Rejoice in the Coming of Christ

It was Christmas Eve and I was completely alone.

My solitude wasn’t by choice but by circumstance. I was completing my first year serving a church several states away from my extended family. My wife and I had moved earlier that year so I could serve as their minister of music. Due to unforeseen circumstances, my wife had to return to our previous home. So, here I was on Christmas Eve, the time to be with family and friends, and it was just me. Alone.

My new church home had two Christmas Eve services – one in the afternoon, geared toward families with young children, and a late evening candlelight service.

Following the first service, everyone at the church – and I mean everyone – left. In a matter of minutes, the entire congregation evaporated, and the church facilities were vacant. The parking lot – empty, save for my lonely car. This was the congregation’s years-long tradition. Some had plans with friends. Others went to local restaurants or had elaborate dinners with extended family. Everyone had a place to be – except for me. I was all alone. Instead of going to dinner alone, I stuck around the church. Eventually, I found myself back in a dark sanctuary. The sun had set on the cold evening. The sanctuary was silent and still. Only the faint glow of street lamps seeped in through the stained glass. All was calm. I did not feel very joyful. I felt alone.

I made my way to the piano and sat down. Quietly, I began to play Christmas carols. Familiar and comfortable, I improvised on tunes I have known and loved my whole life. Closing my eyes, I began to lose myself in the moment and the music. My fingers graced the keys as I played melodies of the manger.

Then it happened in a flash. I saw something whisk by my head. At first I thought I was imagining things. But then I saw it again, and again. Surely I wasn’t hallucinating! It was as if a floating specter had joined me in my solitude. After I recovered from my initial shock and my heart rate slowed, I stumbled out of the chancel area over to the light switch on the wall. I waited until I saw the movement again and flipped on the lights. Sure enough, there it was: A single, solitary bat flying to and fro. Back and forth he floated, from the back balcony to the front of the sanctuary. He snuggled in between the organ pipes, resting for a moment, and then soared around the sanctuary again. As soon as the lights came on, he settled in, nesting in the organ chambers.

I imagine he was looking for a way out. Or maybe he was looking for a friend to share his solitude with. Either way, when I turned out the lights again, he launched into the air, soaring back and forth. I thought I was alone. That was never the case at all.

I discovered something that evening (in addition to “Don’t play piano in the sanctuary with the lights out!”). Those moments we feel most abandoned and utterly alone, perhaps those are the moments God is very near. In those muted moments on Christmas Eve, I heard God speak. Strangely enough, it was not through the rustle of angel wings, but through the graceful gliding of a bat! In that quiet space I experienced a deep and abiding sense of peace and joy, bathing in the presence of God. What an unexpected and joyful surprise!

The Christmas story is full of rejoicing, surprises, and music: the angel’s visit with the shepherds (Luke 2:10–11); the chorus of the heavenly host (Luke 2:13–14); Mary’s song (Luke 1:46–55); Elizabeth’s response (Luke 1:44); and, of course, the wise men (Matthew 2:10). There’s no mention of bats in any of the gospel nativity stories. (You can find a reference to moles and bats in Isaiah 2:20!)

In our rejoicing, we express gratitude for the gift of eternal life. Rejoicing comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes monumental and majestic, other times reverent and poignant. I love the grand and glorious music of Christmas: soaring descants, brazen brass, and booming timpani, all working together as the heavens open and nature sings. I also feel connected with the Creator in the sanctity of silence.

I’m writing to you today in the midst of the busyness of Advent. We are preparing for multiple worship services, extra rehearsals, and a wonderful slew of handbell concerts for the community handbell group I conduct. I am continually reminded that “busyness” is not what makes this season joyful for me. It’s the quiet moments when Christ draws near that I understand once again I’m not alone. This is Christmas: the coming of Christ. The promise fulfilled. The birth of Emmanuel, “God with us.”

Like my new bat friend, the world around us is searching for hope, probing for peace, diving deep to discover that abiding joy. It’s elusive, save for what we find in Jesus Christ.

It was Christmas Eve and I was completely alone – me, my new bat friend, and the ever-present love of Jesus, Emmanuel, God-with-us.

May you all rejoice in the deep and abiding joy of Jesus during this season.