Sermon for Christmas Day: On the Principal Ends of the Savior's Coming, Charles René Billuart, OP (1685–1757)
“He gave them power to become children of God… And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us…” (John 1).1 My dear brethren, after hearing these words, what should we admire more: the elevation of man or the abasement of the Son of God? Man has been elevated even to the point of becoming a child of God. And the Son of God has lowered Himself even to the point of becoming the Son of man. When I consider these two mysteries, they seem equally inexplicable. If I rise to the throne of God, who adopts men as His children, I find Him surrounded by inaccessible light. Yet, if I approach the manger where the Son of God rests His head, I find Him clothed in a body that the holy Fathers called a shadow or veil covering His Divinity. What eyes could either pierce such shadows or endure such light? Yes, we must repeat it: these are ineffable mysteries whose depth is infinite and impossible to fathom: “Profound is the mystery, and who shall sound out its depths?” (cf. Eccl. 7:24).
Therefore, my brethren, I will not attempt to explain these mysteries, but will limit myself to speaking of the consequences they ought to have. Above all: love and holiness. Of its very nature, the abasement of the Divine Word should inspire our love. And holiness is the natural effect of man’s elevation to divine filiation. God lowered Himself so that He might be loved, and He elevated us so that we might be sanctified. But what has been the tale of mankind? Let us join our tears, my brethren, to those that Jesus Christ sheds in Bethlehem’s stable. Our ingratitude has made the designs of His mercy useless for many. The Word was made flesh, and yet He receives no greater measure of love. We have been made children of God, and yet we are no holier.
Blessed Spirit, who announced to the divine Mary these adorable mysteries, grant that I might today join my weak voice to yours, and that, prostrate at the feet of the Mother of God, I may say to her with you: “Hail, Mary…”
The Abasement of God to Inspire Love
What sovereign happiness the Son of God enjoyed in the bosom of His Father. Not only was He powerful and wise. He was the very power and wisdom of His Father. Yet, here we look upon Him, in a stable, between two animals, exposed to the harsh winds, lacking all things. What could have been the profound reasons that forced Him to hide His glory under the cover of such lowliness? He loved us, and He wanted to be loved by us. His incarnation is the work of the love He bore for us, and He intended that it would be the principle of the love we should have for Him. Let others look upon this mystery and admire God’s wisdom, power, or justice. Yet, when I look upon it, I admire His love present there, above everything else. I cannot think of it without crying out with the Evangelist: Oh! How tenderly God has loved us! Oh! How His love urged Him on to such startling extremes! He gave Himself to us. Could we imagine any greater kind of love? “For God so loved the world…” (John 3). Let us not seek out other motives for the Incarnation of the Word: it is the work of love.
And love is also its principle. The Son of God came to cast fire upon the earth. And why did the Prophets testify to their ardent desire for His coming? What was their wish? Above all else, it was that man, hitherto insensitive to the love of God, might let himself be touched by it: “Oh, that you would rend the heavens and come down! The mountains would melt at your presence and the waters would burn with fire” (Isaiah 64). They were persuaded that man’s heart—be it harder than stone and colder than ice—would warm and soften immediately when this heavenly flame approached them: “It remained hardened,” said Saint Augustine, “until that fire touched it.”
Yes, I cannot imagine how anyone could succeed in fending this off, or how anyone could fail to love a God who in His love for us humbled Himself to so low an estate, to our lowliness. But, if you wish to truly understand what makes him lovable in this way, you must bear in mind the two endpoints of His abasement: whence He came and whither He descended. Ah! How far is the distance between them! And how rightly do the words of holy Job apply here: God, who is higher than the heavens, is also deeper than the depths.
Whence came the Word made flesh? St. John the Evangelist told us quite clearly: from the bosom of His Father. In the beginning was the Word; before all time and from all eternity, He was. He was with God, and He was God—not merely similar to His Father but of the same nature, His equal in power and wisdom, and together with the Holy Spirit, they were but One God. All things were made through Him, with no exception. He is the creator of all. In Him was life. And it had to be there as in its wellspring, for through Him life comes to all that lives. Therefore, in Him was the natural life of animated bodies, the spiritual life of souls, the life of grace, and the life of glory. In Him was the Divine Life, and He Himself was Life. For God’s life is nothing other than God Himself. What wonders! What grandeur! Now, my dear brethren, you see whence came the Eternal Word.
But how far did He descend? Hear what we are told by the Apostle: He emptied Himself by taking the form of a slave and the nature of a servant, by making Himself like unto men. And in all things, He appeared as a man to all who looked upon Him (Phil. 2).
