Christmas (A) Dawn

Isaiah 62:11–12; Titus 3:4–7; Luke 2:15–20

There is a beloved story told in many cultures about a poor young girl who longed to bring a gift to the newborn King. In one version, she has nothing—no gold, no silver, no fine clothes, no precious spices. As she watches others go to visit the Christ Child, her heart aches. She sits alone by the roadside feeling the cold morning dew. Suddenly, she sees a small shivering bird lying in the grass, unable to fly. Moved with compassion, she picks it up gently, warms it in her hands, and wraps it close to her heart. When she finally arrives at the stable, she is embarrassed that she has nothing worthy to offer—only a tiny bird. But when she kneels before the manger, the bird begins to sing the sweetest melody the people had ever heard, a song full of pure, trembling joy. The Child Jesus smiles, and the entire stable brightens. The girl realizes that what she thought was nothing became everything when offered with love. That is why Christmas is so beautiful—it teaches us that the smallest acts of love, offered from the heart, become the greatest gifts to God.

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,

4th Sunday of Advent (A)

 Is. 7:10-14; Rom. 1:1-7; Mt. 1:18-24

As we gather on this final Sunday of Advent—standing just at the threshold of Christmas—our hearts feel the nearness of the mystery we have been waiting for: “The virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means God-with-us.” That line alone would have shaken any ancient listener. Virgins do not conceive; God does not enter history in the form of a fragile child; and no king—least of all one born in a helpless manger—comes to save the world without the strength of armies or the threat of weapons. Yet this is precisely the story we are preparing to welcome—the story of God breaking into human hopelessness, political turmoil, and private suffering, not with thunder, but with the soft cry of a newborn.

To feel the full tension of today’s readings we must travel back to the world in which the prophet Isaiah spoke. The political climate of Judah during King Ahaz’s reign was one of suffocating fear. Two powerful nations—Israel (the northern kingdom)