The fourth gospel describes this gift like this: “The Word became flesh and lived among us.”  What shows up, on Christmas, in Jesus, isn’t a new religion or a tidy set of beliefs to memorize. It’s life itself. Breathing, wiggling, stubbornly hopeful life.

The kind of life that wakes us up from the inside out.

When Jesus enters the story, God’s life enters with him— with a light spilling into the darkest corners. It’s not reserved for a few or fenced in by belief systems. It’s offered to everyone. Everywhere. Right here. Right now.  That’s the gift. God isn’t distant and abstract. Instead, God comes to us, moved into the neighborhood. In a vulnerable, small and swaddled baby.

Now let that sink in. God comes to us, needing care, needing arms. God trusts us, the goodness of our hearts, to do what’s being asked.

And what are we being asked to do? To be the gift of presence.

This is important to me. You see, I’m not a great shopper when it comes to buying gifts for my wife. She knows it, and as long as Macy’s takes returns, she has accepted that in me.

The nativity story reminds me that my taste in sweaters doesn’t matter. The most meaningful gifts aren’t the ones in the box, but the person who is holding it. They come wrapped in fleece jackets and scuffed shoes. They come labelled with calloused hands and gentle eyes. Inside them, you’ll find wounds and wisdom and a willingness to show up again and again, day-after-day.

We often think our gifts need to be something big and impressive or at least Instagram-worthy. But the presence God tends to trust are the quiet ones we often overlook in ourselves.

Your patience. Your gentleness. Your way of noticing who’s being left out. Your humor that shows up right when things feel heavy. Your courage to sit with someone in pain without trying to fix them. These aren’t talents. These are pieces of your heart. Parts of you that only you carry.

The ancient poet Hafiz wrote, “I wish I could show you, when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing light of your own being.” This sounds exactly like what I hear God whispering to us, “I trust you with my light. Let it shine.”

So as we stand on the edge of Christmas morning, I invite you to ask yourself: What is the gift only I can offer?

Like I mentioned, it might be your laughter—or the way you listen, or how you sit with someone until they feel seen. Maybe it’s your faithfulness—the way you keep showing up, even when your own life feels heavy. Maybe it’s your creativity, your wisdom, your kindness, your grit. We all have a gift that can be unwrapped every day. God isn’t asking us to be impressive or perfect. Just present. And willing to be here now with a heart open to love.

When we look at the manger, we see the pattern for our lives. God could have come in power, in glory. But instead, God came small. And God came close. God came as a presence that heals, holds, redeems, and loves no matter what.

When we show up offering our gifts—our presence—we become a holy and sacred space for each other. A place where love can show up because you keep showing up.

As Jesus will grow up to show us most of God’s work happens in ordinary people, in the places where no one is taking pictures. That’s where Jesus sends us—into life itself. Taking a slow walk with someone who’s grieving. Leaving a bag of groceries at a doorstep. Offering a prayer on someone’s behalf. Choosing to forgive when you could have chosen something else.

These are the small openings where Christmas sneaks in. Where Christ is born in us for the healing and salvation of the world.

We all play a part in the nativity story. God has called us to be like Mary, giving birth to God’s incarnate love. And to be like Joseph, whose quiet obedience makes room for peace to enter the world. And God has called us to be like Jesus, giving flesh and blood to Christ’s light.

You are God’s gift. Not because of what you do. But because God’s love chose to take shape in you, too.

So may this holy night invite you to unwrap the gift of your own life.

May you offer your tenderness where the world is aching. May you offer your courage where someone feels small. And may you step out into the night—with the light of hope, love, joy, peace, and Christ breaking through the darkness; so the world can see that our Emmanuel isn’t just a promise. It’s a practice. And presence.

It’s God with us and God within us becoming gifts to one another. Merry Christmas, beloveds. May love be born in you again tonight.

Merry Christmas

​Like his Old Testament namesake, Joseph is a dreamer.

But his dreams are anything but comforting. The first one he has we learn he’s going to be a father to a kid who isn’t his. Now, Matthew gives us three more dreams. They're less visions of hope and more  like nightmares to dread.
 
