If Christmas feels more isolating than joyful, this prayer offers real comfort—and a reminder that you're never truly alone.

My kids are asking all kinds of questions about Santa, including whether or not Santa was a Christian! Will you help me answer this tough one? 

How did the Jewish people, who studied scripture so carefully, miss the glaringly obvious interpretation of prophecy: Jesus is the Messiah?

Christmas was a noisy day in Martin Luther’s home. And Luther’s home was already a noisy place! The Black Cloister—the former monastery given to Luther and his family—housed more than three dozen people. In addition to Luther, his wife, and their six children, there were seven orphaned nieces and nephews as well as servants, guests, refugees, student boarders, and visitors. As one visitor described it, “A random mess and crowd of young students, maidens, widows, old maids, and children constantly occupy the house of Dr. Luther, and because of that crowd there is a great commotion.” Every day the house resounded with the dissonance and symphony of so many bodies, souls, and voices: the laughter and chaos of children playing, the raucous jokes and debates of students and theologians, the clip of commands in the kitchen and servants’ quarters, the din of dishes, the shuffle of chairs, the tromping of feet, the yip and yap of beasts. And on Christmas, all this commotion boiled over with the joy and gladness of the incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ. The usual voices of German and Latin—accented at times with visitors’ foreign tongues: English, Italian, even Amharic—were raised with the song of the angels: “Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth and goodwill towards men” (Luke 2:14, my translation of the Luther Bibel 1545 throughout). Around this hymn burst out an entire household’s prayer, praise, and thanksgiving. At the center of this great choir of song and sound, praise and blessing was the choirmaster: Luther himself. “Sing, dear children!” he shouted. “Sing of the dear newborn little baby!” (WATR 5:216–17, no. 5528, my translation of the Weimar edition throughout). Responses to the Good News of Christmas Luther knew his house’s joy and gladness weren’t normal: “Very few people sing” (WATR 5.217.3, no. 5528). He highlighted two pairs of contrasting responses to our Lord’s incarnation: rebel or rejoice, mock or give thanks. 1. In response to Jesus’s birth, we can rebel like the demons or rejoice like the angels. Luther believed the incarnation enraged Satan and his minions. It’s the reason they rebelled. Satan was jealous and resentful. How could God pass over his high and holy creatures, the angels, and join himself to creatures made of dust and mud? From the beginning, Satan sought to stop Jesus’s being born of Mary. “His tail swept down a third of the stars of heaven and cast them to the earth. And the dragon stood before the woman who shall give birth, so that when she gave birth he might devour her child” (Rev. 12:4). Sooner than worship a man of dust from the earth, he chose hell, leading a third of heaven with him (see LW 58:193–94 and 22:103). At the center of this great choir of song and sound, praise and blessing was the choirmaster: Luther himself. In contrast, the angels laugh for joy and sing praises that God would stoop so low for the blessing and honor of his creation (WA 34/II:494). These heavenly theologians proclaim this good news in simple words for shepherds and children. “[The angels] have rejoiced for our sake,” Luther said, “and their song is indeed a beautiful song. In it the whole Christian faith is given in brief” (WATR 4:197–98, no. 4201). The Christ child is the great treasure the angels have longed to see, even though the treasure isn’t for their benefit but for us and for our salvation (1 Pet. 1:12). 2. In response to Jesus’s birth, we can mock like the philosophers or give thanks like the Virgin Mary. According to reason, nothing is more ridiculous than that Redeemer and Savior of the world—God himself—should be born a weak, little baby (WATR 6:94, no. 6645). “What?!” the philosophers protest. “Shall the pure God sink into filth?” (WA 34/II:492). For the philosophers, this is simply too foolish. The Maker of heaven and earth is too pure to enter creation, let alone to put on the flesh of dust and earth, to sleep and sweat, to bleed and defecate—to die. Even if the Christian faith said nothing more than that God was born a baby, the philosophers would never stop laughing at us (WA 34/II:494). In contrast, Mary gives thanks, for here is God: the little baby whom she holds and nurses and rocks to sleep (WA 34/II:493). God couldn’t come closer to us than he does in Jesus Christ. He shares our flesh, blood, and bone. And