Be The Present Only You Can Give

Nativity by Fiona Macdonald, 2008

It’s the same every year. Gifts are piled high. Wrapped and stacked under trees. Some of them are thoughtful. Some are last minute panic purchases hastily grabbed before checking out.

If December had a motto, it might be: Get the perfect gift or die trying.

But this special night, isn’t about the gifts we buy. I think it’s about the gift we become. I believe the heart of this night isn’t found under the tree. It’s found in a manger. In a human person.

Because God’s greatest response to our longing and pain wasn’t a product, a program, or a plan. It was simply presence. And not just any presences, but God’s Divine presence.

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