NOTE: The following is the homily delivered by Fr. Nathaniel Szidik, OSB on Christmas morning. Here he comments on the Gospel reading for that day's Mass: John 1:1-18.
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Brothers and sisters, this
Christmas day we arrive at the fulfillment of our Advent waiting. The angels
have sung their Gloria. The shepherds have left their fields in wonder. Certainly,
today is a day of much rejoicing! For
four weeks we’ve watched and prayed. We’ve lit our candles, one by one,
watching flame join flame. We’ve walked with John the Baptist, making straight
the way of the Lord. We’ve contemplated Mary’s yes to God’s seemingly impossible
plan. And now, the Word – that eternal Word spoken before the beginning
of time – becomes flesh and makes his dwelling among us. Now all of our
Advent attention culminates in the cradle, a trough with our tucked-in Savior.
This day is certainly one for
rejoicing because God has given us a choice. A choice with many more
consequences than deciding which cookie to take from the dessert table or which
present to pick first from under the tree. A choice that we now must
make with the help of our Advent attention. For the true light, which
enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the
world came to be through him, but the world did not know him.
Consider with me for a moment
Nicodemus in John’s Gospel, a few chapters after the prologue we just heard
proclaimed. A ruler of the Jews. A teacher in Israel. A man of learning and
position. His robes pulled close, sandals quiet against Jerusalem’s cobblestone
streets, checking over his shoulder as he moves through the darkness. Slipping
through the night hoping to remain unnoticed, but approaching Jesus and saying,
“Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God.” He makes a
choice to visit Jesus. He makes a choice to seek Him out. But when Jesus speaks
to him of being born again, Nicodemus – like two puzzle pieces that don’t quite
fit together – can’t make sense of the picture: “How can a person be born again
when he is old?”
Nicodemus makes a choice to come
to Jesus. He emerges from the night to speak with the True Light, yet he can’t
step fully into its illumination. He has a position to protect, a reputation to
maintain.
But the world did not know him.
Remember Jesus’s teaching to the
large crowd after he feeds them. Hungry they were. Hungry for healing. But
Jesus feeds them with more bread and fish than they could eat, fragments
filling 12 baskets. The taste of fresh bread still on their tongues, fish
scales still on their fingers, having seen the sign Jesus has done, the crowd
says, “This is truly the Prophet, the one who is to come into the world.” This
large crowd makes a choice to seek out Jesus, but when they follow him across
the sea, they hear something they can’t accept. Not something simply difficult
to follow, but something harsh and scandalous to their ears. “I am the bread of
life. Whoever comes to me will never hunger, and
whoever believes in me will never thirst.” Jesus reveals who He is. And the
large crowd couldn’t stomach it.
But the world did not know him.
When Jesus stands before Pontius
Pilate, the representative of Rome’s might and majesty, after Jesus reveals
that he came into the world to testify to the truth, Pilate asks, “What is
truth?” Here stands Jesus with wrists raw from chains, face bruised and
swollen, blood dried at his hairline. Here stands the one who claimed, “I am
the way, the truth, and the life.” Here stands the Word made flesh, the one who
said, “If you remain in my word, you will know the truth, and the truth will
set you free.” Truth itself stands before Pilate in chains, in flesh and blood,
and Pilate can’t see it. He has the power to release the Truth, but he chooses
political expedience over right judgment. He can uncover the True Light, but he
shields his eyes, walking back into the cover of darkness.
But the world did not know him.
How easy it is for us not to
know him. How easy it is to stand in the presence of the True Light and yet
choose darkness. How easy it is to hear the Truth and turn away. How easy it is
to encounter God’s invitation and make our excuses.
We’re not so different from
Nicodemus, are we? We come to Jesus, but sometimes only in the darkness, only
when no one’s watching. We seek him out, but we hold back our full commitment,
scrolling past suffering on social media, avoiding that difficult conversation with
a friend or neighbor, staying silent when someone speaks unkindly about another
human being. We hold back our commitment because we have our own reputation to
maintain, our own position to protect. What will our confreres think? What will
our family say? What will it cost us to truly follow this child in the manger
who will grow to demand everything from us?
We’re not so different from that
large crowd, either. We come to Jesus when we’re hungry – hungry for comfort,
hungry for healing, hungry for blessings. We love Jesus when he’s giving us
what we want. But what about when his teaching gets uncomfortable? That passage
about giving to everyone who asks – we skip right over it. That command to love
our enemies – we decide it must be metaphorical. Those people in our lives who
drive us absolutely mad, whose voice we can hear before they even enter the
room – Jesus says to love them, to serve them, to see Christ in them. And we
think, “This teaching is too hard. Who can accept it?”
And are we not sometimes like
Pilate as well? Truth stands before us every day – in the homeless man on the
corner, cardboard sign in hand. In the inconvenient call to forgive a family
member who sits across from us at the dinner table. In the challenge to love
the neighbor whose opinions infuriate us, whose lawn sign makes our blood boil.
Yet we question, “What is truth?” as if we’re being philosophical, as if it’s
unclear, as if we have time to wait while Truth itself stands before us waiting
for our response.
The world did not know him. And how
often we don’t know him either.
But to those who did accept him
he gave power to become children of God.
Brothers and sisters, this is
the choice that Christmas presents to us. The choice is this: Will we accept
him? Will we truly accept him?
And look at what happens when we
do! Look at what the Gospel promises! He gave power to become children of God.
Not power to become more successful. Not power to become more comfortable. Not
power to become admired or wealthy or influential. Power to become children of
God – a power far greater, far more profound, far more transformative than
anything this world can offer.
But to those who did accept him
he gave power to become children of God.
Think about what this means. We’re
not born children of God by natural generation, John tells us, but by God
himself. Wrapped in flesh. Secured in swaddling clothes like a bow. This is
pure gift right before our eyes in the mystery of the Incarnation, the glory of
Christmas – that the Word became flesh so that flesh might become like God
Himself.
This child in the manger – fists
clenched, lungs pulling in that first breath of Bethlehem air, lying in wood
still rough with splinters – comes to give us power. Not the power of
preservation. Not the power of Pilate. Not the power that the world
persistently promises. But the power of transformation. The power to be born
anew. The power to see with new eyes, to love with a new heart, to live with a
new purpose. The power to become who we were always meant to be.
But to those who did accept him
he gave power to become children of God.
But will you accept him when he
asks you to become small again, vulnerable again, new again – like Nicodemus
was asked?
Will you accept him when he
calls you to sacrifice your comfort and challenges everything you thought you
wanted – like that large crowd by the sea was asked?
Will you accept him when his
truth, like the Truth standing before Pilate in the praetorium, contradicts
what our culture celebrates?
The Christ child lies in the
manger this day – as vulnerable as any infant, wrapped in swaddling clothes
against the crisp night air – yet he is the True Light that darkness cannot
overcome. He comes not with force but with an invitation. An invitation of
commitment from the closeness of the cradle to the cost of the Cross. He comes
not to conquer but to be received. He comes offering power – the power to
become children of God – to all who will accept him.
God has given us this choice
today. He always has. The world did not know him. But we can. We can know him.
We can receive him. We can believe in his name. And in doing so, we can become
what we were created to be from the very beginning.
But to those who did accept him he gave power to become children of God.
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