In the first, he’s told that King Herod wants his child dead. And Joseph knows Herod has the power—and the cruelty—to make it happen. What this dream tells us is that the Christmas story isn’t all shiny and sentimental. It’s political. It’s dangerous. It’s soaked in fear, risk, and courage.
 
Joseph isn’t given visions of sugarplums. He’s given commands and escape routes. “Get up. Take the child and his mother and flee…”

​And that’s exactly what he does. And just like that, the Holy Family becomes a refugee family, fleeing those who want to harm them.
 
Now, put yourself in Joseph’s sandals. You’re young, poor, and responsible for two more lives. You hustle to grab whatever supplies you can get your hands on before anyone discovers what you’re doing.
 
The mother of your newborn is sleep deprived, postpartum, terrified. And your son is restless, defenseless, and vulnerable born into a world where kings harm children just to protect their own power.
 
Frightened, confused, and scared, your body tenses every time a soldier passes by.  You don’t know who you can trust, or who will turn you in. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder: where’s this peace the angels had promised?
 
Scholar Robert Gundry suggests it’s already on its way—because the one who will usher peace into the world has escaped. Peace is coming from the most unlikely place, and the most unlikely king but we will have to wait.
 
Now, put yourself in Mary’s shoes. You’re a young girl who doesn’t have her family around to teach you how to be a mother but instinctively you know you will do anything to protect your child.

Imagine waiting for peace to come, while having to hide in a foreign land, where you don’t know anyone and you don’t speak the language. Yet Mary trusts God—just as she did the night she learned she was pregnant. In that trust, she will find hope, love, joy—and peace.
 
When Mary says yes, she might not know where the road will lead, but she knows who walks with her as she carries God’s incarnate love close to her breast. Somehow, that is enough to steady her heart as they seek refuge in Egypt.
 
Advent is a time we look within our darkest moments for faith that will see us safely through.
 
The faith we see in the Holy Family is the same carried by so many families today who are forced to flee their homeland because staying has become more dangerous than leaving.

​Thankfully for us, Egypt doesn’t turn them away. Their role in Israel’s history is redeemed for a moment, fulfilling what the prophet Hosea had said, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.”
 
Advent reminds us that God doesn’t abandon people in their fear, but God meets us there with an open heart and hands. Jesus calls us to do the same for each other. To see families fleeing violence and war not as strangers to hate, but as neighbors to love and care for while we wait for the peace the angels promised.
 
Jesus knows what it is like to be displaced. To be hunted. To be unwelcome. He knows the cruelty humans are capable of inflicting on one another.

And yet, through it all, he embodies God’s peace—not by taking up the sword, but by choosing love and mercy; by practicing compassion and kindness; by welcoming the poor, the oppressed, and the aliens residing in the land.
 
Fr. Greg Boyle, founder of Homeboy Industries, says, “There is no force in the world better able to alter anything from its course than love.”  Fear won’t do it. Neither will domination, outrage, or violence. Just love.

While king’s like Herod transmitted fear through violence. Jesus transforms it through love. And by his love, God’s shalom—God’s perfect wholeness, healing, restoration—is woven into life, into us.
 
Joseph will go on to have two more dreams—one leading the family back toward Israel. And another that sends them farther north, into Galilee, to a small, overlooked town called Nazareth.

 For nearly thirty years, the world will wait, while God hides the Prince of Peace in obscurity. Scripture is almost silent about those years, but the silence itself tells us something important. God continues to work in places that seem hidden to us.
 
This story tells us, if God can protect this child through danger, displacement, and even obscurity, then God can meet you in whatever mess you’re carrying today.

Peace doesn’t always arrive all at once. Sometimes it grows quietly, beneath the surface, while we wait. But again, this is where we find our faith hiding in the deepest, darkest depths of our soul.
 
We are given candles to lite at Advent, so we can see in the darkness, and find the truth that through the birth of Jesus, peace has come. And through the mystery of his resurrection, peace will come again. But it’s in the space between Christmas and Easter that we find ourselves still longing for what the angels promised.
 