He emptied Himself. For, just as a greater distance separates God and man than the abyss between man and nothingness, so too, it is truer for us to say that He emptied Himself when He became man than to say that man would be emptied if he were reduced to nothingness. In emptying Himself, He took the form of a servant. Do you recognize Him? He who is equal to God in eternity, here subjected to God in time. He who, in the splendors of divine glory, is the Only Begotten Son, here is a servant in the arms of Mary. There, He sees nothing in God but His Father; here, He sees in God His lord and master. There, He commands; here, He obeys. He made Himself like unto men. He took on a body and a soul. At the very least, why didn’t He limit himself to a human soul? This is the most noble part of man; it is spirit, it is immortal. Yet, what is more corruptible and weaker than the flesh? But, the Word was made flesh, so that He might differ from man in no way. And, likewise, in all things, He appeared as a man to all who looked upon Him.
What marks out the condition of man? Most certainly, it is his miseries and his sufferings. Is that not our lot, what we inherited from our first father? Jesus Christ shared this lineage with us. Look upon Him: shivering with cold, crying out in tears, lying in a manger, wrapped in poor swaddling clothes, by Himself, stripped of everything. Does He not thus persuade us that He is man, that He became man?
How prodigious an abasement! Who could understand it? Yet, at the same time, who could refrain from loving Him who only thus emptied Himself out of love for us and out of a desire to be loved by us? Resist no longer, you men whose hearts have hitherto remained impregnable and unfeeling! Resist no longer! The Word was made flesh. No longer does anyone escape the ardor of His divine love. No longer is there any refuge, no longer any haven, for man’s hardness of heart. In the words of the learned man, William of Paris: “You will find no escape from the love of God.”
It brings to mind the words of St. Bernard: God is great in heaven, and I marvel at Him. God is small on earth, and I love Him. God is armed with thunderbolts in heaven, and I shrink from Him. God is wrapped in swaddling clothes in the manger, and I draw close to Him. God is a terrible God above all gods in heaven, and He frightens me. He is a child lying in a stable, and He softens my heart. The miracles of His wisdom ravish me, those of His providence charm me, those of His power astonish me, those of His anger trouble me. Yet those of His goodness, His mercy, His condescension, and His infinite charity in His incarnation inspire only love and tenderness.
Some hearts are mercenary: they sell their love. Jesus Christ gives everything so that He might buy it. To those who love Him, He gives freedom, life, grace, glory, the status of being a child of God, and even His divinity itself. He offers all the goods he has so that He might have their hearts. Some hearts are generous hearts: they desire to give their love. And Jesus Christ deserves it. In no way has he lost any of those qualities that make Him worthy of adoration. In becoming what He was not, He did not cease to be what He was. Although mute, He is the Word of His Father. Although weak, He is almighty. Although subject to death, He is immortal. Finally, some hearts must be forced to love: it is only by being overwhelmed with benefits that they give over their hearts. Now, what did the Son of God do in the Incarnation? What did He do in the manger of Bethlehem? He lavished His benefits upon men who were His enemies. He gave them a thousand marks of His goodness. And thus, He forced them to love Him. Yes, O Lord, You have bought our love. You deserve to be loved. You have forced us to love You. Yes, whoever does not love You deserves to be accursed: “If anyone does not love the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be anathema” (1 Cor. 16). These words were first pronounced by Saint Paul. My brethren, can you bear to hear them without trembling? “If anyone does not love the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be anathema.” Do not these words apply to us too? Yes us, for despite His utter abasement, Christ appears no more lovable to our eyes, this Christ whom we do not love. Once upon a time, there was no room for Him in the inns of Bethlehem. Today, there is no room for him in our hearts. The Jews refused to receive him, and we just as intractably refuse him as well.
I do not say this without reason, my brothers. Imagine Jesus Christ, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in the manger, asking if you love Him, as He would later ask St. Peter. Few among us could answer with that same apostle: “Yes, Lord, I love You, and You know it.” Or, if we dared answer like him, think how difficult we would find it to furnish testimonies of our love, and to prove it! Could we do so by appealing to how tenderly we feel toward Jesus Christ, or to our gratitude for His benefits, or to our admiration of His greatness, or to our submission to what He commands? These varied proofs were offered by the Holy Virgin, the shepherds, the kings and the angels who approached the manger of Jesus Christ. Thus, they testified to their love for Him. Yet, alas, these same proofs show me that we do not love Him.
The Holy Virgin showed the tenderness of her love for Jesus Christ by occupying herself solely with Him. We tenderly love someone when we are incessantly occupied with him, when our spirit is completely fixed upon him, when we think only about him, when we are interested in everything that happens to him, and when we are profoundly affected by the least things he does. This was indeed true for the august Virgin Mary as she looked upon all her son’s movements, as she counted even His sighs, as she listened to the words of the angels and the shepherds, and as she meditated over all this in her heart: “She kept all these words, pondering them in her heart” (Luke 2). Ah! my brethren, how far are we from being affected like her! Think of our own indifference as we pass through these days established for us to call to mind anew these mysteries, which deserve our adoration! Let us admit this sad fact: nothing occupies us less than Jesus Christ. Therefore, we do not love Him, and we do not have for Him that tender love which Mary had.
