We come stumbling into the season with our hands stretched out in front of us, blinded by the light. The shepherds came stumbling into that dank stable, acrid air caught in their throats. And they knelt, as we kneel, before the Child who promised peace on earth, and we torture ourselves for not having the faith to believe.

 Because really, doesn’t peace on earth spread from the inside out? The hearts of the Christians passing peace like a baton from one lonely soul to another? And we know—we all know—our thoughts are spinning and frantic and poisonous, sucking all the peace into a vortex of anxiety. We’re Christians, but our minds constantly invent doubts and soul-crippling worries. Peace on earth? A nice theory, but not a sustainable reality. 

 What do we really want? Not freedom from trouble; in God’s world of unlikely paradoxes that’s no freedom at all. Not placid nonchalance; there’s no delight without its antithesis. What do we really want this season? 

 The shepherds came running to the Christ Child; we come limping before the altar—bruised, exhausted, broken. We stretch out hands, shielding our trembling selves, yet reaching for something. Reaching for Someone. It’s so quiet you can hear the Baby breathe. 

 And we know this Child will lose Himself in love. We know He will cry and worry and see many black three o’clocks. But He will never lose sight of the Light, because He is the Light. 

 In the stillness, tears run down the shepherds’ faces. And suddenly, like so many snapshots, little details come into focus. A tired mother. Tiny, clenched fists. Dew strung on a spider web. A tremulous smile. A footstep outside. The air clears, and a morning star blinks out, as dawn tiptoes into the barn. 

 Could this be peace? A quiet acknowledging of the power of the divine? A desperate prayer breathed in the silence? A recognition of the miracles in every moment?

 The Child is here. Believe what He says. Dawn will spill its sunbeams over this lonely earth, and into the hearts lying on the altar. 

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.