Once upon a time there was a little church — doesn’t matter where — could have been here — and that little church was holding Christmas Eve services. Just like we are. What a coincidence!

And just before the service started, the priest peeked out from one of the doors leading back to the sacristy to see who was there. (You see, it’s always interesting to see who will show up on Christmas Eve.)

So he peeked out, and the first face he saw was Mabel’s. He probably saw her first because she was right where he knew she’d be, sitting in her pew, in her place in the pew. Right where she was every Sunday. She was there so much that if she wasn’t there, he worried about whether she was sick. Mabel was the ultimate “Regular,” and she would never miss church on Christmas Eve.

The next thing that caught his eye was some movement in the pews. Kids. Already restless, anxious for it to start so it will end so they can get home so they can go to bed so they can wake up so they can — open presents.

Then the priest looked out and saw some folks he barely recognized. “Ah, the C-E Christians,” he thought. They showed up on Christmas and Easter, but not much any other time. He knew they fell into two camps: some of them came because it was just part of the season, part of Christmas, like having a tree and presents and listening to Jingle Bells; it just wouldn’t be Christmas without going to church on Christmas Eve.

And then, there were those C-E’s who came because they know this is an important religious holiday, and they would feel guilty if they didn’t at least do this much to acknowledge religion.

The priest was glad they were there. “I’ll take them any time I can get them,” he thought. But he also had given up years ago on trying to get them more involved.

Then he saw Annie. Annie was involved in the church. She smiled and was friendly, but every now and then, just for an instant, a look that rolled together fear and despair and desperation flashed across her face before she could snatch it back. The priest knew that Annie was depressed, and maintaining that smiling front was very hard for her. She didn’t believe that God could love her; she didn’t believe that anyone could love her. The priest looked at Annie and his heart broke, but he felt so helpless.

Then he saw Billy. Billy was a teenager. He couldn’t drive yet, so he was unable to escape from his parents, and family gatherings, and trips to church. You could take one look at him and see how he felt about it. The priest smiled to himself. “I remember being that angry,” he thought.

Behind Billy sat John. The priest was surprised to see him. He’d run into John at several parties in the neighborhood. John was highly educated and was usually itching to get the priest into a conversation about how Christianity was irredeemable and had been responsible for lots of terrible things, and many people who claimed to be Christians now were still doing terrible things. The priest rather enjoyed these debates (to a point), but was surprised to see John in church. Then he saw why. John was sitting next to his wife, who was sitting next to her mother. The priest knew the mother and realized that, metaphorically if not physically, she had dragged John in here by the ear. The look on John’s face confirmed it.

“Time to go,” someone said behind the priest. As he headed to the back of the church to begin the service, he thought, “Interesting crowd. Whatever gets them here, I’ll take it. And it is pretty amazing that this group of such different kinds of people would get together to focus on a birth two thousand years ago. But it’s not going to mean much to most of them. The regulars will expect it; the visitors won’t get it.”

But something happened at that service. No one knew why. It wasn’t the sermon; it wasn’t the music; it wasn’t the prayers. They were pretty much the way they were every year. But still this year was different. People said, “There was just something different in the air.” Some people said, “It was like the wind; you couldn’t see it, but you could sure feel it.”

What was different that year was that they didn’t focus on that birth two thousand years ago. Sure, they talked about it, but, somehow, the wind blew, and they didn’t focus on an old birth a long time ago. They focused, all of them, on new birth that night. For some reason, nobody knows why, they all asked themselves, really deeply asked themselves, “If God, God!, could come to be born in the midst of manure and hay to a peasant girl, is it possible that God would come to even me?”

And the kids thought, “Sure,” and felt that God was their companion in life, like a member of their family who loves them.

And the C-E Christians thought, “Maybe there’s more to this than pageantry or duty. Maybe, if God would really do that then, I should at least explore doing more now. Maybe I should let God be more a part of my life.”

And Annie thought, “I wonder if a God who would do that could understand how miserable I am?” And she felt that God did. She felt that God was with her. And, just a tiny bit, her smile relaxed.

And Billy thought, “I wonder if a God who would do that could understand how mad I am?” And he felt that God did. He felt that God was with him. And, just a tiny bit, his body relaxed.

And John, who had braced himself for the condemnation and exclusion he knew was coming, discovered to his chagrin that this wasn’t at all what he expected. And as he found himself in the midst of a people celebrating a God of peace and love who came in such humility, he couldn’t help but feel the wind, and allow himself to entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe things that upset John would upset Jesus too, even if, especially if, they had been done in his name. Slowly, John unfolded his arms.

Finally, there was Mabel, the “Regular.” It was ironic she was the toughest nut to crack. Mabel had been in church almost every Sunday for decades. It had meant a great deal to her. She hadn’t just been going through the motions. She had had spiritual awakenings; she had had breakthroughs. In fact, she was sure that she had gotten it. She was sure that she understood. She was sure that God could not do a new thing with her because God had already, a long time ago, done a new thing with her.

So she was the one who resisted the wind the most because, even though she felt it, she said, “It’s here for these other people.” But finally, the gift the wind gave her was a feeling of not being finished, of having work and growth yet to do. And when, finally, she felt that, she knew that God would be with her through it.

And the priest had a miracle too. He saw that thinking that, “The regulars will expect it; the visitors won’t get it,” dismissed God, counted out the wind.

And so, in that little church, on that night, there was a Christmas miracle. Not because there was a miraculous birth two thousand years ago, but because there was a miraculous birth that night. That night, in their own ways and in response to their own needs, those people each allowed God to come to them and be born into their lives.

That’s the story of that little church on that Christmas Eve. What will be the story of our church on this Christmas Eve? That, I think, depends on us. That, I think, depends on whether we will allow ourselves to feel the wind. That, I think, depends on whether, when we look at the manger, that symbol of a birth two thousand years ago, we can make a manger of our hearts this night.

I say it depends on us, not on God, because I know that God is here. God is here to do a new thing. God is here to come to us quietly, humbly, gently, as a babe. God is with us, not two thousand years ago, but this night.

It depends on us, not on God, because the decision is ours: will we let him in? Will you have — a Christmas miracle — this night?

The Rev. James H. Pritchett, Jr. St. John’s Episcopal Church, College Park, GA.