From time to time I run into someone to whom the virgin birth is somewhat of a test of faith. That person will try to examine my specific beliefs on what happened in Mary’s life before Jesus was born as if examining me to make sure that I am somehow Christian enough to meet some set of standards. I’ve seen it happen at ecclesiastical councils. The candidate presents a theological statement that has been carefully thought through and then the council turns to questions and answers. Someone in the gathered congregation wants to grill the candidate on the specifics of the virgin birth. Both the Nicene Creed and the Apostles’ Creed address the issue of Jesus’ conception as a union of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary. It is very important to some people.

I confess that it is not a big issue for me. I have no doubt that God is capable of miracles. I do not have any question in my mind that there are mysteries in God’s creation that are beyond our understanding. I am not troubled by unique circumstances in history that have not been replicated. On the other hand, however, I have no desire to know the specifics of the private lives of other people. As a pastor, people trust me to hold their infants. When I hold a baby in my arms, there is no question in my mind that each child is a miracle. I don’t need to know the specifics of the behaviors of the child’s parents in order to understand that the love of God is at the core and essence of this child’s being.

I find the discussion of a virgin birth to be distracting and, frankly, boring. The life and ministry of Jesus is so deeply fascinating that there is more than a lifetime of study in his parables and actions. Luke is the only Gospel that spends much time exploring the personality of Mary. Matthew makes mention that she was “engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.” Mark and John have other stories to tell. Luke’s exploration of Mary focuses much more on her faith, her relationship with Elizabeth, and the remarkable vision of her song than on the specifics of Jesus’ conception.

That said, the topic comes up from time to time in the church. And so we have come to my 59th Christmas Eve. It is my 34th Christmas Eve as an ordained pastor. Like other celebrations of the Christian year the occasion lends itself well to repetition. There is much in the stories and liturgies of this day that is worthy of deepening exploration. I understand things in a different way now that I have the perspective of age. Certain stories gain meaning through repetition. After they become memorized they can become internalized.

I can remember years of dreading the big service of Christmas Eve. The large attendance, the pressure to perform, the drive for repetition and tradition all create pressures on a pastor that are uncomfortable. The church is filled with people who don’t spend much time in church and who seem to be looking for an excuse to criticize and explain why they don’t come to church all that often. There is an expectation that traditions and events from the childhood of worshipers be repeated again and again. In the church I serve there is a tradition of using a shape projector to project the image of the star. It is to move across the walls of the sanctuary as the wise men enter and end with the star focused on the center of the cross. It has been happening in this church for many years. When the star doesn’t work perfectly, the critics are quick to point it out to me. I, of course, have no control over the star. It is operated from the balcony and I am not in the balcony. But I have endured more minutes of criticism over that star than I wish to recall. There is a high expectation that children will be involved in the pageant, but we have to produce the pageant without a rehearsal because we cannot get the support of parents for children to participate in the rehearsals. There was supposed to be a few minutes of instruction for shepherds and angels after church yesterday. Three children appeared. I gave them the instruction under the watchful eye of one of the critics. People want the traditions to be maintained, but they seem not to be willing to do the work of maintaining them. The pastor is hired to make everything perfect. The problem is that they won’t even tell the pastor what “perfect” means until after the event when they are quick with their criticism.

But my attitude has changed. I have matured enough to understand that there is deep mystery in this day. I don’t expect that I will ever approach perfection. I try to serve the people who come to our church. I try to craft liturgy that is meaningful. I work with musicians to share beauty. And I absorb a bit of anger that has little to do with the church and a lot to do with the accumulation of disappointments in the lives of people who are sometimes lonely, sometimes depressed, sometimes grieving in this season that seems to not have much space for negative emotions.

At 11:30 there is a different service – a beloved service – a holy service. A few dozen gather in the quiet of the night. We recall the story. We celebrate communion. We sing a few carols. We toll the Christmas bell at midnight. Each year the service carries the memories of each previous year. Each year the moment becomes deeper and richer for me. Each year I anticipate it with great eagerness. This year is no exception.

Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote in a notebook of the moment when poetry comes forth. His words seem appropriate for this day:

“. . . And to think of all these things is still not enough. One must remember many nights of love, of which none was like another. One must remember the cries of women in labor and the pale, distracted sleep of those who have just given birth and begin to close again. But one must also have been with the dying and sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful sounds of life. An it is still not enough to have memories: one must be able to forget them when they crowd the mind and one must have the immense patience to wait until they come again. For it is not the memories themselves. Only when they become our blood, our glance, our gesture, nameless and indistinguishable from who we are – only then can it happen that in a very rare hour the first word of a poem rises from their midst and goes forth.”

Tonight is the night of the first word of the poem. An the word is “Glory!”

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