Years ago as my family arrived at Mass on Christmas Eve, I told my son Julian to go find Jesus. “He’s up there,” I told him, pointing to the life-sized crèche at the front of the church. He shuffled up to the crèche, but he didn’t exactly linger. Determined that Julian and Jesus should have a prayerful moment, I sent him back. “Tell him happy birthday,” I said. Julian dutifully returned to the crèche. This time he stood before the manger for some time. I was pleased. Surely something special was happening.

But when Julian came back to the pew, he was pretty disappointed. “I told him,” he said sadly, “but . . . he wouldn’t even look at me.” I glanced up at the plaster statue at the front of the church. Julian was right. Baby Jesus was staring straight up, his glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling of the church.

Of course Julian and I both knew this was just a statue. It wasn’t Jesus. And yet I guess we both hoped for a connection, for something special, for the way we feel when loved ones look at each other. It’s only natural to yearn for that gaze.

Scripture is full of the language of looking—of humans looking for God (Ps 121:1), of God looking at us (Ps 33:13), of the intense glance of a lover toward the beloved (Song 4:9). It is this gaze that thrills us when God draws near. This is incarnation, this is Christmas—the uninterrupted gaze between ourselves and the divine—“what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands” (1 John 1:1). This is no glassy-eyed, upward-gazing disconnect. This is the burning-without-hurting, the fullness-while-yearning that is God-with-us. This is Incarnation. This is Emmanuel. This is Christmas.

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Merry Christmas, everyone!

Written for Little Rock Scripture Study 2021