God in the fragile places: A homily for Christmas Day Mass 2025

preached by Fr Christopher Woods, Vicar. The gospel reading is Luke 2. 1-14

Every year, building the crib is one of the traditional activities of the Parish Christmas.

The wooden surround comes out from the shed and the straw has a mind of its own. The old, probably early 20th century figures emerge from the cupboard in the vestry. This year we lost the star, then after hanging up a replacement, Martin found the better one and so we hung that one up instead. There’s the sheep with the dodgy leg that never quite stands straight. One year one of the shepherd’s head came off, but we managed to repair it with care and skill. Mary and Joseph slightly chipped. The stable roof that never quite fits as it should.

It’s fragile. It’s imperfect. And somehow, every year, it’s still as beautiful.

Because the crib scene does not show us a perfect world. It shows us a world held together with care, patience, and hope. And that is the world into which Christ is born.

Luke begins the Christmas story not with angels or carols, but with politics and power. An emperor issues a decree. A census is ordered. People are moved around like numbers on a page. The machinery of empire grinds on, indifferent to the lives it disrupts.

And right there, in the middle of all that, is a young couple, far from home, with no room for them anywhere.

Jesus is not born in the calm after history has settled down. He is born while things are still messy, unjust, and unsettled. Christmas does not wait for the world to be ready. God comes anyway.

Mary gives birth, wraps her child in cloths, and lays him in a feeding trough. Not because it is symbolic or quaint, but because there is nowhere else. The Son of God enters the world not cushioned by comfort.

And then, suddenly, the heavens break open.

. But to shepherds — working men, night-shift labourers, people on the edges. The sort of people who smell of sheep to adapt a phrase from the late Pope Francis, and who are used to being overlooked are the ones who are given exciting news first. The angels sing not to those with influence or authority, but to the roughies in the hill country.

Luke tells us they are terrified. Of course they are. This is not a gentle Christmas card moment. This is God interrupting ordinary life.

But the first words spoken over the birth of Christ are not words of judgement or demand. They are words of reassurance.

“Do not be afraid.
“To you is born this day… a Saviour.”

Not “to the world in general,” not “to people who have it together,” but to you. This child is God’s gift, personally addressed.

And the sign they are given is not a miracle in the sky or a show of power. It is this: a baby, wrapped in cloths, lying in a manger. Vulnerable. Dependent. Small.

And there is a declaration of Glory and Peace.

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favours.”

Somehow all held together in the fragile body of a newborn child.

The crib reminds us that God chooses the fragile places. The broken edges. The figures that have been dropped and repaired and still show the cracks.

God does not wait for perfection before showing up. God does not stand back until the world gets its act together. God comes precisely where things are most exposed.

That is good news, because most of us arrive at Christmas carrying something fragile.

Some of us come with joy, yes — but also with grief. With exhaustion. With relationships that are strained or broken. With memories of those who should be here and aren’t. With worries about the future that won’t be silenced by tinsel and candles.

And Christmas does not deny any of that. It does not pretend everything is fine. It simply says this: God is here.

The child in the manger is not strong yet. He cannot speak. He cannot fix anything. But he is Emmanuel — God with us. And that, Luke tells us, is where peace begins.

Not with control. Not with dominance. Not with everything being repaired and polished.

But with God choosing to be born into our reality, as it is.

So when we look at the crib this Christmas — the sheep that won’t stand properly, the figures held together with care — we are not looking at something childish or nostalgic. We are given a visual reminder that God enters the world gently, God trusts human hands and God believes that fragile things are worth loving.