The Cry of God in the Creche

Every December, we gather around the manger scene, hushed and reverent. We tiptoe near the cradle, smiling at the tender vulnerability of God made flesh. It feels comforting—God as a child, wordless and dependent. But if we listen closely, the Nativity is not a sentimental lullaby; it is a cry. Rowan Williams (former Archbishop of Canterbury) calls it “the alarming, mysterious, shattering strangeness of God.” The stable is not a cozy escape from the world’s chaos—it is God’s unsettling answer to it. Think about it: the world is full of noise—debates about politics, morality, power, and security. We ask questions about strength, control, and who will win. And then God answers with a baby. A baby who cannot speak into our arguments, who cannot be co-opted into our tribal crusades. A baby who does not come to condemn the world but to redeem it—not by force, but by love. This is not the God we invent to bless our agendas. This is the God who moves “high-handed in the darkness,” free and unbound, refusing to be our mascot or weapon. Williams writes that the child’s cry is God’s judgment on all our schemes. “Ask a baby about the ordination of women, about divorce legislation, violence on television, who will win the election: it’s not a fruitful experience. It will take a long time to forge the common language in which we can talk about such things.” Christ cooing a wordless sentence against our obsession with power and certainty. In that cry, God says: Your strength is not enough. Your security is not ultimate. Your politics will not save you. And yet, in that same cry, God whispers hope: My weakness is your salvation. My vulnerability is your peace.

My weakness is your salvation. My vulnerability is your peace.