It’s Christmas morning and I’m sitting at an empty gate at the airport watching the sun climb over the horizon. “O Come Emmanuel” plays softly in my earbuds.

The sun heralded her arrival long before she rose into the clear, cloudless sky. The darkness of the night was close and comforting like a mother swaddling the earth in soft blankets, keeping vigil and giving us rest. But gently and tenderly the sun crept in, the sky softening from the black night to dark blue, rich and deep. The dark blue invited in the vibrant orange of predawn, pulling it close in a striking and delightful contrast. Two apparent opposites crashing together in an intimate dance, holding each other close, lost to the world, until one finally consumed the other and they became something else entirely — the perfect offspring of a perfect union.

The sun peeked her face just over the place where the earth and the sky meet, a futile attempt to slip in unnoticed. Her prevenient glow is a terrible secret keeper. The brightness exploded, ushering in the sun with adoring delight. Now over the horizon, her presence gladly announced, the sun moved gracefully in, adorning the light blue sky and flooding the earth with her light and warmth. She unapologetically filled the expanse with her truest self. And there she’ll stay until the night comes again to hold us as we rest until the sun returns.

She always returns. Even if storms or clouds hide her full light, she is still there. Her light does not grow weary, and even though storm clouds can shield her from us, she persists. She shines patiently until the clouds pass.

Emmanuel is like that. God with us. God came to us as us, became flesh and dwelled among us. The incarnate God entered into humanity as gently and tenderly as the sunrise. The Light of all the people piercing the darkness, not overcome by it.

Behold, I bring you glad tidings of great joy for all people.
Unto you is born this day a Savior.
He is Christ the Lord.