Joseph reminds us that faith doesn’t always come with clarity. He receives dreams, not a map or plan. And like Mary, he trusts God enough to act before everything makes sense.

Joseph never speaks a recorded word in Scripture, yet he keeps responding. He listens. He trusts. And he moves. He just keeps saying yes. And somehow, his quiet obedience makes room for peace to enter the world.
 
Joseph isn’t asked to save the world. He’s just called to protect the One who will; the one God has placed in his care. By his faithfulness, peace is preserved. And God’s Shalom keeps moving forward—shaping the world into God’s kingdom.
 
That’s the gift Jesus names when he says, “My peace I give to you. Not as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid” (John 14:27).

The world’s peace is temporary, conditional, transactional. It depends on circumstances lining up just right. Jesus’ peace is relational. Durable. Resurrection-shaped. It doesn’t depend on everything going right. It depends on staying rooted in love, and protecting that love, even when the worldly kings say otherwise. 

So, we ought not look to the world for God’s shalom—the world cannot give us this kind of peace. But Jesus can. And Jesus does.
 
And here’s the thing to remember: Jesus shows us this peace not by escaping the world, but by loving it fiercely, generously, inclusively, without conditions.

Jesus calls us to be people who choose love when fear is easier. And to welcome others and make room for them as neighbors and family no matter who they are or where they’re from.
 
As we face the chaos in our world, our communities and homes, let us remember it was Jesus who said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” (Matthew 5:9).

If we want God’s peace in our lives, let us faithfully follow the One who blesses it.
 
By saying yes, our response allows us to become the light of God’s glory. And to shine brightly, even into the darkness spaces, so others can find hope, experience love, express joy, and be filled with peace that surpasses all understanding.
 
As you head back, out into the noise and the rush and the unfinished list of things to get done, may these words from Paul steady your steps: “Rejoice. Be made complete. Be comforted. Live in peace; and the God of love and peace will be with you” (c.f. 2 Cor. 13:11). 

We first meet John at the beginning of Advent—the long-awaited miracle child of Zechariah and Elizabeth. Like his father, John becomes a priest.

But his ministry isn’t inside the Temple. It’s outside—in the wilderness, of all places. There among the wanderers, the wounded, and the ones society writes off, John calls people to repent— to wake up and be cleansed of their old ways of thinking and doing — and step into something new.
 
Now we find him somewhere completely different—in prison. Because a deeply insecure king, didn’t appreciate John’s critique of him, so he was arrested.
 
When John’s disciples visit him, they share news about Jesus. We don’t know what they said, but whatever it was, it shook John’s faith. The same man who had publicly pointed at Jesus and said, “This is the One,” now sits in the darkness not so sure.

This can happen when your joy feels like it’s been stuffed in a sack and dragged away by the Grinch.
 
But it shouldn’t surprise us how easy it can be to miss the Messiah. I mean, God slipped into the world as a baby unnoticed. And we still have trouble seeing the divine among us.

But in all fairness, if I sent you to find the Messiah, what would you look for? A miracle worker? A warrior? A TED-talking influencer with millions of followers?
 
I think one of the problems is Jesus doesn’t fit the job description. We often miss Christ among us because we’re usually looking for the wrong messiah. (Rohr) We want one who blesses our plans and spites our enemies. But Jesus isn’t that kind of Savior.
 
So when John’s disciples ask him, “Are you the One?” Jesus doesn’t tweet his accomplishments or send out his press secretary to embellish the truth. He just says, “Look around. And go tell John what you’ve seen.”

And the list is extensive: The blind are seeing. The lame are walking. The outcasts are coming back. The dead are living. And the poor are finally receiving good news.
 
Jesus is basically telling them, wherever life is being stitched back together, wherever love is shared—you’ll see who Jesus is, what salvation is about. And wherever Christ is, joy abounds.
 
