Last weekend, as we entered the final days of Advent, we asked a fundamental question: What is the gospel? And we came to a surprising and demanding conclusion. In Christ, the gospel is a person. In Christ, the gospel is you.

Today, on Christmas Day, that claim becomes even more concrete. Because Christmas is not simply about remembering that Jesus was born. Christmas is about how God chose to enter history, where God chose to locate his power, and what kind of Kingdom God chose to establish.

At every Mass we hear from the Gospels. The word “gospel,” as we said last weekend, comes from the Greek euangelion, a word borrowed from the political and military world. It meant an announcement of victory, a declaration that a new power had prevailed. In the ancient world, the gospel was proclaimed when an emperor was born, when a battle was won, when a new order had arrived.

So when the Church dares to say that the birth of a poor child in Bethlehem is the Gospel, it is making a bold claim about power.

The question of the Gospel is always this: What power governs your life?
And the question of Christmas is even sharper: Do we really believe that God’s power looks like this?

The Gospel of John when proclaimed at Christmas says that “the true light that enlightens all people has come into the world.” And to those who accept him, he gives power, not domination, not control, but the power to become children of God.

John begins his Gospel with the words, “In the beginning,” deliberately echoing the first words of Genesis. Christmas, then, is not a side story in human history. It is God’s response to creation itself. The coming of Christ is concerned with the fulfillment of God’s intention for the world.

Modern science tells us that the universe had a beginning, that it is still unfolding, that every atom in our bodies can be traced back to the stars. As one astrophysicist put it, we are “stardust brought to life, empowered by the universe to figure itself out.”

Christian faith dares to say something even more radical: that this same universe has a personal origin, and that the One who called it into being has now entered it, not as force, but as flesh.

This brings us directly to the Christmas stories themselves. The Gospels of Matthew and Luke do not tell us the story of Jesus’ birth to be sentimental. They tell it to reveal competing kingdoms.

Luke places the birth of Jesus under the shadow of Caesar Augustus, the first god-emperor, the man who claimed to bring peace through conquest. His achievements were so celebrated that his birthday was officially proclaimed as the beginning of the “gospel” for the world.

Into that world, Jesus is born. Not in a palace, but in a manger. Not announced to elites, but to shepherds. This is already a judgment on the world’s understanding of power.

But Matthew, whom we read from today, tells the story from another angle, one that takes us deeper into the question of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Matthew begins with a genealogy. A long list of names. A family tree. Why? Because Matthew wants us to see that God’s Kingdom enters history from within. Jesus does not fall from the sky. He is born into a family, into a people, into a wounded and complicated story.

That genealogy traces Jesus back to King David, and then further back to Abraham. Abraham is the key. To Abraham, God made a promise, not of domination, but of blessing. “Through you,” God says, “all the families of the earth shall find blessing.”

Israel was chosen not to be superior to the nations, but to serve them. And yet, as Matthew’s genealogy makes painfully clear, Israel’s history is filled with brokenness, violence, exile, and failure. God does not wait for a perfect story to begin his Kingdom. He enters the story as it is.

This is where Matthew introduces the tension that runs through his entire Gospel: the tension between the Kingdom of Heaven and the kingdoms of this world.

The Magi represent the nations, the search of humanity itself. They are not kings, but wise men, early scientists, readers of the heavens. They follow a star because they are attentive to truth wherever it appears. They embody the hope that creation itself points beyond itself.

But standing in their way is King Herod, a man obsessed with preserving his power. Herod represents everything the Kingdom of Heaven is not: fear, competition, violence, and control. When confronted with the possibility of a different king, he chooses slaughter.

This is the world into which Jesus is born. A world where power is guarded by violence, where truth is threatening, where innocence is expendable.

And yet Matthew will later summarize Jesus’ entire message with one simple phrase: “The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.”

Not the Kingdom of Rome. Not the Kingdom of Herod. Not the Kingdom of fear. But the Kingdom of Heaven.

What is that Kingdom like? Matthew tells us again and again. It belongs to the poor in spirit. It grows like a mustard seed. It is discovered like a hidden treasure. It is revealed in mercy, forgiveness, reconciliation, and love of enemy.

And here is the crucial point for Christmas Day.

The Kingdom of Heaven does not arrive as an idea. It arrives as a life. And that life now seeks to take flesh in us.

This is why Christmas does not end at the manger. If it did, it would be harmless. Christmas becomes dangerous only when we realize that Emmanuel, God with us, now means God in us.

This is why, sisters and brothers, the Gospel cannot remain a memory or a tradition. It must become embodied. It must take shape in our choices, our relationships, our communities. The gospel must be you.

The Gospel is preached most convincingly not from pulpits, but through lives that have been changed by mercy.

That is why the Church exists. Not as an institution competing for power, but as a sacrament of the Kingdom, a visible sign of God’s transforming presence in the world.

Many people today are disillusioned with institutions, including the Church, and sometimes for good reason. But the power of God is not limited by our failures. The Kingdom of Heaven continues to grow wherever people choose forgiveness over resentment, solidarity over indifference, hope over fear.

Jesus says, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am in their midst.” The Gospel always begins small. A child. A family. A community. A heart willing to change.

So today, as we celebrate Christmas, the question is not simply, Do you believe that Jesus was born? The deeper question is, Will his life continue in you? If Jesus truly is Emmanuel, God with us, then the Gospel is not finished being written. If in Jesus the gospel is you, it is being written now, in your life. So write it well.