(The Hamilton Spectator – Saturday, December 20, 2025)
Sitting on our home’s front window ledge these days is a simple sign that says, “Noel.” A
nativity scene is carved inside the letter O. I found it in a country store.
The modest window in a window isn’t much. Except it is. This is how it goes with things hidden
in plain view.
Consider a game involving youth sent to a busy mall to find some adults dressed in costume,
adults they know. I recently learned about it. One girl doesn’t recognize her own father when
he sits on a bench beside her. He asks her for the time. So she tells him, stands up and leaves.
The things we miss in plain view.
Or picture this. You’re in the downtown core where a church opens its doors every Thursday for
down-and-outers. Down because they don’t have two nickels to rub together. Out because
they’re often outside mainstream society or outside their families or outside in the cold. Here
they have food, warmth and each other. This Thursday they sing.
A man named Ben leads “The Joy of the Lord,” a song he wrote while recovering after his wife’s
death. His world collapsed, he explains, but prayer and music helped in his grief. “It’s the Lord’s
joy that’s our strength,” he tells the gathering. “It’s not ours.”
Then everyone decides to pray. Someone’s getting evicted. A woman talks about the monthly
cheques that never arrive, money that won’t make ends meet anyway. Then the kids on the
street. These people pray for many things. I was there.
You’d be forgiven for seeing it all as comedy, even as you’d be forgiven for thinking the God of
Christmas has a strange sense of humour. Chief among the things he likes to hide, apparently, is
himself.
Jesus once told a story about it, about a king at the end of time. “I was hungry,” the king tells
his audience, “and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me a cool drink. I was a
stranger and you invited me in. I needed clothes and you brought them. I was sick and you
nursed me to health. I was even in prison and you visited.”
Waiting for the punchline, his listeners say, “No, no, you’re mistaken. Not us. We’d remember
that.” The king says, “You actually did this for me when you did it for those needing it most.”
More things hidden in plain view. And now a king who plays like a child.
It’s like the joke about a teacher who tells her class, “Draw anything you want.” One boy goes
for it. He says he’s drawing God. The teacher says, “No, you can’t. Nobody knows what God
looks like.” The little boy says, “Well, they will when I’m finished.”
And isn’t this Christmas? A window. A picture of God having great power and humility, both.
Mary and Joseph, poor as they come. The newborn Jesus laid in an animal feeding trough.
Scruffy shepherds, the outcasts and outsiders of the time, given the news before anyone else.
“Don’t be afraid,” the angel tells them while their knees knock and their faces shine with
wonder. Then the full heavenly host goes strong about glory to God in the highest and on earth,
peace and goodwill to, well, everyone.
This is not just a birth, but a death to all my gods. It’s a profound understanding I once heard,
one that might come from some emperor as much as you or me.
This is the first Noel. It’s not anyone reaching up or performing. It’s the maker of all things
coming down to reassure humankind of his unusual and unending love, that nothing can
separate us from it. This is why Christmas rolls around every year. To remind us.
Noel, by the way, means “Christmas” in French. It’s also “good news,” from the phrase “bonnes
nouvelles.” God apparently knows that the world needs some good news.
Blessed are those who see it.