You can’t kill Christmas. No matter how hard you try. And it looks like a lot of people are trying. How else can you explain the glitz, the glitter, the garish decorations? (There’s a Bart Simpson Santa Claus in a front yard near our house.) Along with the endless stream of happy hours, open houses, staff parties, brunches, dinners, potlucks, and out-of-luck food distributions. As well as the non-stop din euphemistically referred to as "sounds of the season"—horrible holiday tunes about reindeer and snowmen and even more horrible renditions of holiday classics, like the Hallelujah Chorus performed on kazoos, or something only slightly better.

I may sound curmudgeonly, but I’m not. I’m awed. Not by our relentless attempts to exploit something so wonderful, but by the fact that anything of wonder survives the exploitation. No matter how much sensory overload the season imposes on us, it seems, the message of the holiday somehow gets through.

The central claim of Christmas is that God became uniquely accessible in one time and in one place as nowhere else. There was a specific point in time when God himself entered human history, not as the Lord of glory, wrapped in majesty and power, not as the judge of the quick and the dead, not as the ruler of nations, but as someone helpless, defenseless, and utterly dependent on the care and affection of others. God’s willingness to become one with us in all of our weakness and vulnerability, in the brokenness of tragedy and loss, sings us a message of love that transcends any other story. They don’t call it the greatest story ever told for nothing.

The utter commonness of Jesus’ first surroundings struck me on my first visit to my uncle’s farm in Michigan. During a tour of the barn, my aunt pointed to a box filled with hay and said, "You know what that is, don’t you?" I didn’t. So she said, "That’s a manger." I had never heard the word outside the Christmas story, and it seemed faintly sacrilegious to apply it to a feed box. But that is precisely the point. Jesus’ first resting place was a container for animal food.

Another dimension of Christmas is equally prominent in the nativity stories, and it deserves attention, too. Beside shepherds and manger and the sounds and smells of animals, there were the dignity of the magi, the glimmer of gold, and the scent of myrrh and frankincense. In other words, there was majesty as well as humility surrounding Jesus’ birth. And besides the irreducible particularity of this baby, this town, this stable, Jesus’ birth had universal meaning. The God who entered the world in Bethlehem in a strikingly specific way is the God who has never left himself without witness (Acts 14:17). He enlightens everyone who comes into the world (John 1:9). And, illuminated by the light from Bethlehem, we can see his presence elsewhere, too.

This reminds me of the greatest picture I never took. I was in Jerusalem with a study tour from La Sierra University. We had just visited the Dome of the Rock, whose gold top and brilliant blue tiles make it the most visible landmark in the Old City. The Muslim shrine stands where the ancient Hebrew temple stood, above the rock where Abraham—it is thought—prepared to sacrifice Isaac. I was the last one in our group to enter the building and when I emerged the rest of our tour members had moved away from the site. As I collected my camera and shoes (forbidden items in the shrine), a group of four or five Arab girls came across the stone pavement, talking and giggling like teenagers everywhere.

When they reached a spot not far from the shrine, however, their attitude instantly changed. They turned to the south, the direction of Mecca, draped their white scarves over their heads, and with closed eyes and upturned palms lost themselves in quiet prayer. I instinctively lifted my camera and fixed them in my viewfinder. I had a perfect shot. Their serene faces were beautifully framed against the background of the shrine—a splendid illustration of the essence of Islam, the soul’s complete surrender to God. But I couldn’t squeeze the shutter. I couldn’t bring myself to intrude in their devotion. Their faith was too moving to become a memento or a curiosity, or even an illustration for a lecture. But the memory of that moment continues to move me.

As a Christian, I believe that Jesus is the unsurpassed manifestation of God in human history. But I also believe that the God who revealed himself in Jesus has never left himself without witness. Christians do not have a corner on genuine devotion. The message of Bethlehem is unmistakably specific, but it is undeniably universal, too. It is a message of great joy for all people.

EMAIL THIS ARTICLE