Christmas Eve 2025

Merry Christmas, everyone. We’re really glad you’re here today.

Before we get to the message, I want to say something to those of you who don’t come to church very often:

If you’re here today and you don’t consider yourself a religious person, I just want to welcome you. I hope you hang around Blue Oaks long enough to discover we’re not all that religious either.

Some of you are here because someone you love invited you.
Some of you are here because you’re visiting family and this was part of the deal.
Some of you were promised dinner afterward.
Some of you were told, “It’s only an hour.”
And some of you are still quietly doing the math on how long you have to stay so that it counts.

Whatever the reason — you made it. And we’re really glad you’re here.

One of the reasons Christmas Eve matters so much is because it does something to us.

It slows us down.
It softens us a little bit.

You can go most of the year being strong and busy and distracted — and then suddenly it’s Christmas Eve. The lights are dim, the songs sound familiar… and something in you quiets.

And maybe that’s why so many people — people who don’t normally go to church — end up here on a night like this.

Because beneath the noise and the pressure and the expectations, there’s a tug. A longing. A sense that there might be more.

And what I want to suggest today is this — that tug you feel may not just be nostalgia or tradition.

It may be the love of God reaching into your life — right where you are — tugging you back to him.

That’s what Christmas is — not our search for God, but God’s pursuit of us.

Here’s something I’ve noticed over the years: Christmas has a way of reaching places in us that the rest of the year can’t.

You can go eleven months being productive, competent, busy, distracted — and then something about Christmas slows you down just enough for your heart to catch up.

It might be a song you haven’t heard in years.
It might be a smell that takes you back to a kitchen you haven’t stood in for a long time.
It might be a photo that shows up in your phone and reminds you how much has changed.

And suddenly — without warning — you feel it. That tug. That ache. That quiet longing you can’t quite explain.

It’s not sadness exactly. It’s not happiness either. Just this sense that something matters more than we usually let ourselves admit.

I’ve talked to so many people who tell me some version of the same thing every December: “I don’t think about God much during the year… but something about Christmas gets to me.”

They’ll say things like:

“I don’t know why, but I get emotional.”
“I don’t know why, but I’m more reflective.”
“I don’t know why, but I feel this pull to slow down… to be present… to come to church.”

And often they’ll add: “I don’t even know if I believe all this.”

Which is usually when I say: “That’s okay. You’re in good company.”

Because Christmas has never been about people who had faith all figured out. It’s always been about people who were open enough to feel that tug.

We live in a world that trains us to stay busy and numb — Scroll. Stream. Consume. Achieve.

There’s always something else to distract us from what’s going on underneath.

But Christmas disrupts that.

The calendar changes.
The music changes.
The lighting changes.
The pace shifts just enough for something deeper to surface.

And let’s be honest — what comes up isn’t always comfortable.

Sometimes it’s grief.
Sometimes it’s loneliness.
Sometimes it’s regret.
Sometimes it’s gratitude.
Sometimes it’s hope mixed with loss.

But almost always, it’s a longing for something that feels solid… and good…. and lasting.

And here’s the question I want to ask you to consider today:

What if that tug you feel every Christmas isn’t an accident? What if it’s not just sentiment or nostalgia or seasonal emotion?

What if it’s your soul recognizing something true — something ancient — something it was made for?

The writers of Scripture say there’s a reason this happens — God has been drawing people to himself long before they ever thought about him.

That longing is not weaknesses — it’s an invitation.

And just so you know — what we’re talking about today doesn’t end with Christmas Eve.

For many of us, that tug we feel at Christmas is connected to something we wrestle with all year long — our emotions.

Anger.
Worry.
Pride.
Desire.

They promise control, confidence, or comfort — but more often they leave us exhausted, anxious, and empty.

And starting in January, we’re going to lean into that together as a church.

We’re beginning a new series called Hijacked — all about what happens when emotions start running our lives instead of serving us.

