What did you come here to see?” And the second is the tile of my homily tonight: “Marry the mystery.”

Let us pray.

“What did you come here to see?” Earlier this Advent, we reflected on this question John the Baptist asked the crowds who came out to the wilderness. And tonight, I want to ask you the same thing. What did you come here to see? I have a few guesses – it maybe be some of the things I came here to see also. Maybe you came to see this room—the lights, the tree, the poinsettias, the glow of candles about to be lit all over a completely darkened sanctuary. Maybe you came because it’s tradition, because Christmas Eve at church is just what your family does. Maybe you came to sing the carols, to hear the familiar story one more time, to celebrate the birth of a baby in Bethlehem. All of that is good. All of that is beautiful. All of that matters.

As every child who has been at a service like this knows from the Children’s Ministry moment – we are coming together tonight for a birthday party! But what if I told you that today I feel called to not invite you to a birthday celebration, but to a wedding?

Now when I say a wedding, I mean one like no other you have ever received. I mean an invitation, not where two people come to the altar to make promises before a congregation of witnesses, but a wedding where all invited to the altar to hear questions and make promises before God and everyone else. This ceremony is truly for all—single, married, male, female, young, old. And when I say the word “Marry” tonight, it is in this sense: marriage as a multifaceted, lifelong commitment to partnership, love, and mutual growth. It is a promise made in public, and here in worship before other people – covenant promises of loyalty, vulnerability, and perseverance, requiring constant effort and selflessness to navigate changes and challenges, fostering deep intimacy and shared purpose.

Let me tell you why I’m thinking about weddings on Christmas Eve. This year, we did something new here at Edenton Street. We put up a prayer tree out front on Edenton Street, with a little wooden station that contains wooden ornaments and markers. Anyone—members of our church family, people walking by in downtown Raleigh—anyone can stop, write down a word or phrase of prayer, and hang it on our tree. Over 150 prayers are hanging on that tree right now. Our prayer team has been lifting them up this week. And when I read through them, I realized something profound: These prayers tell us what we’re really seeking tonight. Not just nostalgia. Not just good feelings. Not just a dose of holiday spirit to get us through to New Year’s. But transformation. Real transformation.

Listen to what’s hanging on our tree:

“For my son and his wife to thrive and have a grandchild.”

“For my mom during this season of grief.”

“For all wars to end.”

“Peace in Ukraine.”

“I miss my Grammy.”

“For the joy of Christ to fill empty hearts.”

“I need a place of my own, a car, new furniture, a safe place. I’ve never had a safe place.”

“For our country to find its heart and soul.”

“For those hungry.”

“For the lonely.”

“Need love and guidance for next chapter. Stay sober.”

“For finding joy in my life, no fear of the future.”

“For peace. I want my children to grow up in peace.”

“For God to bring peace to those who are restless and worried.”

Notice something with me. These are not casual wishes scribbled on ornaments. These are soul-deep yearnings. These are prayers from people—maybe from you sitting here right now—who are hungry for something more than what this world has been offering. Who know that what we’ve been doing isn’t working. Who know that the cynicism, the division, the fear, the isolation—it’s killing us. Slowly. Surely. Killing us.

So we come here tonight. Some of us hoping. Some of us just going through the motions. Some of us here because it is the one worship service of the year that our mom or family members declared was a command performance. Some of us desperate. Some of us curious. All of us, in one way or another, asking that ancient question: “What did you come here to see?”

And that brings me to Bethlehem. Back to the story we just heard. Back to Mary and Joseph and shepherds and angels and a baby wrapped snugly, lying in a manger. But here’s what we often miss about this story: This wasn’t a smooth, easy, comfortable arrival. This was disruptive. This was dangerous. This was a series of impossible invitations that required impossible yeses.

Mary was nowhere near ready to say yes. An angel appears and upends her entire life—her reputation, her safety, her future—and she says yes anyway.

Joseph was ready to say no. He had every legal, social, and religious reason to walk away. But he has a dream, and in that dream, he hears these words: “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife.” In other words: Do not be afraid to marry the mystery. And he says yes.

The shepherds—working the night shift, doing what they always do, expecting nothing unusual—suddenly the sky tears open with angels and glory and terrifying good news, and they have to leave their flocks, leave their post, go see this thing that has happened. They say yes.

Later, the magi will come. They’ll have to leave their comfortable kingdoms, their positions of power and prestige, follow a star they don’t fully understand to worship a king they’ve never met. They say yes.

