December 25, 2025, Year A, Christmas

John 1:1-18, Psalm 98, Hebrews 1:1-12

Merry Christmas! The joy of this morning feels like the full breaking of dawn after the candlelit hush of Christmas Eve. Last night, in our sermon, we lingered over the wonder of the true light coming into the world—the light that shines in our personal and collective darkness and that no shadow can ever extinguish. This morning, with the Scriptures we have just heard—Hebrews 1:1-12, Psalm 98, and the majestic opening of John’s Gospel—we are invited to lift our gaze higher and see the eternal source of that light. The baby in the manger is no ordinary child; he is the eternal Word, the radiant glory of God, the unchanging Son through whom all things were made and are sustained.

John’s prologue gives us the profound theological heart of Christmas morning: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it… And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth” (John 1:1-5, 14 ESV).

John deliberately begins “in the beginning” to take us back before Bethlehem, before the angels and shepherds, before Mary and Joseph’s journey—all the way back to eternity itself. This Word is not created; he simply “was”, in intimate, eternal communion with the Father, yet distinct from the Father. He “is” God. And through this Word every star was flung into space, every mountain raised, every human soul breathed into being. Nothing exists apart from him.

Yet the astonishing miracle of Christmas is that this eternal, divine Word did not remain distant in unapproachable glory. He “became flesh.” The infinite clothed himself in the finite. The Creator entered creation as a creature. The One who spoke galaxies into existence learned to form human words with an infant’s tongue. He “dwelt” among us—the Greek word means he “tabernacled,” he pitched his tent in our wilderness, just as God’s glory once filled the tabernacle in the days of Moses. In Jesus, the shekinah glory that made the wilderness sanctuary radiant now shines in human skin and bone.

And what kind of glory do we behold in this incarnate Word? Not the raw, terrifying glory that caused Israel to beg Moses to veil his face, but glory “full of grace and truth.” Grace that stoops to sinners, truth that refuses to compromise with our illusions. Grace that welcomes tax collectors and prostitutes, truth that overturns tables in the temple. Grace that heals lepers with a touch, truth that declares, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.” In the face of Jesus we see the heart of the Father perfectly revealed: “No one has ever seen God; the only God, who is at the Father’s side, he has made him known” (John 1:18 ESV).

The letter to the Hebrews amplifies this revelation. After centuries of God speaking “at many times and in many ways” through prophets, now “in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son, whom he appointed the heir of all things, through whom also he created the world. He is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power” (Heb. 1:1-3 ESV).

Think of that: the tiny hands that Mary guided to her breast are the hands that hold planets in their orbits. The voice that would one day cry from a cross is the voice that sustains every atom. He is the “radiance” of God’s glory—not a reflection, but the shining forth itself, like the rays cannot be separated from the sun. He is the “exact imprint”—the perfect, precise representation of God’s very being. Angels are mere servants, winds and flames before him; but the Father addresses the Son as God: “Your throne, O God, is forever and ever” (Heb. 1:8 ESV).

And while the created heavens and earth will one day “perish” and “wear out like a garment,” rolled up and changed, the Son remains unchanging: “But you are the same, and your years will have no end” (Heb. 1:11-12 ESV). The paradox of Christmas is almost too wonderful to grasp: the unchanging, eternal Son willingly entered a world of change—change of seasons, change of health, change of fortunes, change of death itself—in order to redeem it and one day renew it.

Psalm 98 erupts in jubilant response to this salvation: “Oh sing to the Lord a new song, for he has done marvelous things! His right hand and his holy arm have worked salvation for him. The Lord has made known his salvation; he has revealed his righteousness in the sight of the nations… Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth; break forth into joyous song and sing praises!… Let the sea roar, and all that fills it; the world and those who dwell in it! Let the rivers clap their hands; let the hills sing for joy together before the Lord, for he comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world with righteousness, and the peoples with equity” (Ps. 98:1-9 ESV).

This is no lullaby psalm. It is a triumphant enthronement hymn, calling all creation to thunderous praise because the King has revealed his victory. The “marvelous things” he has done find their ultimate fulfillment in the incarnation and the cross. The “right hand and holy arm” that worked salvation is none other than the Son himself, stretched out on the wood to bear the sin of the world and then raised in triumph. The judgment he brings is not arbitrary destruction but righteous renewal—equity for the oppressed, vindication for the faithful, mercy for the repentant, and the promise that one day the whole groaning creation will be set free.

Christmas morning invites us to see the manger against the vast canvas of eternity. The light we celebrated last night is not a fragile flicker soon to be snuffed out; it is the eternal radiance of the Father’s glory breaking into time. The child asleep on Mary’s lap is the One who upholds the universe. The Word made flesh is the final, definitive speech of God.

This vision has implications for how we live. First, it gives us unshakable stability in an unstable world. Everything around us changes—regimes rise and fall, technologies advance, bodies age, loved ones are taken from us, even the stars will one day burn out. But Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. The One born in Bethlehem reigns eternally. When anxiety presses in, when the future feels uncertain, when grief threatens to overwhelm, we can anchor our souls to the unchanging Son who entered our change to redeem it.

Second, it calls us to deeper worship. The angels worshipped him at his birth. The magi travelled far to bow before him. The psalmist summons seas and rivers and hills to join the chorus. How can we offer less? Christmas worship is not finally about sentiment or nostalgia; it is awe before the eternal Word who took flesh for us. Let our carols this morning rise not from habit but from hearts stunned anew by the glory full of grace and truth.

Third, it invites us to receive unending grace. The law came through Moses to show us God’s standard and our failure. But grace and truth—personal, relational, forgiving, transforming—came through Jesus Christ. From his fullness we receive “grace upon grace,” wave after wave of unmerited favor. Whatever guilt you carried into this service, whatever regret lingers from the past year, whatever fear haunts your future—bring it to the manger. The One who became flesh knows your frailty from the inside. He offers not condemnation but adoption.

Fourth, it transforms our identity. “But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God” (John 1:12-13 ESV). Christmas is the story of God’s great adoption project. The eternal Son became what we are so that we might share in what he is—beloved children of the Father, heirs of eternal glory. We are not defined ultimately by your failures, our successes, our family of origin, or our social status. In Christ, we are a child of God, born anew from above.

Fifth, it compels us to bear witness. John the Baptist was sent to point to the light so that all might believe through him. In the same way, we who have seen the glory are called to testify. In a world that largely did not recognize him when he came—and often still does not—we are sent to proclaim: the Word became flesh! The light has dawned! God has drawn near in grace and truth! Our words, our acts of kindness, our forgiveness, our integrity—all become ways of bearing witness to the light that darkness cannot overcome.

Sixth, and finally, this vision sustains hope for the future. The same Son who entered our broken world will one day return to make it new. The heavens that will wear out like a garment will be rolled up, not to be destroyed, but to be gloriously renewed. The judgment the psalm celebrates is the righteous setting-right of all things. Tears will be wiped away, death will be no more, injustice will vanish, and creation itself will sing unrestrained.

Brothers and sisters, the Christmas light we pondered last evening is the eternal, unchanging radiance of the Son tabernacled among us. May that light fill us with wonder this morning, steady us through every season, reshape our identities as God’s children, send us out as joyful witnesses, and anchor our hope in the coming renewal of all things.

Let us pray….