Dear friends,
As you know well, my birthday is drawing near. Every year there is a great celebration in my honor, and I imagine this year will be no exception. During this season everyone shops and buys gifts; the radio, television, and department stores overflow with advertisements, and it all grows more extravagant as my anniversary approaches.
It is truly wonderful to think that at least once a year so many remember me. Yet as time goes on, I notice something has changed. At first, people seemed to understand and appeared grateful for what I had done for them. Now they seem to remember less and less why this celebration exists at all. Families and friends gather to have fun, but often they do not know the true meaning of the holiday.
I remember last year there was a grand feast in my honor. The dining table overflowed with fine dishes, sweets, fruit, and chocolates. The decorations were magnificent, and there were piles of beautiful gifts wrapped with great care. But do you know the most beautiful thing? I was not invited. In theory I was the guest of honor, but no one remembered me. No one invited me. The party was in my honor, yet when the great day arrived, they left me outside. They shut the door in my face. And yet I wanted to be with them, to share in their meal.
In truth, I was not very surprised. For years now, all the doors have remained closed to me.
Since I had not been invited, I decided to attend the celebration anyway—quietly, without drawing attention. I sat in a corner and watched. Everyone drank. Some were drunk, doing silly things, laughing at everything. They were having a wonderful time.
As the evening ended, a large man with a white beard appeared, dressed in a long red robe, laughing continuously: "Ho, ho, ho!" He sat on the sofa, and all the children ran around him shouting "Santa Claus! Santa Claus!"—as if the party were being held in his honor.
Then everyone began to embrace one another. I opened my arms too, waiting for someone to come and hold me. And do you know what happened? No one came to me at all.
Then they all hurried to unwrap their gifts. They opened them one by one with great excitement. Once everything had been unwrapped, I looked carefully to see if any gift remained for me. How would you feel if, on your birthday, everyone exchanged gifts with one another and you received not a single one?
Finally I understood that I was not really wanted at that gathering. And so, quietly, I left.
This is what happens every year. People remember only what they ate and drank, the gifts they received. Almost no one thinks of me.
This year, for Christmas, I would like you to let me into your life. I would like you to remember that more than two thousand years ago I was born to give my life for you, to save you. Today I ask only that you believe this with all your heart. Since so many did not invite me to their celebration this past year, this time I want to organize my own feast, and I hope you will come—all of you, in great numbers!
It is not complicated: enter a church. Welcome a poor person. Be kind to those living near you. Close your eyes. I am here, beside you, with you. I am Emmanuel.
I love you so much.