"The Holy Afterglow" - 01/05/2026

Last Sunday, the Christmas decorations came down. The work of setting everything up had taken time and care, yet taking it down went faster, as if the season itself had already begun to recede. The calendar turned, and January arrived with familiar weight. The world looked the same. The noise carried on. The mail still came. Even with a tree still standing and lights still glowing, something in the atmosphere had shifted, leaving behind a strange quiet question about what remains when celebration ends.


Scripture 
“Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”
- Hebrews 4:16 NIV


Reflection
There is a particular hush in the days after Christmas, a tenderness that can feel like loss even when nothing has been taken away. The colors remain, at least for a while. The tree still breathes its evergreen scent. A strand of lights still blinks patiently in a window. Yet the heart notices how quickly wonder can thin, how swiftly delight can become ordinary. What once felt radiant begins to feel like evidence of something already past.

The church knows this threshold. The calendar of faith does not hurry to dispose of Christmas, even when the world has moved on. It lingers over the mystery that God came near, not as an interruption to real life, but as the truest revelation within it. The Word made flesh does not belong only to a bright morning in late December. The Incarnation is a dwelling, a steady presence that continues when the last carol fades.

Hebrews speaks of a throne, yet not one ringed with dread. It names a “throne of grace,” a center of reality where kindness is not occasional, but sovereign. Grace in Korean is 은혜 (eunhye, grace), a gift that is not earned and cannot be repaid, a generosity that arrives because love chooses to give. Mercy is 자비 (jabi, mercy), compassion that bends toward weakness without contempt. In the post-holiday quiet, these words feel less like lofty theology and more like daily bread.

The verse does not pretend that need disappears after a holy day. It assumes the opposite. There will be “time of need,” seasons when energy is thin, when joy feels distant, when ordinary responsibilities return with their familiar insistence. The gift is not that life becomes easy, but that help is available, not guarded behind a locked door. The path toward God is described as approach, not achievement. Confidence is invited, not manufactured.

This is how Christmas continues. Not by extending the atmosphere, but by deepening the reality. Grace does not require twinkling lights to be real. It meets the kitchen table, the dim early evening, the quiet living room where the undecorated corner looks too bare. It meets the mind that is tired of headlines. It meets the heart that cannot summon the feeling it had a week ago. The throne of grace is not seasonal. It is present on an ordinary Tuesday, present in the slow work of starting again.

When the last ornament is stored away, the Holy One remains unboxed. When celebration gives way to routine, Christ continues to be given, not once, but always. Mercy is received. Grace is found. Help is real, and near, and sufficient for the next step.


Prayer
God of gentle nearness, in the quiet after celebration, let mercy be received without fear and grace be found without striving. Gather what feels scattered, steady what feels weary, and let the continuing gift of Christ accompany each ordinary day. Amen.