If love is the virtue of Easter, hope is the star of Christmas. It strikes me this year that without Christmas there is no hope. No hope for mankind. No hope for meaning. No hope for civilization. My pastor said something like this last week: without Christmas there are no Presbyterian or Methodist hospitals. There are no Baptist missionaries. There are no Catholic schools. Without Christmas, there are no trucks drilling wells for clean drinking water in Sudan. There is no World Vision or Samaritan’s Purse or Union Gospel Mission feeding warm Christmas meals to cold and lonely homeless downtown. Without Christmas, there is no hope. There are certainly other virtues of Christmas. Peace. Joy. But neither can exist without hope. There can be no joy where there is no hope. There can be hope from which joy has yet to follow. But where hope is dead, so is the soul in which peace, joy and the like take shape. This has been a rather mirth-less Christmas for my family. But in one sense, it has been an unusually hopeful one. The infant king gives me hope that my sin is not permanent. That our poverty isn’t important. That our soul-less, peace-less, comfortable lives aren’t the only way. There was a baby like our babies born to a single teenage mother with more problems than ours and laid in a smelly box of hay. And somehow that lays the foundation of hope on which the Lord can build faith, joy, and love. Merry Christmas.
