Over 2000 years ago in Bethlehem a son was born to a Jewish woman and a carpenter, the Virgin Mary and Joseph. The revelation of this holy birth was made to the humble and the wise and a King.
I was born and grew up in a little village in Nyakach, 60 km south west of Kisumu. The delight was the new clothes and shoes. Christmas was always new, colourful and joyful. The Christmas service was always long. The nativity sermon delivered in the sweltering mid-day of hot December in a jam parked little church.
I have changed. Today the delight of new clothes and the excitement of the large and sumptuous Christmas meal is no more. But I see tons of happy kids in colourful splendour. And my kids ask to go out. I see adults too, consumed by the fire of indulgent consumption.
The magic of Christmas is enduring, unchanging.
In palaces or the Vatican or in the dark huts in the neglected corners of the world, it is Christmas. Some things are truly shared. Rich or poor. Shepherd or wise men.
The juxtaposition and coexistence of humility and majesty in the nativity of Jesus is awesome. This must teach us something about ourselves.