I like to imagine the faces of those who first hear the opening verses of John’s Gospel. What they hear must astonish them. In the highest philosophical language of their Greco-Roman culture, John declares that the Divine Word, present before the beginning of all else, has become incarnate. And that is not all. To everyone who wishes, the Word made flesh will give us power to become children of God. The listeners stare in rapt attention. Their faces fill with wonder.

Their expressions of wonder reflect precisely what John offers: the portrait of a nearly inexpressible wonder. He does this with captivating images: vast darkness and inextinguishable light; a person rejected, not known by the world yet shining with glory and still bringing that glory into the world. John’s words grip those early listeners, hold them still. This has always been so for this passage. It shows no shepherds, no wise men. It offers no angel song. We cannot shape it into an enticing Christmas pageant with costume-clad children and Mary, Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger. John shows none of this, yet his vast panorama pulses with the same world-changing truth as the Christmas narratives of Matthew and Luke. We know what occurs when this passage is read carefully in worship at Christmas. It happens every time. All who are listening fall silent.

That silence points the way to our own appropriate response. In quietness, we can take time to absorb what John shows here. Shall we perhaps read the passage again, very slowly? Perhaps we just sit with the wonder. We need not try to do anything. Let the wonder take hold of us within. Let God, through the wonder, work in us however God wills.