We’ll talk honestly about how emotions can steal peace and freedom — and how God invites us to take back what’s been taken so we can live with greater peace… and strength… and freedom.

If today resonates with you — if you feel that tug — January would be a really good time to come back.

But for today, let’s come back to the heart of Christmas…

700 years before Jesus was born, Isaiah spoke into a world filled with fear, and uncertainty, and loss.

And into that world — a world of people feeling small and overwhelmed and longing for something more — he wrote these words:

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government will be upon his shoulders. And his name will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. (Isaiah 9:6)

Today I want to walk through that verse slowly — almost like you’d hold something precious in your hands — and see why it still speaks so powerfully… especially on a day like this.

And I want to show you why this child — this gift — still speaks to that tug we feel… and how the love behind Christmas might be closer than you think.

Isaiah begins with three words that are easy to rush past but impossible to overstate:

For unto us…

Not to the strong.
Not to the deserving.
Not to the religious elite.
Not to the people who have their lives together.

To us.

Ordinary people.
Worried people.
Tired people.
People under pressure.
People with questions.
People who feel small in a big world.

When Isaiah wrote these words, “us” referred to a nation living under threat.

They weren’t celebrating.
They weren’t calm.
They weren’t secure.

They were anxious about the future. They were surrounded by enemies, worried about survival, and wondering if God had forgotten them.

And Isaiah doesn’t say, “For unto them someday.” He says, “For unto us.”

This promise wasn’t aimed at powerful rulers or spiritual insiders.

It was aimed at people who needed hope… which is exactly who Christmas has always been for.

Fast forward 700 years. When the angels finally announce the birth of Jesus, they don’t appear in palaces. They don’t go to scholars. They don’t seek out the religious authorities.

They go to shepherds. Men with no status. Men with no influence. Men with no religious credibility.

And the angels say:

I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all people. (Luke 2:10)

In other words: this is for you.

And that matters today because some of you may have walked in thinking:

“This probably isn’t for me.”
“I’m just here because it’s Christmas.”
“I don’t know enough.”
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of.”
“I don’t believe enough.”

But Isaiah looks across centuries and says, “No — this is for you.”

Not once you clean up your life.
Not once you figure out your faith.
Not once you behave better.

“For unto us…”

Christmas doesn’t wait for people to get their act together. It meets them exactly where they are.

We live in a world that constantly tells us we don’t measure up.

Be more successful.
Be more productive.
Be more confident.
Be more put together.

And after a while, that voice gets internalized. We start believing we have to earn everything — even love.

But Christmas interrupts that narrative.

It says: before you achieved anything, before you fixed anything, before you believed anything — God gave.

This is the first whisper of grace.

Christianity doesn’t start with a command. It starts with a gift.

Not “try harder.”
Not “do better.”
Not “prove yourself.”

But: “For unto us…”

God initiates.
God moves first.
God gives.

And Isaiah goes on to tell us what that gift looks like.

It’s not an idea… or a philosophy… or a system.

For unto us a child is born…

Which is where the story gets even more surprising.

Because with that one phrase, Christmas becomes incredibly personal.

God doesn’t arrive as an idea. He doesn’t send a memo. He doesn’t drop a rulebook from the sky.

He comes as a child.

Which means God chose vulnerability. God chose dependence. He enters the world the same way every human being enters it — through a mother, into weakness, into limitation, into need.

That alone should stop us in our tracks.

Think about what God didn’t do.

He didn’t arrive as a full-grown man with instant authority.
He didn’t skip childhood.
He didn’t bypass dependence.

He experienced life the way we experience life —

Learning to walk
Learning to speak
Scraping his knees
Being held
Needing care

Which means there is no part of the human experience he doesn’t understand from the inside.

Christmas says: God knows what it feels like to be human.

In the ancient world, babies were incredibly vulnerable.

Infant mortality was high, medical care was limited, and security was fragile.

