God Bless Us...Every(one)!

On December 19, 1843, Charles Dickens published his beloved novella, A Christmas Carol.  

In case you’re not familiar, this story follows Ebenezer Scrooge, a wealthy, selfish old man, who is visited by the ghost of his old business partner, Jacob Marley, and the spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come. Through these encounters, Scrooge undergoes a profound transformation, becoming a more compassionate and considerate person.

This Advent season at East End United, we’ve embraced A Christmas Carol as a central theme, reflecting on its powerful social commentary about poverty and the transformative potential of redemption, both personal and systemic. In Ebenezer Scrooge, we see a man who, on paper, seems to be an exemplary citizen: he runs a successful business, pays his taxes faithfully, and obeys the law. Yet, his character reveals how legal duty and moral responsibility can often be at odds with each other.

Many of you might have been present a little over a week ago for the dramatic reading of A Christmas Carol held right here. The choir and our guest musicians were magnificent. Our readers were fantastic. 

In preparation for this event, I spent a lot of time going through the text of this novella...and I discovered a couple of things. Firstly, the film adaptation that most closely follows the original story is the Muppet’s Christmas Carol from 1992 (although, the Alastair Sim version from 1951 will always hold a special place in my heart).  

The second is this: In some records of the text online, Tiny Tim, with a belly full of goose and pudding, exclaims “God bless us…everyone!” In others, “God bless us, every one!” 

Such a small thing, that space on the page, but grammar is important.  

And so one night, at 3:00am, I was lying awake in bed and my head started spinning (and spinning!) and thinking about the difference between a blessing for everyone, the collective of humanity, and for every one, each individual person.

In this moment,
when we gather together amidst the glow of candlelight,
there is a prayer we echo,
not just for one,
but for all.
For the multitude,
for the weary,
for the invisible,
for those pushed to the edges,
for those whose names are forgotten in the great sea of the world.
God bless us, everyone.

This is not the blessing of one heart,
but the blessing of all hearts,
together,
woven into a collective prayer for every life,
for every soul,
for every struggle,
and for every joy.
God bless us, everyone.

Yet, there is another prayer we sing—
the one we whisper,
the one we speak alone,
the one that rises from the quiet corners of our own lives,
where we feel most fragile.
It is the prayer for each of us,
not as part of a whole,
but as individual souls made tender by the world we carry inside.
God bless us, every one.

And what does that mean?
It means God blesses us,
as each of us is—
our hopes, our dreams, our fears,
our quiet ache,
our deep longing for love and peace.
Each one of us,
with our own story,
our own heartache,
our own joy.
God bless us, every one.

As we stand here,
in the shining of this season,
we remember that Jesus comes—
not in a world of perfection,
but in a world in turmoil.
He comes into the spaces that tremble,
where the pain within Palestine and Israel ripples through families,
where missiles fall on Ukraine and Russia,
where grief grips Sudan and Myanmar.
He comes for the queer child unsure how to tell their family,
the refugee looking for a place to call home,
the asylum seeker whose papers are ignored.
Jesus comes,
for them,
for us,
for every one.
For those whose names are lost to the wind.
Jesus comes for the collective,
and for each individual heart.
God bless us, everyone.
God bless us, every one.

The world is on fire,
the earth groans,
and yet, Jesus comes.
Jesus comes even as we feel the weight of the cold,
even as a woman named Mary is found frozen outside a Tim Hortons,
even as our food bank lines grow longer each Wednesday,
even as more and more gather at Out of the Cold seeking shelter, seeking warmth. Jesus comes.
Not for the masses alone,
but for each of us—
for every one who aches,
for every one who is cold,
for every one who is hungry.
Jesus comes not just in the grand sweep of history,
but in the tender moments of the here and now,
in the quiet,
the stillness,
the hunger of each individual heart.
Jesus comes, and says,
"I see you."
God bless us, everyone.
God bless us, every one.

In the birth of Jesus,
we remember the quiet miracle—
that God does not wait for all to be well before entering our lives.
God enters in the mess, the noise, the struggle.
Jesus was not born in a palace,
but in a humble place,
among farm animals,
in a space that had no room for him,
no room for his parents,
no place for a baby who would change the world.
But Jesus was born.
He was born for everyone,
and for every one.
Born not in luxury,
but among kin—
among those who knew the value of compassion,
the value of care.
Because while tradition has us tell this story in a different way,
a way that carries it’s own call,
his parents, they did not give birth alone.
They were surrounded by those who cared,
by a midwife,
by the animals who witnessed the miracle.
God bless us, everyone.
God bless us, every one.

It is easy to forget,
within the glitter of our holiday celebrations,
the deeper meaning of Christmas.
Jesus comes for everyone—
all of humanity,
the whole world,
but also for every one,
the ones we overlook,
the ones we pass by,
the ones whose struggles we do not see.
God bless us, everyone.
God bless us, every one.

And so we are called,
each of us,
to see the world as Jesus saw it,
to reach out,
to care for each person,
to welcome them,
to love them,
to see them for who they are.
To bless them,
as God has blessed us.
We are called to see not just the collective need,
but the individual heart.
To care for the whole,
and for every one,
including ourselves.
Jesus comes for us all—
and in his coming,
we are called to bless.
God bless us, everyone.
God bless us, every one.

And so, this Christmas Eve,
let us offer our hearts,
both as part of the great collective,
and as individuals as unique as each snowflake,
each of us needing the love that comes,
when the enfleshed God chooses to live among us.
May God bless the world— everyone, every one.
And may we, in turn, be a blessing to all.
God bless us, everyone.
God bless us, every one.