While channel surfing late the other evening, I caught the wedding of the bachelorette on ABC TV. Remember Trista Rehn? (Congratulate yourself if you don’t.) She was the rejected finalist in "The Bachelor," an earlier "reality TV" series in which a thirty-ish man selected his prospective mate from a bevy of beautiful women, successively eliminating them as the weeks went by until two remained. Nobody could figure out why he didn’t choose Trista in the final round, so they turned the tables and produced another series in which she did the choosing. Both series drew massive audiences, which was the point of the whole thing.

The wedding of Trista and Ryan Sutter (her final selection) was a dazzling affair—it’s amazing what a million dollars can buy—and the jewels and dresses provoked endless commentary. What interested me, however, was what the service didn’t contain—any reference to God. The "minister," that is, someone who wore a black robe and spoke earnestly from the front, made a lot of references to love, marriage, and promises. But he never invoked the Almighty or asked anyone to pray. It was a purely secular service. Actually, it was a purely commercial service.

Will the couple stay married? That’s what everybody’s wondering. (Is there another series waiting to happen?) Did the couple actually get married? That’s the more interesting question. I’m not sure they did. The whole purpose of the marriage ceremony is to bring the light of eternity into a relationship in time and remind us all, the couple in particular, that their union is more than a civil contract or a financial arrangement. It is a solemn vow in the presence of God to commit yourself to a lifetime with another. Without that element, it is hard to see what point weddings have.

We’ve entered the season whose profound religious meaning also suffers the relentless competition of kitsch and commercialism. It is hardly surprising that people are more concerned with money than message this time of year. The fact that anyone remembers Jesus, what with all the shopping, the entertaining, and the traveling, is a testimony to the inherent power of the story. There is competition from another direction, too. Scholars sometimes tell us that the nativity stories of Matthew and Luke were later additions to the Gospel accounts, reflections of the fascination with early life that surrounds all great figures, so we have reason to doubt their authenticity. But for many of us, Jesus’ entrance into the world is more than a sentimental extension of our attraction to history’s central figure—it is part and parcel of the gospel.

Jesus’ humble beginnings cannot be reduced to the first chapter in an ancient Horatio Alger story. They are integral to the incarnation, the central doctrine of Christian faith. The belief that the word became flesh, that God became human, requires a highly specific point of entry. It consists in the claim that the love of God comes to its clearest, most concentrated expression in this one single life. Here as nowhere else, past or future, God entered human history and joined his destiny with ours.

Is this a dramatic claim? Of course. Is it an extravagant claim? Possibly. Is it logical? Yes, that, too. Because when you think about it, it couldn’t happen any other way. There is no such thing as humanity, period. We exist only as specific, individual human beings. Consequently, for God to disclose himself to us in human form, he must enter history in the form of a specific person. And that means living a specific life, at a specific time, as part of a particular group of people, as part of a family, a clan, a tribe, a nation. Jesus wasn’t a mythical "everyman," he was this man. Only in this way could he show us that God was willing to become everything we are, that he was willing to go the whole distance to meet us.

Let’s not forget the reason for the season. Jesus, not Santa Claus, reindeer, or even angels is the central attraction. And the message of the manger is what it tells us about God.

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