“The Word Moved In”

On this Christmas morning, the Church invites us beyond the manger scene and into the mystery behind it. St. John does not begin with shepherds or angels, but with eternity: “In the beginning was the Word.” Before there was time, before there was history, before there was light and darkness, there was the Word—and the Word was God. And today we celebrate the astonishing truth at the heart of Christmas: the eternal Word did not remain distant; the Word moved in. Isaiah gives us the image of a messenger running over the mountains, feet dusty but beautiful, announcing peace and salvation: “Your God is King!” Christmas is that announcement fulfilled. God does not send only a message; God comes personally. The King does not rule from afar; He enters our streets, our homes, our wounds, our ordinary lives. The Gospel tells us that “the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” That phrase literally means, “He pitched his tent among us.” God chooses to camp in human fragility. He does not wait for humanity to become worthy, pure, or organized. He enters the mess. He takes on flesh that can be tired, rejected, misunderstood, and wounded. This is not a sentimental gesture; it is a radical act of love. Yet John is honest: “He came to what was his own, but his own people did not accept him.” Christmas is not just a celebration; it is a question. Will we recognize Him? Will we make room for Him? The tragedy of the Gospel is not Herod or the cross—it is indifference. Light comes into the world, and many prefer darkness because darkness feels familiar, controllable, and safe. But the Gospel does not end there. It offers a promise more powerful than rejection: “To those who did accept him, he gave power to become children of God.” Christmas is not only about God becoming human; it is about humans becoming God’s family. Through Christ, we are no longer spectators—we are sons and daughters. Grace is no longer earned; it is received. As Hebrews reminds us, the One lying in the manger is the exact imprint of God’s being, the One through whom the universe was made, now entrusted to human hands. Psalm 98 proclaims, “All the ends of the earth have seen the saving power of God.” Christmas is not private spirituality; it is public hope. The light that shines in Bethlehem is meant to reach every corner of the earth—and every dark corner of the human heart. The light still shines in families struggling to reconcile, in young people searching for meaning, in those carrying grief, anxiety, or quiet loneliness. And the Gospel assures us: the darkness has not overcome it. So, what does Christmas morning ask of us? Not perfection—but hospitality. To make room. To let the Word dwell in our choices, our relationships, our priorities. To become, like John the Baptist, witnesses to the light—not the light itself, but reflections of it. When we forgive instead of hardening our hearts, when we choose mercy over judgment, when we speak truth with love, the Word continues to take flesh in the world today. Dear friends, Christmas is God’s declaration that the world is worth saving, that your life is worth entering, that no darkness is final. The Word has moved in. The light is here. And from His fullness, we have all received—grace upon grace. May this Christmas not pass as a memory, but become a dwelling. May the Word find a home in us. And may all who meet us glimpse, even faintly, the glory of God made flesh.