This past week, David Brooks wrote a column in The New York Times titled The Shock of Faith: It’s Nothing Like I Thought It Would Be. He describes his journey from agnosticism to faith through profound spiritual experiences. His reflections on awe and wonder inspired me to share one of my own, often unveiled on Christmas Eve.

During my pastoral ministry, Christmas Eve meant multiple worship services, complete with special music, stunning decorations—including a towering Christmas tree—familiar hymns, and glowing candles. The evening service, held in the quiet of night, was nearly the same each year: beloved carols, Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth, and a sermon on God dwelling among us. But the true awe came at the end.

The sanctuary would darken, save for the Christmas tree and altar candles. From the Christ candle, I would light a single flame, passing it to the ushers, who then shared it with the congregation. As I stood at the front, I watched the light spread, illuminating each face. Together, we softly sang Silent Night: “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.” Tears often filled my eyes as the glow of God’s light and love radiated through the room—a moment of awe so profound I wished it could last forever. But like all moments, it passed. The song ended, candles were extinguished, and we went home to celebrate Christmas.

Like Brooks, I believe spiritual experiences are a key gateway to the holy. Yet, they are fleeting and unpredictable. By sharing this, I hope I haven’t burdened your Christmas Eve with too much expectation. My growing practice of Centering Prayer (a Christian form of silent meditation based on Matthew 6:6) has taught me to be patient and wait in silent hope. I wait in hope, knowing that God’s presence can be found anywhere: in a darkened church, a triumphant Joy to the World, a sleeping grandchild, or even in the uncertainty of a hospital room.

God enters all of life. Are we open to entering those experiences?