For Isaiah’s audience — and later for first-century listeners — a baby was the least “powerful” image imaginable.

And yet Isaiah says: this is how hope comes. Not through force. Not through domination. But through a child.

God’s answer to a broken world begins not with strength on display, but with love made visible.

If you’ve ever held a newborn, you know how instinctive it is to be gentle.

You don’t walk in loudly.
You don’t move abruptly.
You don’t speak harshly.

Something in you softens.

And Christmas says: that’s how God comes to us. Not loud. Not forceful. Not demanding. But gentle enough to be held.

This is what Christians mean when we talk about the “incarnation” — God taking on flesh.

It means God didn’t stand at a distance and shout instructions. He stepped into our world and said, “Let me show you what love looks like.”

And here’s why that matters today: If God came as a child, then God is not intimidated by your weakness. He doesn’t wait for you to be strong. He doesn’t wait for you to be put together. He meets you where you are.

It’s also worth saying — this child cried. This child needed to be fed. This child kept Mary and Joseph up at night.

Which means if your life feels messy… if your Christmas feels imperfect… if things don’t look the way you hoped they would — you’re actually closer to the original Christmas than you think.

“For unto us a child is born.” Not to demand from us. But to be given to us.

Which is why Isaiah doesn’t stop there. He adds a second phrase — and it changes everything.

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given…

That word given matters more than we realize.

Isaiah is telling us that this child is more than a birth story — he’s a gift.

Not something we earn.
Not something we achieve.
Not something we deserve.

A gift is received, not accomplished.

Isaiah could have said, “a son is born.” But he doesn’t.

He says, “a son is given.”

That’s intentional. Because Isaiah wants us to understand something at the very beginning of the story — Christmas is not about what humanity gives to God. It’s about what God gives to humanity.

Before there are commands…
Before there are teachings…
Before there is a cross…

There is a gift.

In the ancient world, gifts from kings always came with expectations.

Loyalty.
Allegiance.
Obedience.

But this gift is different.

God gives his son…

Not to control people — but to rescue them.
Not to demand allegiance — but to restore relationship.
Not to overpower — but to draw near.

This is not political power. It’s personal love.

We live in a world where almost nothing is truly free.

There’s always fine print… always strings attached… always an expectation.

Even gifts sometimes come with pressure:

“Do you like it?”
“Are you using it?”
“Was it enough?”

But Isaiah says this son is given — freely, lovingly, generously.

Which means…

You don’t have to clean yourself up first.
You don’t have to understand everything.
You don’t have to believe perfectly.

You just have to receive.

This is where Christmas gently presses on us. Because receiving a gift requires humility. It means admitting you need something. It means opening your hands. It means letting go of control.

And that’s often harder than we expect.

But the good news of Christmas is this: God didn’t wait for us to move toward him. He moved toward us. He gave his son not because we were ready — but because we weren’t ready.

Think about how awkward it would be if someone gave you a gift and you said, “No thanks, I’ll pay you back later.”

That wouldn’t be receiving a gift. That would be turning it into a transaction.

And sometimes we do that with God. We say:

“I’ll come back when I’m better.”
“I’ll take this seriously once I clean up my life.”
“I’ll believe once I have fewer questions.”

But Christmas says: Receive first. Transformation comes later.

So if you’re here today and you’re unsure about faith — unsure about God — unsure about where you stand — this part of the story is especially for you.

Christianity doesn’t begin with believing everything correctly. It begins with receiving something graciously.

“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.”

Isaiah goes on to say something remarkable about this son. He says:

And the government will be upon his shoulders…

That’s an unexpected phrase — especially right after talking about a child.

Because when we think of government, we think of systems, power, control, responsibility.

We don’t think of babies.

But Isaiah is doing something very intentional here.

In Isaiah’s day, government wasn’t abstract. It was personal. It meant foreign armies. Heavy taxes. Fear about the future. Decisions made far away by people who didn’t care about you.