All of them—Mary, Joseph, shepherds, magi—all of them demonstrate this profound truth: Faith is not in knowing but in willingness. Willingness to take the next step. Willingness to trust when you can’t see the whole path. Willingness to say yes when everything in you wants to calculate the risk and say no.

But let me be clear about something. We’re not waiting for some feel-good story here. We’re not just here for the happy morning with presents and family and comfort food. That poet Steve Garnaas-Holmes reminds us: We await a Messiah who will be with us in our loss, who will lay hands on our trauma, who will heal us and the evils of this world. It will disturb. It will be a firm and gentle revolution against the Empire of hate and greed.

God’s intent for us is serious.

And that’s why I’m talking about a wedding tonight instead of a birthday party. Because here’s the thing: My prayer is that this is not just one day in your life as we come near to the close of 2025 and approach 2026. My prayer is that this might be a place where you marry the mystery of God becoming flesh, where you courageously say “yes” like Mary first, like Joseph later, like shepherds on the night of the birthday that became a wedding to God and God’s purposes in the world. Like the magi who would also say yes, and it would alter their path and purpose going forward.

In other words, I don’t want people to just travel down memory lane, experience some good feels, drink some wassail, sing a carol, light a candle, and leave tonight the same way they came.

No.

I want us to dare to come to the table of our Lord tonight with vulnerable open hands and lives and hearts that are just malleable enough to be shaped a little more like Jesus, so that in a world where there is violence and darkness, God might have just one more candle in you—to shine forth a few glimmering light waves of peace and light.

So let me get specific. Let me tell you what I think God might be asking of us tonight. What this marriage, this commitment, this yes might actually look like. So …  I ask you now, in the presence of God and these people, to declare your intention:

Will you take hope as your companion—to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, in times of plenty and in times of loss?

Will you forsake the paralyzing skepticism and soul-crushing cynicism that keeps you stuck—and cleave instead to trust and willingness, even when the path ahead is unclear?

Will you honor vulnerability over self-protection, promising to let others in, to risk connection, to love and be loved?

Will you keep peace and love—in sickness and in health, in agreement and in conflict—not just as ideas you sing about in carols, but as commitments you make with your time, your resources, your choices, your votes, your voices?

Will you cherish healing, even when wholeness feels impossible?

Will you remain faithful to love, even when you’ve forgotten how?

Will you hold fast to light, even when all you can see is one small flicker in vast darkness?

Will you choose freedom over captivity—from substances, from screens, from anger, from control—from this day forward?

Will you bear one another’s burdens, letting someone else carry the weight you’ve been bearing alone?

This is what it means to marry the mystery. This is the commitment. These are the vows. This is the yes that begins today and continues tomorrow.

Not a one-time transaction. Not a momentary feeling. Not an annual tradition. But a lifelong partnership with the God who loved us enough to become one of us. Who entered into our flesh, our frailty, our finitude. Who knows what it’s like to be hungry, to be tired, to be misunderstood, to be rejected, to suffer, to die.

Emmanuel. God with us. Not God watching from a distance. Not God occasionally dropping in for special occasions. But God with us. In the mess. In the pain. In the questions. In the darkness. In the hope. In the joy. In all of it. This is the miracle and mystery of Christmas.

And here’s the really good news: God has already said yes to you. God looked at this world—broken and beautiful, violent and tender, lost and found—and said yes. God said, “I will go. I will become flesh. I will be born in a manger because there’s no room anywhere else. I will grow up and teach and heal and challenge and love and die and rise. I will do the impossible because I love them that much.”

God already did the impossible for us.

So tonight, this moment, right here in downtown Raleigh on December 24, 2025 – HEAR THESE WORDS —“Behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all people.” Tonight, this day, to us is born in the City of Raleigh a life, a love, a new way, a new hope, and a new challenge that is asking one thing of you and me.

So before we sing Silent Night—before we light the candles—before we grab our things and our loved ones and head out into the night to continue our Christmas traditions for tonight and tomorrow morning—will you pause here at the manger, at the table, at the altar?

Will you boldly, courageously, seriously, and with a renewed determination, take the next step toward what seems an impossible step forward in faith? Will you let go of what’s not working long enough to say yes to what might?

Will you marry the mystery? 

I hope this Christmas we might all be given the grace and the strength to say—YES. Amen.