Christmas (A)

Is. 9:2-4, 6-7; Tit. 2:11-14; Lk. 2:1-16

There is a touching story from the First World War that has been retold in many books and films, because it captures what people call the “Christmas spirit.” It was the Christmas of 1914, and the war was only a few months old, but Europe had already become a battlefield of fear and death. On Christmas Eve, in the trenches of northern France, soldiers from both sides—the British and the Germans—were freezing, exhausted, and homesick. As night fell, the gunfire unexpectedly quieted. Then, from somewhere across the cold air, a German soldier began to sing: “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht…” - “Silent Night, holy night.” The British soldiers listened in stunned silence, and then, as if drawn by a force greater than war itself, they began to join in with the English version. Voices that had been raised in anger and fear now blended in a fragile harmony. Soon, soldiers began to climb out of their trenches, not with weapons but with hands lifted in peace. They exchanged small gifts, chocolate, and even family photographs. They played games in the snow, helped bury each other’s dead, and for a few precious hours the cruelty of war gave way to the gentleness of Christmas. One British soldier wrote in his diary, “It was as if the angels of Bethlehem had visited the Western Front.”

This is the power of Christmas: to take a night of fear and turn it into a night of peace; to take a landscape of despair and transform it into a moment of hope; to take enemies and make them sing together. That same power fills the story of this holy night—the night when the heavens opened and the angels sang. Tonight, as we listen again to the Gospel, we enter once more the fields of Bethlehem, and we stand beside the shepherds under the cold night sky. Tonight, we share in their joy; tonight we share in the song of the angels.

The prophet Isaiah, in our first reading, proclaimed that “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” He was speaking to a nation humiliated, conquered, and terrified people who felt that God had forgotten them. Yet Isaiah dared to announce a future full of hope: “A child is born for us, a son is given to us.” Not a warrior, not a political genius, not a king with armies—but a child. This seems almost ridiculous to worldly logic. Can a child save the world? Can a newborn wrapped in swaddling clothes defeat darkness? But Isaiah reveals the secret: “His name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” This child carries divine titles. This child is God’s own light entering the world’s darkness. Christmas is God’s gentle answer to humanity’s loud suffering.

The second reading, from St. Paul’s letter to Titus, tells us what this child accomplishes: “The grace of God has appeared.” Not the anger of God, not the punishment of God, not the judgment of God—but the grace of God. And grace is simply God giving Himself. Christmas is God saying, “I am coming to be with you—not above you, not against you, but with you.” Paul says this grace trains us “to give up ungodliness and worldly passions,” because when God comes close, He changes us. Think of a candle: when another candle draws near, the flame leaps higher. When Christ draws near, our hearts catch fire. That is Christmas.

 

But the Gospel gives us the heart of this night. St. Luke tells it in such simple sentences that we could almost miss the magnitude of the miracle. “In those days, a decree went out from Caesar Augustus…” The Roman emperor sends out an order, and millions obey. Armies march, taxes flow, and the world trembles before the power of Rome. Yet in the shadow of this earthly power, another King enters the world completely unnoticed. The most important event in human history takes place in a stable—because all the rooms were full. Christmas teaches us that God often chooses the smallest places to reveal His greatest gifts.

Mary and Joseph make the long and difficult journey to Bethlehem. Mary is heavily pregnant. They are poor, tired, and far from home. The birth takes place without attention, without comfort, without anyone knowing. No doctors, no nurses, no palace attendants—only silence, straw, and the breath of animals. But heaven does not forget. If the world does not welcome Him, heaven will. If kings do not receive Him, shepherds will. If the powerful do not notice Him, angels will reveal Him. So God sends the angels not to the palaces but to the pasture; not to kings with crowns but to shepherds with calloused hands.

The shepherds were simple people— rough, uneducated, and socially insignificant. But perhaps that is why God chose them. They were awake while the world slept. They were humble enough to listen. They had no pride to defend. And suddenly the sky explodes with light and an angel appears to them. And the angel says, “Do not be afraid.” These words may be the most repeated divine message in Scripture. When heaven speaks, it never begins with a threat, but with comfort. “Do not be afraid.” God’s arrival is joy, not terror; salvation, not destruction; peace, not fear.

Then the angel announces: “Today in the city of David, a Saviour has been born for you who is Christ the Lord.” Not “for the world” in general, but “for you.” The Gospel is always personal. Jesus is not a distant idea; He is someone born for you. And then comes the sign: “You will find a child wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.” A manger! The King of the universe is placed where animals eat. Heaven is teaching us that God does not hide in perfection but in poverty. God is not found in comfort but in humility.

