The Sound of Holiness – Christmas Eve

There is a particular quiet that settles in on Christmas Eve—a kind of hush that feels heavier than silence. It is not the absence of sound, but the presence of something deeper. The house finally stills. The glow of Christmas lights softens the corners of rooms that have carried weeks of motion. The lists are finished. The preparations pause. The noise settles.

Christmas Eve is the time many families gather together and enjoy being in the presence of one another. Our family shares this tradition. The rooms become full of laughter, but there is a stillness that comes afterwards that almost demands a pause.

Christmas Eve is a reminder of the quiet pause before the celebration. And in that pause, something sacred begins to surface.

We often treat Christmas as a single moment—one day, one morning, one burst of joy. But Christmas Eve reminds us that transformation rarely happens in an instant. It happens in thresholds. In transitions. In the quiet spaces where nothing looks complete yet, but everything is already unfolding.

Christmas Eve is the night that so many are filled with anticipation. Social media becomes filled with one image after another of Christmas Trees being filled with gifts. Christmas Eve represents an evening of quiet anticipation. This is the night of waiting.

I am reminded of what waiting looked like in the Bible before the birth of the Savior. Israel waited—longer than anyone wants to wait. Generation after generation lived with promises spoken but not yet fulfilled. Isaiah described a people “walking in darkness,” not because God had abandoned them, but because light had not yet broken through (Isaiah 9:2). Darkness was not the absence of God; it was the setting in which hope was being formed. Waiting is not everyone’s strong suit.

Mary waited too. Not with certainty, but with trust. Scripture tells us she “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). That word pondered is important. It suggests reflection, uncertainty, holding mystery without resolution. Mary did not rush the moment. She stayed with it. Reflection is so often needed during our moments of waiting.

Joseph waited. The shepherds waited. Even heaven seemed to wait—until the right moment, when angels would speak into a dark field and say, “Do not be afraid” (Luke 2:10).

God has always done His deepest work before anything looks miraculous. In the “Christmas Eve” moments of our life, there is an opportunity for us to hear the sound of holiness.

We often imagine holiness as something loud—dramatic, unmistakable, emotionally charged. Some associate holiness with works and those who check all the boxes and praise the loudest are somehow holier. We look for it in certainty and clarity, in confidence and control. But the story of Christmas quietly reshapes our expectations. Holiness does not arrive on a throne; it arrives in vulnerability. It does not demand attention; it draws near. It does not overwhelm the senses; it invites the heart. Holiness is found in humility.

“The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14).

Not rushed.

Not announced to the powerful.

But quietly—present, embodied, near.

The sound of holiness is not always praise.

Sometimes it is reverence.

Sometimes it is stillness.

Sometimes it is simply presence.

On Christmas Eve, holiness sounds like the quiet home awaiting the morning celebration. Holiness is like settling in on the couch with your favorite blanket, the lights twinkling on the tree, and reflecting on the past year, all the things that went right and the things that didn’t. Holiness embraces the stillness and the rest you desire. It sounds like allowing yourself to be human in the presence of a God who chose to be human too.

For many, this season is not easy. It is overstimulating, emotionally demanding, and quietly draining. There is pressure to feel joyful. Pressure to be present. Pressure to perform peace while carrying stress, loss, anxiety, or fatigue beneath the surface. There are memories that our hearts only wish were moments again.

The beauty of Christmas Eve is that it gently resists that pressure. It’s the pause of peace we all desire. It almost demands both pause and patience.

It reminds us that God does not enter the world with urgency. He does not ask us to fix ourselves before He comes near. He meets us as we are—tired, uncertain, longing, and still waiting.

“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

Rest is not found in resolution. It is found in nearness.

Some are not as receptive to this evening of stillness and silence. Silence makes some of us uncomfortable because it invites honesty. In quiet moments, what we’ve been holding back often rises to the surface. That can feel unsettling—but it can also be healing. Stillness is not inactivity; it is awareness. It is allowing God to meet us beneath the noise we use to cope. That invites us to ask ourselves if Christmas has become another coping mechanism of chaos?

The truth is that Christmas is our calling to holiness and Christmas Eve sets the tone. Tonight, holiness may sound like sitting in a dim room with the lights still glowing. It may sound like reading the nativity story slowly, without commentary or hurry. It may sound like lighting a candle, placing your feet on the floor, and taking a deep breath—acknowledging both what you are carrying and who is carrying you. It may sound like your favorite Christmas movie playing, or maybe your holiday playlist. The good news is that there is a simplicity to holiness. None of it has to be impressive. None of it has to be loud. “For we wait for it with patience” (Romans 8:25). Let tonight be your moment of embracing the sound of holiness in your home.

Christmas morning will come. The gifts will be opened. The laughter will return. The noise will rise again. But tonight—before the celebration, before the fullness, before the song—this moment matters deeply.

Tonight, God is already here.

Tonight, we embrace peace.

The sound of Holiness doesn’t require the ability to holler, but a willingness to hush.

From my family to yours, Merry Christmas Eve!