I am sure that part of what attracted me to a lifetime of bible study is my love of complex thought. I often would unpack various scripture passages for the congregations I served by helping them understand the historical context of those passages. In the Gospels, Jesus often quotes the prophets. While the history of the Exile would have been well known to Jewish listeners to the Gospels, it isn’t always known by members of contemporary congregations. And the history of the Gospels and their choice of emphases is influenced not only by the history of the Exile but also by the subsequent rise of apocalyptic literature in the Hebrew Scriptures. I can go on and on about the complex relationships and the many-layered nature of history,

I’ve also preached a lot of sermons about the different audiences for the four Gospels and how the choice and order of stories in each Gospel is tailored to the audience. If often took a fairly simple route to drawing meaning from the scriptures: I’d ask, “What was the situation when it was first written?” and “What was the meaning in its original context?” Then I would go on to the situation now and the meaning now.

There are, however, occasions when little or no interpretation is the best way to encounter scripture. While I could go into significant detail in my expositions of the scriptures during Advent, telling the congregation about the cultural reasons why Matthew focuses on Joseph the father of Jesus and Luke dismisses Matthew in favor of Mary. I might point out that Joseph gets no speaking lines in the Gospels, while Mary has her own song. Luke likes songs. Elizabeth, Zechariah, and Mary all get songs in Luke. I’ve been known to unpack the translation of the “Inn” in Luke’s Gospel, which does not refer to a public house, but rather the guest space in the same home as the place where Jesus was born. He was not born in a separate barn. There was a simple two room building constructed on a hillside with the upper room (translated Inn) in some versions of the gospel, a place for guests and a lower room a place for cooking, gathering, and bringing animals indoors when required. The upper room was crowded, presumably because all of the family had been forced to gather for the registration ordered by Caesar Augustus. The baby was wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger. The animals were not in the house at the time. A few verses later Luke reports that the shepherds were out in the fields with the flocks that night.

And despite the lovely children’s carol, “The Friendly Beasts,” a poor family could not have afforded a cow. And if Mary and Joseph had found a donkey, it would have been tethered outside.

But on Christmas Eve, I never went into any of those details. I simply told the story as it comes to us in the second chapter of Luke’s gospel. It is just 20 verses, easily memorized and I recited it from memory on many occasions. On Christmas Eve, we didn’t venture into complex thoughts. We allowed a few words, a few carols, a few candles, and enough time for silence to carry us to a place of awe that is beyond words. There are other times and places for unpacking the layers of meaning.

The stories come from a time in our history when people didn’t give much thought to babies. Children often weren’t named as infants because the infant mortality rate was so high that people learned not to get attached too quickly. Babies were born at home with the assistance of midwives. The men usually weren’t present for the birth. And children spent their early years with the women, until they grew old enough to work and contribute to the family. And yet, here we have stories that emphasize the naming of the infant, that speak simply of pregnancy and birth, that talk directly about the awe and wonder that accompanied the birth. These are not common stories for that time.

We know, however, that every birth is a moment awe and wonder. Whether the place is a high tech hospital or a simple home, the coming of a new life into the world always fills witnesses with awe. It isn’t just the immediate family. Shepherds and Magi were inspired to awe and worship in the stories we tell. It was as if all of the angels in heaven were singing for joy. I know that feeling. I’ve been there to witness it. I’ve been handed infants to hold moments after their birth. I’ve looked at tiny fingers and toes and into tiny eyes. I don’t have words for the wonder and awe that have overwhelmed me on those occasions.

We can, of course, analyze events after the fact. We can speak of the vulnerability of newborn human beings. We can spout theories about how the cuteness of a baby is a survival technique. They inspire love because they need love in order to survive. There are, however, times when we have no need for analysis. Christmas Eve is one of those occasions. We don’t need to unpack the story. All we need to do is to tell the story. Different people may understand the story on different levels. That is wonderfully acceptable. The occasion does not require agreement or consistent analysis. What is needed is to tell the story that somehow through simple words has been conveying awe and wonder to our people for thousands of years.

Most of the time when I led worship on Christmas Eve, I ended the service with the poetic language of the prologue to the Gospel of John. It can sound like a convoluted argument with circles about the Word and flesh and being in the world but not being known by the world. But it leads to that same sense of awe: “And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.”

Acknowledging the glory is enough.