The Church is adept at using time itself to teach its lessons.
In the Northern Hemisphere, Lent coincides with the bitter end of winter, and Easter with the start of spring. The month of dead leaves, November, is the month of the dead — and May, the month of abundant life, is the month of Mary, the New Eve, mother of all the living.
The Church gets this from God, who himself uses time to teach us lessons — the seasons teach death and resurrection, youth and old age, God’s providence, and his judgement.
Here are a few things we can learn from contemplating December 25.
First: He teaches a lesson by not coming on December 21.
The claim began to be made in the last century or so that the Church set December 25 as the feast of Christmas to counteract a pagan holiday. We now know that probably isn’t true, but it never made sense anyway. The Winter Solstice, December 21, was always the better candidate if you wanted to do that.
When my wife had a major stroke on December 21, 2021, the most consoling thing we heard was from a friend whose husband had suffered a stroke, years before, on the same date. She pointed out that it was the longest night of the year, so it was “The day after which each day is brighter.”
That is the meaning of December 21: God found a way to arrange the solar system such that he promises brighter days ahead. When God is already speaking to us through his sun, it would be redundant to add his Son.
But, second: He teaches a pro-life lesson by putting Christmas on December 25.
We think of Christmas as being the major holiday of Christ’s incarnation, but it isn’t.
When St. John says “The Word was made flesh,” he’s describing the Annunciation, March 25, when Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit.
From early on, that day was considered the key to history, so it was placed at the time of his death and resurrection — March 25 for Catholics. Christmas just happens to be nine months later.
But St. John also says the Word “dwelt among us” — a phrase we hear on Christmas morning, because the date he emerged from the womb is important too. And that date is four days after the Winter Solstice.
Third, God wants us to know that his timing is not ours.
Reading the story of the Old Testament, you might expect the Messiah to come a lot sooner. It seems like he should come soon after the promises to Abraham, or to Moses, or to David. But he doesn’t. Each of these heroes declines and fades, and Israel grows disobedient again. Then it is exiled and returns, and is conquered and conquering again.
Christ comes after all the human plots have resolved without him. He comes not when his people most deserve him or most need him, but at a moment of mediocre capitulation to the comparatively mild Roman rule.
You see this in life, too: People tend to die not when they are in the spotlight of their lives’ biggest victories, but years later when they have been superseded and forgotten. It is as if God wants them to see, while alive, that their life is not about them.
God’s timing always makes the point that he is the main character of history, not us.
Fourth, as he himself points out, God wants us to expect him not when it makes sense, but all the time.
Christ says he will come like a thief in the night. He says it again and again, then St. Paul and St. Peter repeat it — and Revelation says it twice more for good measure.
The meaning is clear in every case: Jesus doesn’t want us to know when he will come — because he loves us.
As St. Hilary of Poitiers commented on one of these passages, “The thief is the devil who seeks to invade our bodily homes. … It is good therefore that we be prepared. Our ignorance of the day of Christ’s return should provoke us to be careful as we eagerly await his coming.”
He won’t come when we expect him. He will come when we don’t. So we should keep his enemy at bay always.
