Tonight does not announce itself with spectacle. We might think that it does. But that’s only because of the holiday festivities. The event to which the festivities point did not demand attention by force or overwhelm the senses. It arrived quietly, almost unnoticed, as God so often does.

The world would have us recognize importance by noise and scale. It expects fanfare and crowds and applause. But God chose another way. He entered human history, but not in a royal procession. He came in the filthiness of childbirth. This did not happen surrounded by marble halls. He came to a borrowed shelter. He was not lifted from the mess and dressed in gilded garments. He was wrapped in whatever was available—swaddling cloths—if only to protect Him from the evening air.

That is the account of God’s arrival.

And yet, we know what the world does not. The eternal Word takes on weight. The Author of time submits Himself to it. The One who reached out and pinned the galaxies into place is laid where animals feed. Nothing about the scene feels impressive, and that’s precisely the point. God is not performing for us. He is coming to us—to be us.

Saint John tells us that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). He did not say that God hovered nearby. He did not say He came by for a visit. John said He dwelt. The Greek word is ἐσκήνωσεν—tabernacled. God pitched a tent among sinners. He took on human flesh. He breathed the same dust-filled air that we breathe. He became us in the truest sense of the word. That means the incarnation is far beyond allegorical niceties. It happened. It was God’s fulfilled commitment. He didn’t abandon us. Even better, He didn’t rescue from afar. He stepped into the mess. He rescued from within. See for yourself. There He is, right there in the manger.

Interestingly, Saint Luke doesn’t first draw our attention to the Christ-child. Instead, he draws us to the witnesses—shepherds keeping watch in the darkness, men accustomed to long nights and very little recognition. We could, in a sense, consider them lowly. And so, notice, the story remains grounded. Heaven opens to them first. The silence is broken by heavenly glory. Into the presence of the ordinary, the eternal invades. “Fear not,” the angels declare. I’ve said countless times before that this is the only appropriate greeting when an angel arrives, just as genuine fear is the only proper reaction when holiness collides with fallen humanity. Still, the message is not one of condemnation. It is the joy of all joys. God in human flesh has appeared. “For unto you is born this day…a Savior” (Luke 2:11).

A Savior. The Savior.

Heaven does not sing with the shepherds in that moment because just any baby has been born. Heaven sings because divine salvation has entered the world with lungs and a heartbeat. And the sign given is almost as scandalous as it is simple. A Child—the Christ—wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. No throne. No visible power. No grandeur. Only His presence. God makes Himself small enough to be held, small enough to be threatened, to actually be in danger. Even before Herod’s men come tramping through Bethlehem to kill Jesus, already, the shadow of the cross is stretching backward across the manger’s hay.

We know why this child came. We know what His future holds.

We also know that future will be the ultimate demonstration of divine love. Divine love does not arrive demanding what it’s owed. And we certainly owe God so very much. Still, Divine love brings and distributes what is undeserved. What’s more, it does not protect itself. It gives itself away to protect others. It empties itself, even to the point of death, for others. Saint Paul wrote those words first. He insisted that Christ “did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself” (Philippians 2:6-7). The manger, the shepherds, the angels, and everything surrounding the birth of Jesus, all these comprise the first sermon of this beautiful Gospel.

So tonight, in sense, the Church gathers for far more than a sentimental moment. We gather because the moment of all moments occurred in Bethlehem so many years ago. And as a result, reality changed. God bound Himself to humanity in a way that cannot be undone. Do you know what this means—what it really means? It means there is no suffering He cannot enter, no grief He does not understand, no darkness He has not stepped into ahead of us. Whatever the world looks like tomorrow, God will still be with us—because He already is (Matthew 28:19-20).

For now, we kneel beside the manger. We kneel where heaven touched earth in the most excellent way. It wasn’t an exceptional sight in human terms at the time, except maybe for that moment in the field with the shepherds. But still, that’s not why we’re here. We’re here, and we’re kneeling, because it’s all true, and we believe it. The Light has come. The Savior has arrived. And nothing—absolutely nothing—will ever be the same for us again. Sin, death, and Satan have met their match. The countdown to their final demise was certified at the moment of Christ’s conception.

With these Gospel promises in mind, may this holy night be an opportunity to renew your wonder, steady your hope, and anchor your faith in the One who chose to be near you. And why did He do this? Because He loves you more than anyone ever would or could. God bless and keep you by His grace. And Merry Christmas.