Not Home Alone (2025-12-25, Christmas)

 [v.6] Christmas 2025  “Not Home Alone”

He Took the Child and His Mother Into His Home

At Christmas, many of us naturally think about home—the places where we grew up, the tables where we gathered, the people who felt like family. For me, Christmas meant being close: cousins who felt like brothers and sisters, houses near enough that when one table was too small, we simply made room. Those memories remind me that home is not about perfection. It is about belonging.

And into all of that—our memories, our longing, our complicated feelings—Christmas announces something very simple and very daring:

God wants a home among us.

Not a palace.
Not a place of prestige.
But a home.

The Gospel tells us that when Joseph awoke from his dream, “he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him and took his wife into his home.” In that quiet sentence is one of the most important acts in the history of salvation. Joseph makes room. He allows his life to be rearranged so that God can dwell with him.

Joseph does not begin by understanding everything. He does not begin by feeling worthy. Scripture suggests the opposite. Joseph is afraid—not because Mary has failed him, but because the mystery entrusted to him feels too great.

And yet, Christmas happens because Joseph does not run from that fear.
He does not close the door.
He opens his home.

That is how God enters the world—not by force, but by invitation.
And that is still how Christ comes to us.

So many people think that to welcome Christ, we must first get our lives in order. Once things are calmer. Once relationships are healed. Once faith feels stronger. Then Christ will feel at home with us.

But Christmas tells us something else.

Christ does not wait for us to feel at home in ourselves.
He comes precisely because we are not.

He comes into a borrowed stable.
He comes into a family on the move.
He comes into a world where there is no room at the inn.

And by doing so, He teaches us that home is not something we achieve.
It is something we receive.

In a few moments, we will profess the mystery of faith:
“We proclaim your Death, O Lord, and profess your Resurrection, until you come again.”

The Church has always taught that Christmas is not only about Christ’s coming in history, long ago in Bethlehem. Nor is it only about His coming in glory at the end of time. Christmas also celebrates Christ coming quietly, daily, into the ordinary spaces of our lives.

The question Christmas places before us is not, “Do you understand this mystery?”
The question is, “Will you make room?”

Many years ago, before I was a priest, I traveled frequently for business and occasionally received upgrades to first class. I mentioned this to friends and family, expecting to impress them.

They were not impressed.

Most of my flights were very short—Newark to Washington, D.C., or Newark to Boston. “Big deal,” they said.

They were right. But one flight stood out. On a summer trip to Washington, I saw Patrick Ewing—the longtime center for the New York Knicks—sitting in first class. We didn’t sit together. He didn’t notice me at all.

What made it feel important to me was not only being near him, but the confidence I had that I knew where he was going and why. As a basketball fan, I knew his ties to Georgetown University in D.C. and assumed he was heading there to train. Somehow, that knowledge—combined with proximity—felt like it had value. As if knowing something about a famous person, and being briefly near him, signified—or at least stated—what I thought my status was.

Looking back, it’s almost embarrassing. I placed value on a “connection” that was completely superficial—being near someone of status who was entirely indifferent to my presence.

And yet, how often do we do something similar? We attach our sense of worth not only to what we have, but to what we think we know—to access, proximity, or recognition. We confuse being near something impressive with truly belonging.

Christmas reveals the opposite kind of truth.

The Lord comes to travel with us—not to impress us, but to know us.
He does not remain indifferent to our presence.
He comes so that we might finally come home.

Scripture cautions us that wealth and abundance are not always signs of blessing. One of the clearest examples is King Solomon. When God invited him to ask for anything, Solomon asked only for wisdom. God granted that request—and also gave him great riches.

But Scripture tells us that those riches became his downfall. Deuteronomy had warned Israel’s kings not to multiply gold, wives, or horses, because excess would turn the heart away from God. Solomon ignored those warnings. His heart became divided. His kingdom fractured. And in the end, the wisest man in Israel could only describe life as “vanity”—meaningless—despite all he possessed.

Christmas reminds us that God does not come to overwhelm us with possessions.
He comes to restore our hearts.

Pope Benedict XVI once warned that Christmas can become transactional when we try to measure love or keep score. God chooses our vulnerability in order to give us His fullness. When we forget that, even generosity can become cautious or conditional.

But love—real love—does not come with a receipt.

Parents know this. Caregivers know this. Anyone who has loved deeply knows this. We give without counting the cost, not because it is efficient, but because it is human—and divine.

And this is what God does at Christmas.
God gives without guarantees.
God gives Himself.

When Joseph takes Mary and the child into his home, he shows us what it means to belong to the household of God.

The Church, at her best, is meant to be a home like that—not perfect, not free from tension, but a place where people are prayed for and slowly learn how to receive one another.

The Church is not where we go because we already belong.
It is where we learn that we belong.

That is why Christmas matters so much. So many people today feel spiritually homeless—busy, successful, connected—and yet unsettled.

Christmas does not solve every problem.
But it does tell us where home is to be found.

Home is found where Christ is welcomed.
Home is found where fear does not have the final word.
Home is found where love is given freely.

At Christmas, Christ comes again—not in majesty, not in spectacle, but in humility. He comes asking for room. Room in our hearts. Room in our families. Room in our unfinished lives.

Like Joseph, we may feel unprepared.
Like Joseph, we may feel afraid.

But like both Mary and Joseph, we can choose to open the door.

And when we do, we may discover that Christ has been preparing a home for us all along.