An Amazing Sunday at St Paul’s & St Barnabas
One day, two gatherings, one message
There are Sundays that feel like you are simply keeping the show on the road. You arrive tired, you get through the prayers, you sing the songs, you greet people at the door, and you go home grateful, but spent. Then there are Sundays that remind you why the church exists at all. Sundays where you can see, in ordinary moments, that God is at work among ordinary people. Today was one of those days for us at St Paul’s & St Barnabas.
This morning we gathered for our family service, and we had nearly 70 in church. That might sound like a number on a page, but it is not. It is people, it is stories, it is children fidgeting and laughing, it is parents trying to keep half an eye on the front and half an eye on the back, it is neighbours who have not been in church in years sitting beside regular members, it is visitors who came because someone invited them, and it is that quiet sense that the Lord is building his church. Not with hype, not with a spectacle, but with the steady work of his Word and Spirit.
If you were there, you will know what I mean when I say the Sunday School did an amazing job. They did not simply “perform” something cute for the adults. They served us. They led us into the story. They reminded us, with fresh voices and clear simplicity, what Christmas is actually about. A saviour has been born. God has come near. The light has come into the darkness. Sometimes it takes the faith of a child, and the courage of a teacher, to bring us back to the centre.
Carols by Candlelight, and the long night of winter
Then tonight we gathered again for Carols by Candlelight, and it was wonderful. There is something about a carol service that still stops people in their tracks. Even in a city that is busy, tired, and often cynical, the carols cut through. The candles, the readings, the familiar melodies, the hush before a verse begins, the swell of voices when a chorus lands, it all does something to the heart. But what matters most is not atmosphere. What matters is what the carols proclaim.
This evening, that message felt especially close, because today is the shortest day of the year. Earlier this afternoon, just after three o’clock, it was impossible not to feel how quickly the light was slipping away. By 15:58 the sun had officially set. The sky never really lifted today either, heavy cloud, no break of blue, no warmth from the sun. And as the darkness settled in, it felt heavier somehow. Knowing the sun set just before four and will not rise again until 08:45 tomorrow morning adds to that weight. It is a long night, and for some people this season has felt like a never ending night.
Winter can do that to us. We even came up with a medical term for it, Seasonal Affective Disorder. Yet for some of us it feels longer, deeper, heavier. The worries we carry all year round, finances, work, family pressures, health, the future of our city, and the future of our own lives, they do not disappear when summer comes, but they can become more potent now. The night outside seems to echo something we feel inside. We miss people who are no longer with us. We feel the distance in relationships that once felt close. Or perhaps nothing dramatic at all, just the slow accumulation of weariness, the sense of carrying too much for too long.
Worry, if we are honest, is not an occasional visitor. In a broken world it becomes a way of life. And at this time of year, it can feel heavier.
Christmas is honest about darkness, and stubborn about hope
One of the books that shaped me in the last few years was The Screwtape Letters. It is written from the imagined perspective of darkness itself trying to undermine faith. What adds to its weight is when it was written. C.S. Lewis wrote it during the Second World War, after having lived through the First, wounded in the trenches, teaching students who returned from the front with their whole view of the world changed. Lewis knew something about fear and uncertainty, and he knew how weariness can slowly erode hope. That insight from nearly 85 years ago feels uncomfortably relevant still today.
It is not always suffering itself that gets us, it is the constant imagining of what might happen, the endless mental rehearsal of fear, and that is what slowly closes us in. Yet it is into that reality, not a tidy one, not a comfortable one, but the one we know, that the Bible speaks with remarkable honesty. The prophet Isaiah wrote: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone.” Isaiah does not deny the darkness. He names it, and then he points to the light that overcomes it.
Advent is not sentimental. It is about waiting, not waiting in comfort, but waiting in the dark. And then the great claim of the Christian faith comes with force. Not that people climbed their way toward the light by our own effort, but that the light came to them. Not advice. Not a vague spirituality. A person. A baby born in a manger, and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. God did not shout hope from heaven at a distance. He stepped into the darkness to bring the light. He entered the long night, our long night.
Matthew tells us the name that sums it all up. “They shall call his name Immanuel”, which means God with us. Not God above us, not God tolerating us, but God with us. With us in the darkness, with us in fear, with us in weariness, with us in grief and confusion and the ordinary ache of waiting. That is why this story still matters, because Christianity is not about escape. It is about presence.
Many of us know these carols by heart. We know when to stand and when to sit. We know the words. We know the story. But knowing the carols is not the same as knowing the Christ they proclaim. Familiar words can still carry unfamiliar hope. Immanuel is not a decorative idea, it is an invitation. God with us, but is he with you?
The service tonight
Part of what made the evening so rich was the way Scripture and song carried us through the whole story, from the first hint of promise, to the final declaration that the Word became flesh. If you were there, you will recognise the shape of it. If you were not, here is a snapshot of the flow of the service.
- Once in Royal David’s City (v1 solo, then all)
- Welcome and Bidding Prayer
- Genesis 3:8 to 15 (The Fall)
- In the Bleak Midwinter
- Genesis 22:15 to 18 (Promise to Abraham)
- The Little Road to Bethlehem (solo)
- Isaiah 9:1 to 7 (A coming Saviour foretold)
- Still the Night
- Isaiah 11:1 to 9 (Peace foretold)
- O Holy Night (choir)
- Luke 1:26 to 38 (Birth foretold)
- O Little Town of Bethlehem
- Luke 2:1 to 7 (Birth of Jesus)
- While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks
- Luke 2:8 to 16 (Shepherds go to the manger)
- Still, Still, Still (choir)
- Matthew 2:1 to 12 (Wise men)
- From the Squalor of a Borrowed Stable (music group)
- John 1:1 to 14 (The Word became flesh)
- O Come, All Ye Faithful (offertory)
- Collect and Blessing
- Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
- In Dulci Jubilo (organ)
If you were serving tonight, reading, singing, playing, welcoming, praying, or helping in any way, thank you. These gatherings do not happen by accident. They happen because people quietly show up, and do what needs done, and do it with care. That is not small, and it is not nothing. It is the kind of ordinary faithfulness God so often uses to bless others.
Where this leaves us
Here is what I keep coming back to, especially on the shortest day of the year. The darkness is real. The weariness is real. The worries are real. The griefs are real. The ache of waiting is real. The Bible does not pretend otherwise. But it also refuses to say darkness has the final word. On those who dwelt in deep darkness, light has shone. The light has a name. And his name is Immanuel.
Christmas is not a seasonal mood. It is not a vague encouragement to be nicer, or try harder, or make the best of things. It is the announcement that God has come near in Jesus Christ. Near enough to be held. Near enough to weep. Near enough to suffer. Near enough to save. And that means you do not need to tidy yourself up to come to him. You do not need to feel festive. You do not need to have your doubts resolved or your fears silenced. The invitation is simpler than that, and far stronger. God has come near, and he invites you to trust him.
Watch or listen, and join us on Christmas Day
If you missed the service tonight, or if you want to listen again, you can watch the sermon, or listen to the podcast episode below. And if you are looking for a place to worship this Christmas, you are warmly invited to join us on Christmas Day at 10:30am.
Come as you are. Bring the family. Bring your questions. Bring your weariness. The light has come into the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
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