“Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.”
— Luke 2:10
The heart of the Christmas story does not begin in a sanctuary or a palace. It begins in the fields, at night, among shepherds—men who lived on the margins of society, trusted with animals but rarely with respect. When the angels appear, their first words are not instruction or correction, but reassurance: Do not be afraid.
That alone tells us something important about God.
The angels do not announce Christ’s birth to the powerful or the pious. They come to those who were accustomed to being overlooked. And the message they bring is not selective or guarded: it is “good news of great joy for all the people.” Before there is a manger, before there are wise men, before there is any theology to debate, there is this simple proclamation—joy, freely offered.
For LGBTQ+ Christians, Christmas can be complicated. Many of us carry memories of worship spaces where our presence felt conditional, or family gatherings where silence pressed harder than words. We know what it is to stand just outside the circle, listening carefully for signs of welcome. And yet, the first Christmas announcement was made to people who were already used to standing outside.
That is not accidental.
The incarnation—the Word becoming flesh—means that God chose closeness over distance. God did not shout salvation from heaven; God entered human life completely. Born into poverty. Dependent on others. Vulnerable. Luke tells us that Mary wrapped the child in bands of cloth and laid him in a feeding trough. There is no triumphal display here, only tenderness. Only presence.
Isaiah speaks of a child born for us, a son given—not as a threat, but as a gift. This child is called Wonderful Counselor, Prince of Peace. Peace, not conformity. Nearness, not exclusion. The Christmas story insists that God’s love is not abstract or theoretical; it arrives embodied, specific, and astonishingly ordinary.
And when the shepherds hear the angels’ song, they do not stay put. They go. They seek. They trust that the message is truly meant for them. When they find the child, Scripture says they return glorifying and praising God—not because their lives have suddenly become easier, but because they have been seen.
That matters.
This season, you may feel joyful—or weary, or guarded, or unsure how much of yourself you can safely bring into sacred spaces. Wherever you are, hear this clearly: the Christmas story does not require you to earn your place. God has already come looking for you. Emmanuel—God with us—means God with us in our real lives, not our edited ones.
As we draw closer to Christmas, may we remember that the good news was first spoken to those least likely to expect it. And may that same message still echo for us today:
Do not be afraid. This joy is for you, too.