Scripture is full of examples: all those folks who ran off rejoicing after Jesus healed them, disobeying his orders not to tell anyone; the numerous psalms that talk about creation rejoicing all around us; the prophet Isaiah wrote, “The mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands” (Isaiah 55:12).

All this tells me that in the space between our suffering and healing, there is joy because God is here with us; even in the darkness that always seems to come before the dawn.
 
Now, another reason I think we miss seeing joy around us is we tend to confuse it with happiness. They might look similar, but they’re woven from two very different threads. The Bible speak about happiness less than a dozen times. But joy, in one form or another, appears over 430 times.

Happiness is a mood; joy is a presence. Happiness visits. It comes and goes. But Joy abides even when we can’t see it or feel it.
 
Jesus asks, “What are you looking for? What were you hoping to find? Someone who bends with the wind? Someone wrapped in soft robes living the good life?”

The thing is, we tend to look for Jesus, and joy, in all the wrong places: like among the rich and famous; and politicians whose opinions shift with whatever’s trending.
 
If you want to find Jesus, Rohr says, “Don’t look up. Look down.” Look at the lowly. Not the wealthy. Look at the one’s you try to avoid, not the one’s you want to emulate. This is where Jesus keeps relocating himself. And wherever Jesus is you will find joy.

Saint Francis knew this. Mother Teresa knew this. Dr. King knew this. They didn’t show up for the poor out of guilt. They showed up because that’s where Christ keeps showing up.
 
Christ’s joy is in the immigrant looking for a safe place to land. In the addict begging for one more chance. You’ll find Christ’s joy is in the LGBTQ+ teen who wants to dance without fear. And in the neighbor whose politics piss you off. Christ’s joy is in you, even when it seems fleeting.
 
Which brings to another problem. I think we spend too much time looking inward to find our joy. And when we can’t easily find it, we’re left feeling empty, or like the Grinch who wants to rob others of their joy.
 
Jesus says, look outward. Pay attention. What do you see? He wants us to rejoice together like the Whos did in Whoville. Joy was never meant to be a solo act. It’s a part of God that runs through everything. But it often hides in the very places we resist, waiting to rise whenever love gets a chance. Which tells me that whenever love becomes visible, joy becomes tangible, within our reach.
 
Facing his own darkness, Jesus tells his followers, “I have told you these things so that my joy may be in you, and your joy may be complete” (John 15:11).

This isn’t something we manufacture. Joy is the Christ Light within us, illuminating from us. And all around us. But this can be hard to see when our light is dimmed, imprisoned in our darkness. And I think this is why we’re given this reading for our Advent message.
 
In the days when life doesn’t seem so merry and bright, when we find ourselves questioning our faith or wondering if we have what it takes to make it to Christmas, Jesus offers, us this assurance: While John was the most blessed among those born, “even the least in the kingdom is greater than he.”
 
Joy is in you because joy is a part of God …who is a part of you. All of creation can rejoice because everything God creates carries divine DNA. 
 
Which is why the Grinch couldn’t steal Christmas. Or rob The Who’s of their joy. They knew it wasn’t about decorations and delicacies. It’s about the One who weaves us together in love. And that love isn’t something you can swipe from a house. Or steal from someone. Because joy, like love, resides in a heart divinely stitched into God’s own.
 
As we look at these lights, let us remember that we’re a part of God’s heart. The one that gives life and purpose to Christ’s body. As parts of that body, we aren’t just called to sing “Joy to the World.” We are called to bring joy into the world in all the ways we love God, love others and serve both.
 
As we wait for Christmas to come, we can rejoice, no matter what, because Christ has already come. 
 
So let’s take our light out into the world to illuminate the darkness until even the grinchiest Grinches around us rejoice. And their voices join ours in a heavenly choir that sings “Let earth receive her king.”
 

​Work Cited:
Bartlett, David L., Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. Feasting on the Word: Year A, Vol. 1. (Westminster John Knox: 2010)
Maliaman, Irene. Expectations. December 5, 2011 (Accessed on December 10, 2022).
Rohr, Richard. The Qualities To Look For. December 14, 2012  (Accessed on December 10, 2022).