Suddenly the whole sky is filled with angels singing, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to people of good will.” One poet called this “the moment when heaven could not keep silent.” Christmas is heaven’s celebration. Angels cannot resist singing. And the shepherds cannot resist rejoicing. They rush to Bethlehem with hearts pounding, like children running toward a gift. The shepherds become the first evangelists—they share the good news with everyone they meet. They return to their fields “glorifying and praising God.” Joy makes missionaries out of ordinary people.

Tonight, dear friends, we stand with the shepherds. We listen to the angels. We kneel beside the manger. And we must ask ourselves: What is our role tonight? The shepherds rejoiced at the birth of Jesus. The angels announced it. And we—what are we supposed to do? The truth is beautiful: we are called to be the angels of this generation. The world still needs the song the angels sang. The world still needs the joy of the shepherds. And we are the ones entrusted with it.

But how do we become angels in today’s world? Angels in Scripture are messengers of God’s presence, bearers of good news, servants of peace. Perhaps we cannot fly across the sky, but there are practical and powerful ways we can sing the song of angels.

First, we become angels when we announce peace. The angels said, “Peace on earth.” Peace begins not in treaties or political systems but in hearts. Tonight may be a night to forgive someone. To end a long-kept grudge. To stop a cycle of anger. Peace is not a feeling; it is a decision. A decision to say, “Let bitterness end with me.”

A man once joked that he and his wife made a pact: they would never go to bed angry. Then he added, “We haven’t slept in years.” It is easy to laugh, but also to recognize ourselves. Christmas night invites us to let God’s light dissolve stubbornness. The Christ Child is born in the cold, so that our hearts need not remain cold anymore.

Second, we become angels when we spread joy. Joy is contagious. Think of the shepherds: once they encountered Christ, they could not keep silent. A small story illustrates this. A teacher asked her students to write what they wanted for Christmas. Most wrote about toys, gadgets, and chocolates. But one child wrote, “I want my mother to smile again.” When the teacher asked why, the child said, “She’s been sad since my father left. I miss her smile.” True joy is not shallow laughter; it is the ability to bring hope into someone’s sadness. A simple visit, a compassionate phone call, a warm welcome, a sincere apology—these are angelic acts.

Third, we become angels when we bring light. Isaiah said, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Many people around us walk in darkness—the darkness of loneliness, depression, financial stress, marital tension, addictions, or silent fears. To bring light is to offer presence, not solutions. Sometimes the greatest gift is just to sit with someone, to listen, to hold their hand, to say, “I’m here for you.” Light does not remove the night, but it makes the night less frightening.

Fourth, we become angels when we fight the darkness within ourselves. Paul says that the grace of God has appeared “training us to reject ungodliness.” Christmas is not just about decorating the house; it is about renovating the heart. Sometimes our hearts become like old storage rooms—full of things we should have thrown away years ago. Christmas invites us to clear the clutter: the jealousy, the anger, the selfishness, the unhealthy habits. When we let Christ purify us, our lives themselves become the message.

Fifth, we become angels when we protect the vulnerable. Jesus was born into vulnerability—a child needing protection, warmth, and love. To care for the poor, the elderly, the sick, the forgotten, the migrants, the neglected—this is the angelic mission. One Christmas, a young boy was asked what gift he wanted most. He replied, “I want warm socks for the homeless man who sleeps near our building.” The teacher was surprised. The child added, “His feet are always cold. Jesus would want him to have warm feet.” That boy, without wings or halo, was more angelic than many adults.

Sixth, we become angels when we bring reconciliation. Christmas is a season when families gather. Remember Christ came to bring peace to broken relationships. 

Finally, we become angels when we share our faith. The shepherds did not attend a theology class; they simply told others what they had seen and heard. We too can speak of Christ—not by preaching loudly but by living gently. A smile can be a sermon. Patience can be a proclamation. A generous act can be a gospel in motion. 

As we stand before the manger tonight, let us imagine the scene: Mary holding the newborn Jesus, Joseph watching protectively, shepherds kneeling with awe, and angels singing overhead. This is heaven touching earth. This is God becoming man. This is love becoming visible. The manger is the throne of the Prince of Peace.

A famous writer once said, “Christmas is the day that holds all time together.” On this night, eternity breaks into history. The infinite becomes finite. The Creator becomes a child. The One whom the heavens cannot contain fits into a manger. The One who holds the stars in His hands reaches out His tiny fingers to grasp Mary’s. The One who has no beginning takes His first breath. This is the miracle of miracles.

Let us pray that when people see us, they see a reflection of the angels’ peace, a hint of the shepherds’ joy, and a spark of the divine love that was born tonight in Bethlehem.

And may our lives sing the song the angels sang:

“Glory to God in the highest,

and on earth peace to all people of good will.”

Satish