On this Christmas morning, Advent does not end so much as it opens—into something vast, luminous, and uncontainable. And let us pause to say this plainly: we made it. The candles have been lit (in the right order, more or less), the calendars have been followed, the waiting has been waited. Advent, in all its holy patience and gentle restraint, has finally brought us here.
We live in a world deeply aware of limits. Time runs out. Resources thin. Even our Advent discipline can feel long by week three—when we are still singing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” and resisting the urge to jump straight to joy. Yet Christmas arrives with good news: God is not limited by our impatience, our fatigue, or our quiet counting of days. God arrives anyway, bearing the gift of the endless.
Endless mercy, born among animals and strangers.
Endless compassion, crying in the dark.
Endless love, small enough to be held, strong enough to redeem.
The miracle of the Incarnation is not simply that God comes close—but that God never stops coming. In Jesus, eternity does not hover above humanity; it kneels beside it. The endless God takes on the rhythms of breathing and sleeping, growing and waiting—yes, even waiting, just like we have been doing all Advent long.
Christmas morning reminds us that God’s promises are not exhausted by our failures, nor diminished by our doubts—or by our relief that we can finally sing the big hymns with full voice. The grace revealed in the manger does not run out by nightfall. It is poured out again and again—in forgiveness that keeps returning, in hope that refuses to be extinguished, in love that outlasts fear and death itself.
To receive this child is to step into an endless journey. We are invited to live as people shaped not by scarcity, but by abundance; not by finality, but by promise. The waiting is over, but the wonder has only just begun.
So today, let us rest in the joy of arrival and the relief of fulfillment. Let us laugh a little, sing boldly, and trust that the light born this morning will keep shining—through ordinary days, through uncertain years, and through every ending we fear.
Inner Altar 