Editor’s note: A version of the following originally appeared in The Antrim Review.
By DAVE LEIN
A long time ago my father, our church’s pastor, offered a Christmas Eve sermon in which he said the greatest gift of Christmas – along with the birth of Jesus – is the gift of ourselves.
For a squirming youngster of 8 or 10, this thought caught my interest. I was at that pivotal age – between drawing pictures on church bulletins and napping in my mom’s lap to actually paying attention to what the familiar preacher was saying.
The gift of ourselves. That was an interesting thought. In my mind, if I showed up at someone’s door offering the gift of myself, most would probably pat me on the head and send me back home.
But Dad went on to talk about God working through us and using each of us to bless the lives of others. I wondered if he meant shoveling someone’s walk or mowing their lawn as an act of goodwill.
Well, sort of. That, he said, was a start. The harder part, which made the gift even more valuable, was setting ourselves aside – and what we thought should be done.
Some needs aren’t as obvious as others, and we shouldn’t assume to know exactly what to say or do when giving of ourselves.
Dad told the congregation that sometimes the best gift is simply being present – absent of any goals, agendas, game plans or catalog of answers. But it can also be the hardest gift to give.
For the most part, a desire to help others is human nature. Barring a sense of deep apathy or anger, our conscience tells us that we should do something to make things better. But too often that translates into a belief that we need to “fix” the situation, and that our fix will solve the problem.
If the problem seems too big, we tend to gravitate in the opposite direction, assuming that any fix we attempt would not make a difference.
Today, more than ever, we see the need to make a difference. But that need, without question, is overbearing. Often our reaction follows a standard approach: tossing spare change into a red kettle, making donations to charity groups or sacrificing a few hours for volunteer work. All admirable but limited to our respective means.
“Wish I could do more” is the thought that resonates but doesn’t seem to count for much in our own minds. The fix will always seem temporary, and impersonal.
I believe that’s the difference my dad was talking about. Real giving was without obligation, guilt or need for self-satisfaction. Essentially, it’s not really about us, he said. We’re simply the instruments, waiting in the wings for a greater purpose. And whether that involves listening, action, or just being present with someone during a time of need remains open.
Ultimately, it all hinges on our unrestricted willingness to sacrifice our own interests to serve others: the ability to make a difference without reservation or provocation. That’s what allows it to be personal and complete.
This, my dad said, is the greatest gift of Christmas – born in a manager under a starry sky in late December.
I remember because I drew a picture of it on a Christmas Eve bulletin.
