The Reason for the Season

Every December, the world slows down just enough to remember a baby in a manger. Lights go up, songs get softer, hearts get a little more generous. But Christmas is not merely a sentimental pause in the calendar. It is a theological earthquake wrapped in swaddling cloth. The season is not about escape from reality; it is about God stepping straight into it.

Christ did not come primarily to give us a holiday. He came with an appointment at a cross.

From the very beginning, the shadow of the crucifix falls across the manger. Jesus is born not into royalty, but into vulnerability. No palace. No army. Just flesh and breath and a destiny tied to sacrifice. The incarnation—God becoming human—was not an experiment. It was a rescue mission. Christmas only makes sense when viewed through the lens of Easter. The child was born so the man could die, and in dying, defeat death itself.

That is why the first witnesses to this moment are so telling.

The shepherds who received the angelic announcement were not random pastoral figures chosen for aesthetic effect. These were sacrificial shepherds. They tended sheep destined for temple sacrifice. Their lives revolved around raising spotless lambs—animals examined carefully, preserved meticulously, and eventually offered for the sins of others. When the angels announced, “Unto you is born… a Savior,” it landed on ears trained to understand sacrifice.

There is a quiet poetry here that borders on holy irony. Shepherds who raised lambs for sacrifice were invited to witness the birth of the final Lamb. They spent their lives preparing animals that would temporarily cover sin, and now they were being summoned to see the One who would take it away completely. Before theologians debated Him and before crowds followed Him, shepherds recognized Him. The gospel often begins with those closest to the cost.

Then come the wise men, carrying gifts that preach sermons without words.

Gold is offered to a child who owns no earthly throne, yet it declares His kingship. This is not charity; it is allegiance. Gold acknowledges authority, sovereignty, and worth. It says, “You are King, even if your crown comes later.”

Frankincense, a fragrant incense used in worship, speaks of divinity. It rises in smoke as prayers rise to heaven. This gift declares that this child is not merely a ruler among men, but God with us. Fully divine. Fully worthy of worship.

Myrrh, however, is the most unsettling gift of all. It was used for embalming. It whispers of death at the very moment of birth. While others brought blankets and lullabies, the wise men brought prophecy. This child would die. His body would be broken. His mission would be costly.

Taken together, the gifts form a holy sentence: King. God. Sacrifice.

Christmas, then, is not soft. It is strong. It is God announcing that He will not save humanity from a distance. He will step into bloodlines, politics, poverty, pain, and eventually a grave. Love did not remain abstract. Love put on skin.

And now, centuries later, we are blessed with something profound: a yearly reminder.

In a world that forgets quickly, Christmas returns faithfully. It interrupts our schedules and our cynicism. It reminds us that God’s love is not seasonal, but the season helps us remember it. Every carol, every nativity scene, every quiet moment is an echo of the same truth: God came close.

The reason for the season is not nostalgia. It is redemption.

It is the reminder that no darkness was too deep, no humanity too broken, no cost too high. The manger tells us that God initiates love. The cross tells us how far He was willing to take it.

So when the lights glow and the year draws to a close, we do more than celebrate a birth. We remember a promise kept. A sacrifice planned. A love revealed.

That is the reason for the season—and it is as powerful now as it was on that first holy night.