“Government” meant weight.

So when Isaiah says it will rest on his shoulders, the image isn’t political strategy —
it’s burden-bearing.

He’s saying: The weight of the world is going to rest on him instead of you.

By the time Jesus is born, Rome is in charge.

Rome promised peace — but only through power.
Rome promised order — but only through force.
Rome promised security — but only for those at the top.

And into that world, Isaiah’s words take on new meaning: This child won’t rule like Rome rules. He won’t carry authority to dominate. He’ll carry authority to serve.

The government on his shoulders doesn’t show up first as a throne — it shows up as a cross.

Which means Christmas is already pointing toward Good Friday.

Most of us don’t think of ourselves as living under an empire — but we still live under weight.

The weight of expectations.
The weight of responsibility.
The weight of providing.
The weight of holding things together.
The weight of being strong for everyone else.

Some of you walked in today carrying things no one else sees.

Financial pressure.
Family tension.
Health anxiety.
Unanswered questions.
Grief you don’t know what to do with.

And if you’re honest, you’re tired.

One of the most exhausting things about being human is pretending we’re strong enough to carry everything on our own.

Isaiah is saying: You were never meant to.

This is what makes Jesus different from every other leader, or philosophy, or system.

He doesn’t add weight to your shoulders. He takes weight onto his.

Later, Isaiah will say it even more clearly:

Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering… the punishment that brought us peace was on him. (Isaiah 53)

Christmas says: the weight is on his shoulders.

So if you’re here today and you feel worn down… if life feels heavier than you expected… if you’re holding things you don’t know how to fix — this part of the story is for you.

The child in the manger grows up to be the Savior who carries what we cannot.

And then Isaiah tells us what this burden-bearing King will be called. Not by titles he demands, but by names that describe who he is for us.

And his name will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

And each one of those names speaks directly to the tug we feel and the weight we carry.

Isaiah doesn’t list these names so we can analyze them. He gives them so we can receive them.

Each one speaks to a different place in the human heart. And chances are, one of them is speaking to you today.

Some of you walked in today with questions swirling in your head.

You’re trying to make decisions.
You’re wondering which way to go.
You’re not sure what comes next.

And the noise around you hasn’t helped — everyone has an opinion, advice is everywhere, clarity is rare.

Isaiah says this child will be called Wonderful Counselor

Not just wise. Not just helpful. But wonderful — beyond human wisdom.

Jesus doesn’t shout instructions from a distance. He walks with people. He listens. He speaks truth with compassion.

And if you don’t know what to do with your life right now, Christmas says: you’re not alone in your confusion.

Others of you aren’t confused — you’re exhausted.

You’ve been strong for a long time.
You’ve carried responsibility.
You’ve held things together.

And somewhere along the way, your strength started to run out.

Isaiah says this child will be called Mighty God

Not mighty in intimidation. Mighty in love. Mighty enough to save. Mighty enough to carry what you can’t.

Christmas doesn’t deny how hard life is. It declares that God is strong enough to meet you in it.

For some, the word father is comforting. For others, it’s complicated. It carries absence. Distance. Disappointment. Or longing for something that never quite was.

Isaiah says this child will be called Everlasting Father

A Father whose love doesn’t disappear. Whose patience doesn’t run out. Whose presence doesn’t fade. Whose care isn’t conditional.

This isn’t about God demanding perfection. It’s about God offering belonging.

If you’ve ever felt alone — even in a crowded room — Christmas says: You have a Father who wants you.

And finally, Isaiah says he will be called Prince of Peace

Not peace as in everything goes quiet. Not peace as in life gets easy. Peace as in wholeness. Peace as in things put back together. Peace as in being okay at the center — even when the world isn’t.

This peace doesn’t come from control. It comes from presence.

And the Prince of Peace doesn’t stand far off — he comes near.