so, she sings, “My soul magnifies the Lord. . . . For the Mighty One has done great things to me, and holy is his name” (Luke 1:46, 49). But the most common human response isn’t any of these. It’s indifference: We receive this news, Luther says, as a sip of beer—how we receive all of God’s good gifts, actually—like cows with their big, dumb eyes trampling beautiful flowers in the field. We don’t want God with us—we would rather have riches! We would praise a king who washes feet, but here is the Maker of heaven and earth descending not just into creation but into earth and into human flesh (WA 34/II:494–95, 499; WATR 4:197–98, no. 4201; WATR 5:90, 94, no. 5360). And in response to this gift—greater than every work of creation—we’re tepid and lazy. “It’s silent now,” Luther mourns, “in Turkey, Judea, Greece, and the greater part of Germany” (WATR 5:217.2–3, no. 5528). Sing! Not by Your Reason or Strength “Sing, dear children!” Luther told his household. “Sing of the dear newborn little baby!” (WATR 5:216–17, no. 5528). This is the fitting response to the incarnation of our Lord. What else will do? We men and women sit in darkness, crying out in the distress and sorrow of this world ruled by sin, death, and the Devil. And, look! The Maker of heaven and earth has sent his Word to deliver us. His Word become flesh—a little baby in Mary’s arms. Luther expressed it this way: “The Son of the eternal God humbled himself so deeply; he was born so poor and meek. And all this he did on account of our sin” (WATR 5.93, no. 5360). Jesus came to take our sin and death and condemnation, and in exchange to give us himself—his forgiveness, life, and salvation. ‘Sing, dear children!’ Luther told his household. ‘Sing of the dear newborn little baby!’ This is the fitting response to the incarnation. This is the good news. God himself for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit of the Virgin Mary and was made man. He was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate. He suffered and was buried. And on the third day, he rose again. It’s pure foolishness to the world, but for those who believe it’s God’s wisdom and might. “By it we are made holy,” Luther observed, “and therefore the dear angels rejoice and delight!” (WATR 5:94, no. 5360). To join the joy and delight of the angels is a gift from God alone. “We cannot fully express these words [of the Gloria in excelsis Deo],” Luther confessed, “but only stammer about them” (LW 58:192). It’s the greatest art and wisdom of Christians—a work of the Holy Spirit (WATR 5:93, no. 5360). Lord, let no tongue on earth be silent, every voice in concert ring: “Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth and goodwill towards men.”

John Calvin (1509–64) was committed to preaching from the Scriptures. He referred to the Bible as “the school of the Holy Spirit” and was so committed to expository preaching that after a three-year exile in Strasbourg, France, he returned to Geneva in 1541 and resumed preaching where he’d left off in the Psalms. The French theologian practiced lectio continua: preaching continually through books of the Bible. But during the Christmas season, Calvin made an exception. Instead of his typical exposition through a book, Calvin sometimes broke from tradition and delivered sermons on Jesus Christ’s birth. He did the same for the resurrection on Easter. Though the seasons of Advent and Lent were no longer formally recognized in Geneva, Calvin didn’t mind preaching a “topical” sermon or two. Still, no one in Geneva would’ve dared accuse Calvin of being a sentimentalist or a cultural Christian. From the time he arrived in Geneva in 1536, the reformer was wary of holding church services on Christmas Day. His reason, ironically, was Christ’s centrality. Across western Europe, Protestant leaders like Calvin had become convinced that the carousel of festivals and “holy days” on the Catholic liturgical calendar had injected superstition and idolatry into the church, replacing worship of Christ with legalism, ritualism, drunkenness, and idleness. Danger of Feast Days The reformers certainly had a point. While Christmas itself marked something good, in medieval Catholic Europe, it was part of a litany of other “religious” holidays that filled the calendar with false gods and false teachings. No one in Geneva would’ve dared accuse Calvin of being a sentimentalist or a cultural Christian. Alongside Christmas and Easter, there were four days of Advent, Epiphany, Ash Wednesday, 40 days of Lent, Ascension, Pentecost, and Corpus Christi. There were also saints’ days, All Saints’ Day, All Souls’ Day, seven major feasts to the Virgin Mary, and days commemorating each of the 12 apostles and the 14 auxiliary saints. In Geneva, there were