It is two days before Christmas, and the excitement and anticipation of what is to come in the following days is evident in the parish office: lights are strung about the tree in the corner, reflecting their soft light off of the glassy red ornaments; tins of candy line the reception counter; Christmas cards form a pile among the mess of papers on my desk.
             The phone rings. It is a call from the mortuary down the street. A parishoner has passed away. The family is in need of a funeral for next week. The secretary expresses her condolences, then informs them that I will be available.
             A few minutes later, another call. A different funeral home across town with the same request for the same day next week.
            By the end of the afternoon, a total of five funeral requests had been received and agreed to for the week after Christmas.

            Now there were shepherds in that region living in the fields and keeping the night watch over their flock.

            I am up early on Christmas morning to unlock the church building, before the delayed dawn in this time of year. A joy, mingled with sorrow and worry, fills my heart and churns my stomach as I step into the sanctuary. Everything is dark, save for the quiet red light that flickers softly by the Tabernacle. I feel my way over to the life-size nativity scene and click on the power strip.

            The angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them. The angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid’…

            I gaze at the infant in the manger. My God, what a mystery! Omnipotent, yet constricted by swaddling bands. All rich in his divinity, yet poor in the food trough. Author of all things, yet held by his creature.
            Emmanuel.
            “Mary and Joseph suffered terrible circumstances at the birth of the Lord, yet were at peace. How did they do this? The presence of Emmanuel.” These were the words I spoke last night at the midnight mass.
            I can hear myself swallow.
            Do I believe them? “O Lord, help me to live them!”
           
            This life was the light of the human race; the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

            The casket at the first funeral is open. After greeting the family, I walk up to the body. I lay my hand on the forehead and close my eyes, then trace out the sign of the cross.

            And the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.

            I look at the faces of family after family from behind the pulpit. “Born for your loved one to die for your loved one. In the darkness, light broke forth, as it breaks forth now. We have a savior.”

           Suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host with the angel, praising God and saying: Glory to God in the highest!

            Incense rises before the crucifix above the caskets, along with the voices of the choir: may Christ who called you, take you to himself. May angels lead you to the bosom of Abraham.

           At the graveside, I sprinkle holy water into a newly opened tomb, and pray that it be a place of resurrection to life. A place of birth unto eternity.
           I return to the manger scene at Church and again look down at Emmanuel. That dark night in Bethlehem, a child born from a virgin womb caused light to break forth in the darkness. Later, he would be born from a virgin tomb, a light from a Sun that would never set.
           I look up from the crib and see the vigil light again by the Tabernacle.

           And the darkness has not overcome it. The darkness has not overcome it.