There’s a moment early in the service when it’s quiet enough for me to hear it again: the Kyrie.
Lord, have mercy.
No explanation or commentary. It just shows up.
At times I’ve heard it as confession. At other times, as hope. Others hear it because they’ve always heard it. They don’t have to ask what it means. Maybe I’m getting there.
What I notice—again—is where it comes. Near the beginning. Not after we’ve sorted everything out. Not at the end, when we’ve arrived somewhere. It comes before all that.
I think that’s the plan.
Some people are steadied by what doesn’t have to be explained. They need rhythm, not definitions. They need to stand inside something without being asked to give their opinion about it. For them, mercy is something that can be received even before it’s named.
Others need something more direct. Silence can feel like accusation. If you don’t say what mercy means, they assume they’ve been judged. They’ve just had to learn to stay alert.
And then there are those who need both, in a certain order. Safety first. Then meaning. They need to know they can be here before they can ask why they are.
The liturgy doesn’t try to sort this out. It just puts the phrase into the room and lets it land where it needs to land.
Lord, have mercy.
Tonight—Christmas Eve—the Church doesn’t rush to define it. It doesn’t ask us to choose between needing forgiveness, or needing breath, or needing a second chance. Instead—and this changes everything—a child is placed in the story.
Before we’re asked to believe, before we’re asked to understand, there is someone here. Someone present.
And maybe that’s the whole point. The phrase has lasted this long not because it tells us what to feel, but because it makes space for what we already do.
It gives us a way to speak about our need before we have to understand it.
And this opens the room for all of us.