If Christianity were something we had stitched together out of our own imaginations, I suspect we should have made a far more sensible job of it. We should have arranged a thunderous arrival: God descending like a general at the head of an army, the world brought to heel by sheer magnificence. But that, of course, is precisely why the story has the ring of truth. No one invents a God who chooses to enter His own universe not at the top of the staircase, but at the very bottom.
For consider what is being claimed. The One by whom all things were made – whose voice set the stars burning and the galaxies spinning – comes among His creatures unable to speak a word or steady His own limbs. The hand that holds the oceans in their place must first be held. The omnipotent becomes, in the most literal sense, dependent. If this does not disturb our neat ideas of power, then we have not yet begun to understand it.
At Christmas, all our ordinary measurements are quietly overturned. We habitually equate power with loudness, greatness with height, importance with the ability to command. God, however, chooses another grammar altogether. He does not shout; He whispers. He does not overwhelm; He invites. The Incarnation tells us that real strength is not diminished by humility, and that true majesty is perfectly at home in low places.
We are tempted to treat the manger as a pleasant religious decoration, something to be admired and then passed by. But if we linger, it becomes a challenge rather than a comfort. God did not merely become a man; He became a baby. In doing so, He claimed every stage of human life as His own, from our first breath to our last. There is no corner of our experience, however small or humiliating, that He has not entered and redeemed.
And here the blow falls squarely on our pride. The manger tells us, without rancor and without compromise, that the world is not saved by human cleverness or moral effort. Salvation comes not by our ascent to God, but by God’s descent to us. We do not scramble our way into heaven; heaven comes quietly to earth. Grace is not a wage to be earned but a gift to be received, as simply as a child is received into waiting arms.
Christmas, then, is not a festival of human achievement but of divine generosity. It is the moment when Eternity puts on the clothes of time and asks, not for admiration, but for trust. God does not bully us into belief; He makes Himself small enough to be loved. The Infinite becomes an infant so that even the smallest and weakest among us might dare to come to Him.
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