Dear sisters and brothers, families and friends, parishioners and visitors, welcome once again to the Cathedral of St. Paul for our Christmas Vigil celebration. On behalf of Father Jerabek and the entire staff of the diocese and cathedral, we extend our best wishes and greetings for a very Merry Christmas! 

We have many families here tonight and everyone it seems is ready to tuck into a vigil dinner after Mass and have some quality family time and perhaps to open a few presents. The joy of Christmas is so cherished by us – and perhaps we have become somewhat used to the consumeristic pressures that we face. I’d like to cast this Christmas homily in a different way. I was reflecting on what the celebration of Christmas might be like from a child’s voice from the margins of society, whether it be here in the U.S., or from eastern Ukraine, or from Gaza, or another part of the globe torn by seemingly endless violence, incessant conflict and strife, and where there seems to be a lack of hope or joy. So, here is one such take on it from the perspective of a child.

‘The Hope of Emmanuel’

I don’t know much about Christmas. I don’t have a big tree or presents under it like the stories say. My home isn’t warm and quiet, and I don’t fall asleep to songs of joy or what they call Christmas carols. Instead, there’s noise—loud, frightening noise. I hear sirens sometimes, or the pounding of doors late at night. I see people fighting, crying, and sometimes dads or brothers don’t come home.

But tonight, tonight, it’s different. I’ve heard about this Christmas thing—about a baby born long ago, Who came to bring hope. And I have to believe it’s true, because if it’s not, then what’s left? Everything seems to be gone right now.

I want to tell you something about this baby. His name was Jesus. I think He was born just like me—just like all of us. They say He was born in a place with no soft blankets, no toys to play with, no food on the table. No, He was born in a stable, with little light - barely a shelter - surrounded by animals. And I wonder—did He cry like me when He was scared? Did He feel cold, too? Did He feel alone?

The story says that His mom was named Mary, and His dad was named Joseph. They weren’t rich, and they didn’t live in a big house. They didn’t have soldiers guarding them or anyone to protect them. They were just two people, trying to make it through - like my family, like my neighbors, like so many people I know. They lived in a world that wasn’t safe, a world filled with rulers who didn’t care about the poor, about the children, about the weak or the vulnerable.

But then there was a miracle. An angel came to Joseph, and told him, “Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife. The child she carries is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you shall name Him Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins.” The angel said His name would be “Emmanuel”—which means “God with us.”

That’s what makes Christmas different for me. The angel said, “God with us.” I don’t know what that means, exactly, but I want to believe it means that God is with me; that He’s with my family in this house where the windows don’t close right and the walls are cracked; that He’s with my friends in the streets, where they try to survive, and in the places we flee to, hoping for a better life; that He’s with my mama when she cries at night and my papa when he works all day just to bring us food. He’s with the people who are hungry, who are scared, who have no home, who are hurt or are alone, and who don’t know who to turn to. 

When I think about Jesus, I think about how He came to a world like mine—broken, hurt, full of fear and confusion. I think about how His family didn’t get to rest. They didn’t have peace. They didn’t have the safety that I wish for, but the angel still said, “Don’t be afraid.” Don’t be afraid, because God is with you.

I think that’s what Christmas means. It means that even when the world is dark, even when everything seems impossible, God is still here. He’s with the children who have to grow up too fast. He’s with the parents who worry about their children’s safety. He’s with the poor, the sick, the lonely. And He came in a way that nobody expected—in the body of a baby, in the middle of a dirty, dark, dank stable. He came not in a palace, not in a hospital or a place where everyone would celebrate, not with midwives in attendance but in a place where everyone would ignore or forget.

God came to us, just like us, and He knows what it’s like to be scared, to be lost, to be without help. And that means, for me, for us, that Christmas isn’t just about a baby in a manger. It’s about the promise that “God is with us”—right here, right now.

I don’t know if the fighting will stop tomorrow. I don’t know if we’ll have enough food or if we’ll ever find a place to call home, but this Christmas, I will hold on to the hope that “Emmanuel” means that God has not forgotten me, or my family, or anyone who is hurting. He has not forgotten the people in Gaza, or Ukraine, or the city streets, or the children who walk for miles hoping to find safety. God is with us.  

Maybe that's the Christmas hope I can hold on to

Maybe Christmas is the promise that we don’t walk alone. Maybe it's the hope that even when the world seems too much, there’s still God here, right beside us, loving us. Maybe it means that we have a future—just like Jesus, Who grew up to teach love, forgiveness, and peace. Even when everything feels dark, He’s the light we can follow.

I’ll wait for that light. I’ll wait for peace. I’ll wait for the day when there’s no more noise, no more destruction, no more fear, no more pain. And I’ll know that Christmas means we can still dream of better days. 

And so, this Christmas, I’ll pray that “Emmanuel” comes again—into my home, into my heart, and into the hearts of everyone who needs to know they are not alone, for in the person of the babe born in Bethlehem, on this silent and holy night, “God is with us.” Amen.