When asked what came to their mind when they hear the word Christmas, children said Santa Claus, decorations, parties etc., but no mention of Baby Jesus and the Holy Family.
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Last Sunday, while teaching catechism to children in a church in Bangalore, I asked a simple question: What comes to your mind when you hear the word 'Christmas'? The answers came quickly. Santa Claus, for most of them. Then the Christmas tree, holidays, decorations, parties, and so on. Not one mentioned the heart of Christmas: Baby Jesus and the Holy Family. That absence isn’t the children’s failure. It’s ours. These are the images the world places before them again and again. And I fear this quiet replacement of meaning is happening everywhere, without us even noticing it.
When December comes, the lights grow more dazzling, the stores grow more crowded, streets are draped in red and green, images of Santa Claus fill every public space, etc. The pace of life quickens. We hurry from one gathering to another, attempting to inject meaning into a season already saturated with noise. We are led to think this is Christmas. But it isn’t. Christmas is not the tale of humanity ascending to God; it is the story of God stooping down to humanity. At its core, Christmas holds a truth both stunningly simple and profound, a truth that can still quiet the soul: God became Human.
We have heard those words since childhood. Familiar words can lose their weight. So, pause for a moment, for we are at the threshold of Christmas celebration…(silent). What feeling rises within you when you hear ‘God became Human’? When did you last slow down enough to sense God’s nearness? The God who shaped galaxies stepped into a human womb. The One who holds creation together chose to be held in the arms of a young mother. Early Christians did not see this as a mere metaphor or poetry. It was a concrete reality – something they had seen him, touched him, and followed him.
Non-Christians in the first centuries struggled with this message, and even today, many cannot understand it. An image of the Almighty God was understandable; a vulnerable God was not. Hunger, fatigue, tears, suffering – how could the divine accept such things? The great Church Fathers wrestled with these very questions. They never pretended to solve the mystery completely, but they sought to perceive its significance. And from every perspective, they consistently returned to one foundational truth: God is motivated by love (John 3:16).
Christian faith stands apart because it proclaims something astonishing: The God who once spoke through prophets and signs has now spoken through a human life. As Hebrews 1:2 states, in these final days God “has spoken to us by his Son.” The eternal Word stepped into history (Jn. 1:1, 14). That single confession provoked awe, resistance, and controversy, both within the Church and beyond it.
Many outside the faith could not make sense of it. A God who suffers and walks among his creatures disrupted every category they knew. The early theologians felt that disruption, too, but they refused to soften it. Their reflections do not form one neat explanation. They reveal a deeper truth: love does not remain distant. Love moves toward the beloved (Jn. 3:16).
This brings us to a classic question: Did God become man because humanity sinned? Or would Christ have come even without the Fall? Duns Scotus argued from freedom and love. A perfect act, he said, is not a reaction but an intention. So, for Scotus, the Incarnation is not Plan B. It is God’s first and greatest intention – Christ is the “first willed,” the masterpiece planned before the world began (Eph 1:4-5). Sin only determined how Christ would come, not why.
Aquinas approached it differently. He noted that Scripture repeatedly speaks of Christ’s mission as saving humanity from sin: “He will save his people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21). For him, in the actual world we live in, the Incarnation responds to the human fall. The greatest gift we receive is forgiveness and reconciliation, so the most fitting explanation is that God became man to bring us home.
The Church never forced a choice. Instead, many modern theologians see both insights as compatible. Yes, Christ came to redeem us, but His coming also reveals God’s deeper intention to unite humanity to Himself, to raise creation into communion with divine life. This is why the Church dares to sing at Easter Proclamation (Exultate), “O happy fault.” Not because sin was good, but because God’s mercy outshone our failure with a gift greater than paradise itself: the God-Man, Jesus Christ.
As Christmas approaches, familiar pressures return: Lights, music, shopping, schedules, etc. We rush through “pre-Christmas” events, parties, meals, and buying gifts. None of these is inherently wrong, but here is the uncomfortable truth: it is possible to celebrate Christmas without ever encountering its mystery – Jesus Christ, who became man. Advent is not a countdown to a festival. It is a preparation of the heart. And the heart is precisely what often goes unattended. If God truly became man, then this season cannot be reduced to comfort or indulgence. It’s about waking up to a love that overturns the way we see ourselves, our possessions, and our purpose. We should not forget the essential question for ourselves: Do we have room for Christ? Our homes glow with lights, but our souls remain dim. We put up cribs and stars, but keep the Holy Family outside the door.
Scripture refuses to let us drift away with the wind of this world. Prophet Isaiah does not murmur; he shouts across the centuries: “Prepare the way of the Lord” (Is 40:3). St. Paul shakes us awake: “Awake, O sleeper… let Christ shine on you” (Eph 5:14). Then he urges us forward with clarity and urgency: “Put on the armor of light” (Rom 13:12). And Christ himself speaks without force but without ambiguity: “I stand at the door and knock” (Rev 3:20). These words cut through the noise. They remind us that preparation does not happen in markets or calendars but in the heart. We are temples of the Holy Spirit, entrusted with a dignity given at baptism. External lights are meant to mirror an inner radiance shaped by repentance, humility, and love.
When we look in and around us honestly, we see this clear pattern: We slide easily into a logic of consumption - bigger celebrations, better gifts, more display, etc. Worth is measured by what can be bought or shown. Christmas becomes a reflection of our desires instead of a doorway into grace. The Incarnation stands against this logic. The Son of God enters the world poor, hidden, unprotected. He brings nothing except love. That fact alone dismantles our false measures of value. Christmas is not the feast of excess. It is the feast of humility, closeness, and divine generosity. We prepare, then, not by adding more to our lives, but by making space within them. The Word became flesh so that our lives might take on his shape - open, generous, courageous, receptive to grace.
So here is the question that matters as we are at the threshold of Christmas: Why do we celebrate at all? Because God bent toward us. Because the Word became flesh. Because Love took a human face. That mystery asks for more than decorations and gatherings. It asks for a heart ready to receive the One who comes not to entertain, but to save.
Isaiah Newme SDB,
Theologian,
Kristu Jyoti College, Bengaluru.