Wonderful Counselor
Mighty God
Everlasting Father
Prince of Peace

These aren’t just names. They’re promises.

And maybe the reason Christmas stirs something in you — the reason you feel that tug — is because one of these names is calling your heart.

Because Christmas isn’t asking you to figure everything out today.

It’s inviting you to receive something — someone — who already knows your story, already sees your need, and already came looking for you.

So we come back to where we started — that tug you feel at Christmas… the quiet longing… the softness that surprises you… the sense that something deeper is calling your name…

It isn’t an accident.
It’s not just nostalgia.
It’s not just tradition.
It’s not just emotion.

It’s the love of God reaching for you.

700 years before Jesus was born, Isaiah said a child would come — not to demand from us, but to be given to us.

And when that child finally arrived, God was saying something unmistakably clear: “I see you. I know you. I’m not distant. I’ve come close.”

Christmas is the story of a God who didn’t wait for humanity to climb up to him. He came down to us. Not with force. Not with fear. Not with condemnation.

But with humility, grace and love.

And maybe today — for the first time in a long time, or maybe for the first time ever —
you sense that this story is more than a story.

Maybe you feel drawn — not pushed — but drawn.

If that’s you, here’s the heart of the message:

You don’t have to fix your life today.
You don’t have to understand everything.
You don’t have to clean yourself up first.

The invitation of Christmas is simple: Receive the gift.

Receive the love of a Wonderful Counselor.
Receive the strength of a Mighty God.
Receive the care of an Everlasting Father.
Receive the peace of the Prince of Peace.

This is not about joining a religion. It’s about coming home.

And if in your heart today you want to say, “God, I’m open,” or “Jesus, I need You,” or “I don’t know what I believe yet, but I want to receive this love.”

I want to invite you to bow your heads with me and pray.

This is just a quiet moment between you and God. No one is watching. No one is judging. Just an opportunity to respond in your own heart.

God, thank you for loving us enough to come close. Thank You for meeting us not with pressure or perfection, but with grace and kindness and truth.

Today, many of us come to you carrying different things — questions, doubts, regrets, hopes, longings, fears. And we bring all of that to you just as we are.

And for those of us who are ready to open our lives to you today, in the quiet of our hearts we say:

Jesus, I need you. I trust you with my life. I believe you came for me. I believe you gave your life for me.

And today, I’m opening my heart to you.

I don’t have all the answers, but I want to walk with you.

Thank you for coming for me. Thank you for forgiving me. Thank you for welcoming me home.

And for all of us, God — whether we’ve followed you for years or we’re just opening our hearts today — would you fill us with your peace.

Remind us that we are not alone. Teach us to walk in the light and love you’ve given us.

Thank you for the gift of Jesus — our Wonderful Counselor, our Mighty God, our Everlasting Father, our Prince of Peace.

We put our trust in you with grateful hearts.

And we pray all of this in the name of Jesus. Amen.

In just a moment, we’re going to sing Silent Night together.

There’s something about that song that slows us down — maybe because it reminds us that the night Jesus was born wasn’t loud or dramatic or hurried.

It was quiet… and ordinary… and unassuming.

God didn’t shout his love into the world. He whispered it.

So as we sing, let this be a moment to breathe… to reflect… to receive.

You don’t have to sing loudly.
You don’t have to sing perfectly.
You don’t have to sing at all if you don’t want to.

Just let the words wash over you and remember that the same love that came into the world that night is still reaching for us today.

Also this is a time when I want to give you permission to break the normal “church rules” just a little.

If you’re here with people you love, turn toward them. Say something meaningful. Offer a hug. Let them know you’re glad you’re here with them.

This is Christmas Eve — it’s okay to be human for a few moments in church.

A quick note about tis though: this is for family and friends, not strangers.

Please don’t spread Christmas cheer to people you’ve never met.

But do what feels natural. Do what fits you.

Alright, let’s stand and sing.