On this holy night, the Church gives us a canticle that feels like a deep breath before dawn—Philippians 2:6–11, the great hymn of Christ’s self-emptying love. It’s the story beneath every Nativity scene, the truth hidden in the quiet of Bethlehem: the eternal Word, born of the Father before time began, emptied himself for our sake.
Before shepherds knelt, before angels sang, before Mary wrapped him in swaddling clothes, the Son chose humility. He took on our likeness, our limits, our vulnerability. The One who shaped galaxies accepted the smallness of a manger. The Lord of all became the servant of all.
Tonight, we stand in that tender space where heaven bends low to meet the earth. The Child who cries in the cold is the same Christ who will one day stretch out his arms on the cross. The same Jesus whom God will exalt above every other name. The same Lord before whom every knee will one day bow.
But for now—this night—he simply comes. Quietly. Poorly. Lovingly.
Christmas Eve invites us to kneel beside the manger and let ourselves be astonished again. To let his humility soften our pride. To let his nearness heal our distance. To let his gentleness draw us into worship.
The eternal Word has come to dwell with us.
Love has taken on flesh. And the world, once again, is held in holy expectation.
Smitten With Goodness 