A Sermon for the Nativity of our Lord Jesus Christ
Wednesday, December 24, 2025
Gracious and loving God,
we thank you for this holy night
and for the gift of your Son, Jesus.
As we gather to celebrate his birth,
open our hearts to your peace,
fill us with your hope,
and remind us of your love for the world.
Be present with us now,
and draw us closer to you and to one another,
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
Christmas Eve has a way of pulling us back in time. Each year, we gather to worship on this night. We hear a familiar story—the same one we heard just a few moments ago from Luke’s Gospel. We sing familiar songs—the ones we look forward to singing all year long. We remember something that happened long ago, in a far-off place.
And if we’re not careful, Christmas can start to feel like something we simply look back on—a beautiful story from the past, treasured and retold, but safely contained in history.
But the truth is, dear friends, Christmas isn’t just something that happened a long time ago.
It’s something that keeps happening. Christ continues to be born among us. Jesus continues to be present.
God continues to break into our lives—often in ways that are quiet and unexpected—right in the middle of real human experience.
I’ve been reminded of that recently in my own ministry as a priest, and tonight, I want share with you a few examples of that—a few stories about how God has been working through my life and the life of this church.
Earlier this month—at the beginning of December—I was invited to be the guest speaker at a service of remembrance for the Angel of Hope.
For those of you who don’t know, the Angel of Hope is a bronze statue here in Andalusia, dedicated to the memory of deceased children in Covington County.
It’s located downtown near Robinson Park, and each year in December there’s a service of remembrance for families in our community who’ve lost a child.
I had never been to the service before, and I didn’t really know what to expect. So, when I was invited to speak, I prepared what I hoped were the right words, a message that might offer some measure of comfort.
That night, the weather was too cold to gather outside by the statue where the service is normally held. So instead, we gathered in a small room inside the Adult Activity Center.
Families filled the room.
And once the service began, it became clear that this gathering mattered deeply to those who were there.
It was a place where people could remember their loved ones without pretending everything was okay.
A place where they could grieve without feeling embarrassed or having to explain why they were there.
A place where no one rushed them through their pain.
I offered a message, and we made it through the rest of the service.
And what stayed with me most from that experience was the sense of community and genuine care that people had for each other.
People sitting next to each other, side by side.
Holding space for one another.
Allowing grief—and even healing—to take place.
And in that small room, in the midst of heavy and tender hearts, Christ was present—not as an easy answer or a quick fix, but as comfort and compassion. As Emmanuel—God with us.
Christ was being born there.
A week before that, at the end of November, we gathered at the church for Joe’s Community Dinner for Thanksgiving.
Many of you know this ministry well.
Every year we offer a hot meal to anyone in our community who needs it—those who want to eat with us in the Parish Hall, or take a plate to go, or have a meal delivered.
It’s one of the ways we try to extend the hospitality of Christ beyond these walls—and we’ll do the same tomorrow morning on Christmas Day.
What you may not know is that sometimes the phone calls we receive from people asking for delivery come with stories.
A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, one woman called the church office asking to receive a meal delivered to her home, and I had the chance to talk with her for a few minutes.
She told me how important this meal was to her.
I could hear in her voice just how much it meant when she said how thankful she was for St. Mary’s—because without it, she wouldn’t have had a Thanksgiving meal at all.
It was a simple thing.
A hot meal. A quick delivery.
And yet, for her, it meant so much.
It meant connection.
It meant being remembered.
In that phone call and in that shared meal, Christ was present—quietly, humbly, without any special attention.
Christ was being born there.
Then just last week, we were at Laundry Love, down the street at the laundromat.
On the third Thursday of each month, a few of us from the church show up with laundry detergent, dryer sheets, and rolls of quarters, and we help people get started with their laundry.
It may not seem like much.
It’s small, simple, and easy to overlook.
But it’s one more way we can share the love of Christ with our neighbors—especially those who need it most.
That night, I met a couple I hadn’t met before. They seemed kind, but clearly struggling.
I introduced myself, told them I was the priest at St. Mary’s, and explained why we were there. They had already washed their clothes, but I offered to help them get started with the dryers.
After the dryer began to run, the woman came up to me and asked if I would pray for her.
And right there, in the middle of the laundromat, we stopped and prayed. When I was done, she smiled, thanked me, and walked away.
Not long after that, the man came up and asked me the same question.
“Will you pray for me?”
I asked him if there was anything specific he’d like for me to pray for, and he shared with me that he was having a difficult time in his relationship and that he had done some things he wasn’t proud of.
He asked me if I would pray for God to forgive him.
So I took his hands, and we prayed—right there between the washers and dryers. When we finished, he smiled, thanked me, and walked away.
Looking back on that night, what stayed with me most wasn’t the prayer, but the ministry of presence—and the gift of being able to stop and listen and stand with someone in a moment of need.
In that laundromat, Christ was present in mercy, in forgiveness, and grace.
Not in a sanctuary or church, but an ordinary place.
Christ was being born there, too.
I wanted to share these stories with you because they remind us that Christmas isn’t just something we remember—it’s something we continue to live.
The story of Jesus’ birth doesn’t begin with “once upon a time,” like a fairy tale.
It begins with three simple words:
“In those days…”
In those days, a decree went out from the emperor of Rome that everyone should be registered.
In those days, Mary and Joseph made the long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem.
In those days, she gave birth to her firstborn son and named him Jesus.
In those days…
A particular time and place.
With real people and real hardships.
Jesus wasn’t born in a perfect world.
He was born into a world just as it was—crowded and uncertain, vulnerable and weary.
God didn’t wait for the right moment.
God didn’t wait for peace and stability.
God stepped in, and gave us the most precious gift.
That’s the miracle of Christmas.
God shows up in the midst of real life and real circumstances.
Jesus was born in those days—but the story didn’t end there.
Christmas continues whenever Christ is made present through love, compassion, and forgiveness—whenever we show up for one another and make room for God to work through us.
Which is why it matters, now more than ever, that we continue to do the work that God has called us to do as the Church—by showing up in the lives of those around us and making the love of Christ known in the world.
The late theologian and spiritual writer, Howard Thurman, once wrote that when the song of the angels is stilled and the star in the sky is gone, the work of Christmas begins…
to find the lost,
to heal the broken,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among others,
to make music in the heart.
That’s how Christmas keeps happening.
In those days, God came among us as a child.
And even now, God still comes—through acts of compassion and generosity, through presence and the love we share with others.
You don’t have to travel to Bethlehem to witness Christmas.
You can see it whenever a grieving parent is loved and cared for.
Whenever the needs of the most vulnerable are met with kindness and generosity.
Whenever words of forgiveness are spoken.
Whenever someone is reminded they’re not alone.
In those days, God came among us.
And in these days, God is still with us.
And that’s the good news of Christmas.
Amen.
The Rev. Eric Mancil 