I have several friends who are not helpful to my attention deficit disorder by routinely sending me memes, and clips that can run the gamut of possibilities from current events, news, to random clips from TV shows I grew up on.  The other day though it was a viral video of a preschool Nativity pageant:  Utterly wholesome. Four-year-old Mary cradles a baby doll with the fierce devotion of someone who knows she’s the Mother of God. Joseph stands beside her—hands folded, zero lines, total supportive-husband energy.  Behind them, the tiny choir sings “Away in a Manger.” Serene. Perfect. Precious.

Then the shepherds enter—stage left. They stand obediently at first, clutching their staffs. Then one glances at the other. You can practically see the lightbulb go off in their heads: These aren’t staffs… these are lightsabers.  In seconds, Bethlehem becomes the Battle of Mustafar. Full Jedi dueling—right next to the manger! Waving those sticks with such gusto the poor baby doll is rocking back and forth like it’s about to topple off the stage.  Suddenly, a teacher sprints onstage like a Secret Service agent, scoops one little Jedi under her arm—no lecture, no drama—and hauls him off like a bag of mulch. Video ends.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for THE NATIVITY OF THE LORD – CHRISTMAS – December 25, 2025 – Your support means a great deal to me, and I’m deeply grateful for the many who share these messages with their friends, families and social media followers. If you’ve found meaning in these words, I’d be grateful if you’d share them with others who might benefit.

And for those who prefer listening, you can find the audio version on SoundCloud HERE or subscribe to the podcast on iTunes HERE. Your comments, messages, and the way you’ve embraced these homilies continue to inspire me.   Sincerely in Christ -Father Jim

I loved it. Not because I love chaos in church plays, but because it’s honest. Human. Real. Anyone who’s ever worked with little kids knows: You can rehearse for weeks, bribe with cookies, threaten timeouts—but someone will turn a prop into a weapon. It’s basically in the Catechism of Childhood.  And here’s the thing: the first Christmas was a lot more like that than our Christmas cards admit.

Mary and Joseph traveled 90 miles—on foot, nine months pregnant. No room at the inn. No Plan B. No midwife, no clean sheets. God’s Son, the King of Kings, born next to animals that hadn’t bathed since Noah’s day.We romanticize it because we know the ending. But Mary didn’t. Joseph didn’t. The shepherds didn’t. The angels didn’t come with a lighting crew.

The first Christmas was raw. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. Deeply human. And that’s good news—because your life looks like that too. We chase the Hallmark version every year: perfect tree, perfect gifts, perfect family photo (no one blinking!), perfect spiritual high. What usually happens? Someone gets sick.

Someone snaps.
Someone’s late.
The turkey burns (but we call it “caramelized”).
An uninvited political debate erupts.
Someone’s missing—through distance, death, or a wound that still stings.

Christmas doesn’t hide our messes. It exposes it.  But that’s exactly why God chose this moment, this way, this mess.  God didn’t wait for a perfect world.  We had already bungled that back in the Garded of Eden.  So He entered our world—exactly as it is, exactly as we are.  Isaiah saw it centuries before:

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” (Is 9:2).Not “The people who finally got their act together…”
Not “The people who stopped sinning…”
No. Darkness first. Light second.  Grace doesn’t come after we clean up.
It comes because we can’t on our own…we needed – we need a Savior.

Remember the shepherds? We put them in our nativity sets, but in Jesus’ day they were the night-shift nobodies—low-status, barely tolerated, the overlooked.  Yet who gets heaven’s first announcement?

Not kings. Not priests. Not the polished.
The shepherds.  And what do they do?
They drop everything.

They run.
They come as they are—smelly, sweaty, un-showered.

No time to clean up. No perfect gift.
They just show up.

That’s our invitation today:

Just show up.
Bring your doubts. Your wounds. Your sins. Your exhaustion. Your hopes.
Don’t pretend. Don’t perform.
Show up as you are.

Because Christ didn’t come for the Instagram version of you.
He came for the real you.

And look how vulnerable God becomes:
The Creator of galaxies becomes a newborn who can’t hold His own head.
The Almighty cries when hungry.
The Eternal Word depends on a teenage mother and a carpenter for warmth. Why?
So no fear, no wound, no limitation would ever be foreign to Him.
He steps into our skin, our struggles, our story—refusing to love us from a distance.

This year has been… a lot.
Joy for some. Heavy for others. A mix for most.
Maybe you walked in to this Church carrying something heavy:
A worry that won’t quit.
A grief that’s still raw.
A family rift.
A loneliness that echoes louder at Christmas.

Christmas doesn’t magically erase it.
But it reframes it: God is with you in it.

Actually. Not symbolically. Not theoretically.

With you.

Let’s circle back to those little Jedi-shepherds. For the teacher, it was a disaster.
For the parents, hilarious.
For the kids? The time of their lives.
For us? A reminder:
The scene doesn’t have to be perfect for the story to be holy.

Christmas isn’t about producing a flawless moment.

It’s about welcoming a flawless Savior into our flawed reality.

So pause for a moment…

Look at this little scene again—the chaos, the joy, the unexpected love breaking through.

And now imagine that first manger:
A tiny baby, wrapped in rough cloths, lying in a feeding trough.
Mary gazing at Him with eyes full of wonder and ache.
Joseph standing guard, heart pounding with responsibility and awe.
No fanfare. No perfection.
Just… God.
God-with-us.
Emmanuel.

He came that small, that fragile, that close…
so that today, in whatever you carry—your tears, your longing, your quiet hope—
you would never have to wonder if God could possibly understand.
He does.
He has.
He is right here.  So whatever your Christmas looks like—peaceful or painfully complicated, full or achingly empty—
know this with every beat of your heart:
Christ is born into that.
For you.
With you.

Right in the middle of your real, beautiful, broken life.

Today, let Him in.

Let the Child who once cried in the dark hold your heart.
Let the God who became so small make room in you for hope again.
Let the love that refused to stay distant draw you close—closer than you’ve ever been.

Because you are seen.
You are known.
You are loved—
lightsabers, chaos, imperfections, wounds, and all.

And in that love, even the messiest moments become sacred ground.

Merry Christmas, my dear friends.
May the Christ Child be born anew in your heart this day.