Merry Christmas
In the days when kings ruled from palaces and decrees were issued from distant thrones, God chose to begin His greatest work in quiet places.
It began in the temple, where a faithful priest named Zacharias stood offering incense before the Lord. Outside, the people prayed. Inside, heaven broke its silence. An angel appeared and spoke of a child who would be born—against age, against barrenness, against all human expectation. This child would prepare the way for the Lord. God was already moving before anyone knew to look for Him.
Not long after, that same angel was sent—not to a palace, but to Nazareth. Not to royalty, but to a young virgin named Mary. She was troubled, not because she doubted God, but because she understood the weight of His words. She asked how such a thing could be, and heaven answered simply: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you.”
Mary did not demand proof. She did not ask for protection. She surrendered.
“Let it be to me according to Your word.”
God chose humility. God chose obedience. God chose the lowly.
As the months passed, Mary carried within her the Light of the world—unseen, unnoticed by the world, yet fully present. And when the time came for her to give birth, the world did not make room.
A decree forced her and Joseph onto the road. A long journey. A crowded town. Closed doors. No space prepared. No cradle waiting. The Savior of the world entered human history not surrounded by comfort, but by inconvenience. Not welcomed by the powerful, but laid in a feeding trough—because there was no room for Him in the inn.
Wrapped in simple cloths, resting where animals ate, the Light of God entered the darkness of our world.
That night, heaven did not announce His arrival to kings or scholars. Angels appeared instead to shepherds—men working the night shift, living on the margins. The glory of the Lord shattered the darkness around them, and fear filled their hearts. But heaven spoke the same words it had spoken before:
“Do not be afraid.”
“For behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.”
Not to some.
Not to the worthy.
To all people.
And the sign was not grandeur. It was simplicity:
A Baby. Wrapped in cloths. Lying in a manger.
The shepherds went with haste. They found exactly what heaven said they would find. And when they saw Him, they told everyone. Some marveled. Some wondered. Mary pondered it all quietly in her heart.
This is how God came to us.
Not forcing His way in—but entering gently.
Not demanding room—but becoming small enough to fit where He was allowed.
Not shining so brightly that we are blinded—but shining steadily, faithfully, enough to guide us home.
Tonight, as we prepare to light our candles, we remember that the Light of Christ first came into a dark world that did not recognize Him. And yet, the darkness could not overcome Him.
When we light these candles, we are not just remembering a moment long ago. We are responding to a Light that still comes quietly, still comes humbly, still comes close.
The same Light that rested in a manger now seeks room in our hearts.
And as we receive that Light, we do not keep it to ourselves. Like the shepherds, we carry it with us—into our homes, our workplaces, our relationships, our everyday lives.
May the Light of Christ shine in you.
May it guide your steps.
May it bring peace where there has been darkness.
And may we carry His Light everywhere we go.