Christmas Dawn: Is 9:1-6; Tit 2:11-14; Lk 2:1-14 

A young boy walks into a pet shop after seeing a sign: “Puppies for Sale.” The owner whistles, and five tiny balls of fur come tumbling down the aisle, full of life and energy. But one puppy lags behind, hobbling, doing its best to keep up. The boy doesn’t hesitate. He points to the limping puppy and says, “I want that one.”

The owner, trying to be kind, explains that this puppy was born with a hip deformity. He’ll always limp. He’ll never run and play like the others. “You don’t want to buy that one,” he says. “I’ll even give him to you for free.”

The boy reaches down, pulls up his pant leg, and reveals a heavy metal leg brace supporting a badly twisted leg. He looks up and says softly, “I don’t run too well myself, and he will need someone who understands.”

That boy didn’t choose the strongest, fastest, most perfect puppy. He chose the one who was broken, because he knew what it meant to be broken. He chose the one who needed someone who understood.

And that, brothers and sisters, is exactly what God did at Christmas.

In Jesus, God didn’t come as a powerful emperor, a flawless athlete, or a perfect, untouched being. He came as a helpless infant, born in a stable, laid in a feeding trough. He came into a world of pain, of weakness, of disability and disease. He came not to avoid our brokenness, but to enter into it.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14). That means God took on our humanity in all its fragility: our aches, our limitations, our loneliness, our shame. He didn’t come to fix us from a distance; he came to live with us, to walk with us, to limp with us, if need be.

Think of the people Jesus sought out: the blind, the lame, the lepers, the outcasts, the sinners. He didn’t say, “You’re not good enough; I’ll wait until you’re perfect.” He said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matt 11:28)

In that stable, God is saying: “I see you. I know your pain. I know your limp. I know the brace you wear, whether it’s metal on your leg or sorrow in your heart, illness in your body, or loneliness in your life. I am here. I am with you. And I love you as you are.”

Christmas is not a holiday for the perfect. It is a feast for the broken, the struggling, the ones who feel they don’t measure up. It is for the child with the brace, the parent with the sick child, the elder with failing strength, the one grieving, the one who feels left behind.

God didn’t send a Savior who looks down on weakness. He sent a Savior who shares it. He sent Emmanuel: God with us.

As the first reading from Isaiah says to the Israelites, God comes to His people to redeem them, and they will be frequented by the Lord and they will not be abandoned.

According to Luke, the birth of Jesus takes place on the margins, on the edge of the human community. It was perhaps an appropriate beginning for someone who would die a marginalized figure, enduring the Roman death of crucifixion, which is normally reserved for criminals and slaves. Between his birth and his death, during his public ministry, Jesus spoke of himself as the Son of Man who has nowhere to lay his head.

The wood of the manger and the wood of the cross both speak to us of God’s desire to embrace us in his love. They both proclaim that God’s light shines in our darkness and God’s deeply personal love for each one of us never dies away. We are sent from this feast to reflect something of the light of this love to each other.

The shepherds were despised in their time, often excluded from temple worship and regarded as “unclean.” Yet, they were the first to receive the angelic message and the first to adore the Savior. The irony is divine: those who tended the temple lambs came to adore the true “Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.” Their humble hearts recognized in the manger the presence of God Himself.

The Gospel says they “went in haste” to Bethlehem. Having encountered Christ, they returned to their fields “glorifying and praising God.” Their daily routine did not change—but they did. Their joy overflowed into proclamation. They became the first missionaries of Christmas. So too, we are called to move from hearing the Good News to becoming it—living proof that God’s love still walks among His people.

God is still speaking to us. Perhaps not through an angel’s song, but through moments of conscience, inspiration, and quiet conviction. How often have we heard a voice within urging us to forgive, to speak kindly, to act justly—and ignored it? The same Spirit who stirred the shepherds speaks today in the silence of our hearts. The question is: will we listen? Will we respond with Mary’s trust, the shepherds’ obedience, or the Magi’s perseverance?

The Liturgy today invites us to walk the shepherds’ path—from hearing to seeing to living the light. They began as listeners in the night, became witnesses at the manger, and ended as bringers of light back into the world. That is our pilgrimage as well.

The child Jesus, the adult Jesus, the crucified and risen Jesus, is God’s gracious Word to us, a Word that assures us that we are profoundly loved, that we are of infinite value, and that we have an eternal destiny. God’s word to us in Jesus also encourages us to believe that, because we are so greatly graced, we are capable of great things, capable, indeed, of a love which is a genuine reflection of God’s own love.

May we, Lord, like the shepherds, respond in worship, glorifying You for all that You have done. Help us to share the hope of Christmas with the world around us, and to live in the light of Your love each and every day. In Jesus’ name, Amen.