The Holy Chaos of Showing Up

Some weeks, just getting to church feels like its own minor miracle. I’ve been thinking about that a lot as our Christmas pageant draws near, the sheer effort it takes for families or really anyone to walk through our doors on a Sunday morning.

Two working parents, kids in cleats or skates or dance shoes, lunches to pack, sleep to catch up on, a mountain of December to-do lists, and yet somehow people still come.
Once, a neighbour with three small children said to me, “Church is a commitment you have to make a priority each and every week, otherwise it just won’t happen.”

She was right. But her words aren’t just for families, they’re for anyone who chooses to carve out this sacred hour. Anyone who whispers, I need this, even when life pulls hard in every direction.

And honestly, that commitment fills me with gratitude.

Because this Sunday is one of my favourites of the entire year: Joy Sunday, crowned with the glorious, holy chaos of our children’s Christmas pageant.

We have enough children in our congregation for a Christmas pageant. What a beautiful gift. The sight of tiny shepherds in crooked headpieces and angels with askew halos absolutely delights me. Delight, what a strangely old-fashioned, almost forgotten word. And yet, I can’t think of a better one. Their presence is delight wrapped in tinsel and held together with safety pins.

I scheduled the pageant for Joy Sunday on purpose.
Because how can you not feel joy when more than twenty children burst into the story, wide-eyed and earnest, stumbling beautifully through the greatest mystery ever told. Even if the season already feels too heavy, even if your heart arrived this morning a little bruised, something in this pageant softens us. Lifts us. Reminds us.

There is a particular kind of joy that arrives disguised as a child trying their very best.
A child who believes, without hesitation, that this story matters.
A child who trusts we’ll listen.

And this year, we have a treat: The One Wise Sheep.
Yes. You read that correctly. Not a wise man. A wise sheep.
Let’s just say this story-within-the-story proves that wisdom sometimes arrives with a woolly wig, a slight stage fright tremble, and a line that may or may not be whispered too quietly for the microphone. And somehow that only makes it better. The kids have been rehearsing with a seriousness that would make the Stratford Festival jealous and a creativity only children could dream up.

There is wonder in that.
There is grace in that.
There is God in that.

And beneath all the giggles and crooked costumes is the quiet truth that keeps tugging at me this week: joy doesn’t always come easily; sometimes it comes because we choose to show up.
Even tired.
Even stretched thin.
Even wondering if we belong in the story anymore.

But then the lights come up, and a wandering sheep toddles across the chancel, and suddenly we remember:
God delights in us.
Joy is still possible.
The world, even with all its heaviness, still holds moments that shine.

So thank you.
Truly.
Thank you for the commitment it takes to show up.
Thank you for giving these kids a community to grow into.
Thank you for letting their joy become yours for a few shimmering minutes.

This Sunday, may you be surprised by delight.
May joy find you in the chaos.
And may the One Wise Sheep lead you, in its own wonderfully wobbly way, a little closer to the manger.

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