even celebrations to commemorate minor saints. Almost 60 of these “holy days” could fill the schedule, distracting Christians from the simple, daily worship of Christ. As Calvin preached in one of his first sermons on Galatians: They worship both the apostles and the martyrs to such a degree that they rob God of his worship and service. It seems as if all that rightly belongs to God and that should be reserved for him is put on offer among them. For what distinction do they make between him and his creatures? They virtually dispose of the Lord Jesus Christ, by robbing him of the office that he has been given. For instead of acknowledging him as the Advocate who grants us access to God the Father, and applying to him to have their prayers and applications answered, they have an infinite multitude of advocates, patrons, and intercessors! Jesus Christ is no longer anything to them. Protestants were beginning to ground their faith in their attendance at feasts and their veneration of saints, not in the Lord. The church needed reformation. In Zurich, Huldrych Zwingli had attempted to lower the number of feast days to five (Christmas, Annunciation, martyrs, evangelists, prophets) but to no avail. In Strasbourg, Martin Bucer proposed to eliminate all religious holidays, with the exception of the Lord’s Day. When the Genevan magistrates mandated yearly observance of the four festivals of Christmas, the Circumcision of Christ, Annunciation, and Ascension, Calvin wasn’t opposed to celebrating Christmas in principle, but he feared that Genevans were still superstitious in their hearts, thinking somehow one day was more sacred than another. Putting Aside Superstition Finally, when Calvin returned from Strasbourg in 1541, he and his company of pastors worked to eliminate feast days from Geneva’s religious calendar. By 1545, Geneva’s magistrates expunged the feasts of the Circumcision of Christ, Annunciation, and Ascension. Five years later, the Consistory (the civil government over the laity) outlawed all religious holidays in the city, including the feast of Christmas. Geneva’s citizens were to treat Christmas like any other workday. Calvin wasn’t opposed to celebrating Christmas in principle, but he feared that Genevans were still superstitious. As one might imagine, the response wasn’t altogether positive. Among the outcry and complaining, some citizens even tried to argue that observance of Christmas was mandated in the Bible. Though these souls were reprimanded, change came slowly. As historian Bruce Gordon describes, “During Calvin’s time in Geneva he encountered a people who held hybrid religious beliefs derived from the new and old faiths, as well as from lore and popular traditions.” Not unlike 21st-century America, during Christmastime the sacred and the secular, faith and idolatry, were laced together in 16th-century Geneva. For this reason, Calvin preached to his congregants that the Sabbath, the Lord’s Day, was the true “holiday” for the church. This was the real sacred day. Instead of toiling, the church rested in Christ. Sunday was to be made holy by gathering under God’s Word with God’s people. Holiness Not in Holidays Yet even when Christmas was erased from the official religious calendar, Geneva never managed to completely wrest itself away from the holiday, unlike many Puritans in England. (In Scotland, they wouldn’t celebrate an official Christmas from 1560 to 1958). On Christmas Day of 1551, Calvin wasn’t thrilled to see that an unusually large number of people were present for the regular Tuesday service. He then pressed his hearers to consider Christ’s supremacy rather than the importance of days, warning them of the dangers of elevating one over another. Preaching from the book of Micah, Calvin rebuked his congregation for their superstition. Calling them “poor beasts,” he charged, In truth, as you have often been admonished, it is good to set aside one day out of the year in which we are reminded of all the good that has occurred because of Christ’s birth in the world, and in which we hear the story of his birth retold, which will be done Sunday. But if you think Jesus Christ was born today, you are crazed as wild beasts. For when you elevate one day alone for the purpose of worshiping God, you have just turned it into an idol. True, you insist that you have done so for the honor of God, but it is more for the honor of the devil. Calvin added, “For no day is superior to another. It matters not whether we recall our Lord’s nativity on a Wednesday, Thursday, or some other day.” If we come to church simply because it’s Christmas and not to extol the incarnate Son of God, Calvin reasoned, we’ve lost Christ himself. May we find our holiness not in holy days but in the Holy One of God.