The shepherds testified to Him their eager and grateful love. Immediately upon hearing the angelic message, they came to pay their homage to the Word Incarnate. Eagerly they placed their humble gifts before Him. And they left the stable with nothing but feelings of gratitude and love, conversing only about the infinite mercies of the Lord, announcing and singing His praises: “They returned praising and glorifying God” (Luke 2). My dear brethren, these should be your own dispositions. Like the shepherds, you too should testify your love to God. Such were the dispositions of the faithful in Saint Bernard’s day, as he himself testifies: I have looked out in our churches and looked upon old men, bent under the weight of their years, yet attending the offices on Christmas Eve with as much vigor as though they were still in the flower of youth; and alongside them, I have seen the young as modest and recollected as those far advanced in years.
Oh! How the times have changed! Surely, young people came this night into our churches, yet they moved as slowly as an elderly man in the last days of his life. And old men came with spirits so frivolous that they could be confused with mere youths. Women came, but without recollection and without modesty, several striving to distinguish themselves from others by their ridiculous vanity, scandalously adorned upon their foreheads, despite the wrinkles that might cover them. Those faithful in St. Bernard’s day, who, like the shepherds, were imbued with feelings of gratitude, left the church only to pass the rest of the night in their houses in prayers, praise, and thanksgiving for so great a mercy. How different they were from those false Christians of our days, who leave only to go to the debauchery they have assigned for themselves, as if they wanted to compensate themselves, through a kind of scandalous intemperance, for the inconvenience of the previous fast, to sacrifice to their belly after having attended the sacrifice of a penitent God, to mock His hunger by their gluttony, and to renew the horrible impiety of a pagan emperor who had the statue of Adonis put in the stable of Bethlehem and the idol of Impudicity in a place consecrated by the purity, pains, and the cries of the Savior.
Yes, therefore, it is quite true that Christians today do not join the shepherds in grateful love for Jesus. What about the reverential love expressed by the kings who adored Him and humbled their grandeur at His feet? You need only look at mankind at the foot of our altars, and you will be persuaded that this reverential love is wholly absent from our hearts. How enormous is the difference between these holy kings and most Christians! The kings completely abase themselves before a child resting in a manger, yet we do not humble ourselves before the God who rests on our altars. The kings adore Him; Christians insult Him. How could this be? Ah! the kings loved Jesus Christ, and Christians do not.
For finally, if they loved Him, would they not observe His laws? The angels who loved Him obeyed His orders, and they bore these commands on His behalf, some to the shepherds, others to the kings and to Saint Joseph. They pressed close to His manger to have the honor of receiving His commands, and to give Him, through their obedience, proofs of their love. We who are rebellious against what God wills, we who transgress His most holy laws, can we say that we love Him? No, my brothers, we do not love Him. And you know well that what I say is all too true. The Eternal Word made Himself man so that He might be loved by men, yet He is not loved by them.
Now, earlier, I also said that by the Word having become flesh, we have been made children of God. Yet, just as the abasements of the Word do not make Him more loved, neither does our elevation make us any better. We are the children of God, yet, for all that, we are no holier.
Our Elevation to Holiness
Just as the Son of God took upon Himself the appearance of our sins so that He might enfold us with His justice, just as He became poor so that He might enrich us, so too did He humble Himself in order to lift us up. In becoming the Son of Man, He made us children of God: “God sent His Son so that we might receive adoption as sons” (Gal. 4). The holy Fathers held that the Incarnation was as a source of honor and glory for all of human nature, which, despite how contemptible it had become, was raised through this mystery to the heights of sublime grandeur. They believed that nothing in all of creation is above it, and that it is impossible to imagine anything greater than what it is. As St. Augustine expressed it: “Our human nature is so high and uplifted to such lofty heights, that it has nothing higher to which it could be raised.”
The first outpourings of this glory rested within the august Virgin Mary, she who was blessed among all women, raised above all creatures. Let us not compare her to Rebecca, nor to Rachel, nor to the other illustrious wives of the sovereigns or patriarchs of the Jewish people. Unknown as she was, the wife of a man without reputation among men, deprived of the goods of fortune, and reduced to taking shelter in a stable, she was the mother of God, and, as a necessary consequence, raised above all others, save God Himself.
From the Holy Virgin, this glory has poured down upon us. We who were children of men have become children of God. Many could be our marvelous reflections on this new character we have. Yet, I will avoid dwelling at great length on points that, however beautiful and solid they might be, might not be to the taste of many of our listeners, for it might be beyond their reach. Thus, I will pass lightly over these great mysteries: the infinite mercy of God, who has adopted us as His children; the way that this adoption was accomplished; and the rich consequences that result from it.
Adoption is only a supplement to nature. When someone has children, they do not normally adopt others. Therefore, with Augustine, can we ever feel enough admiration for the goodness of the Eternal Father who, already having a Son, nonetheless was willing to adopt us? Or, likewise, for that of the Son who, being the unique Son, nonetheless desired that we should be adopted?
How was this adoption accomplished? Let us hear what Saint John tells us. This adoption is not caused, he tells us, through bodily generation, as from man to man. It is caused by a spiritual birth, deriving from God Himself: “They were born, not of the will of man, but of God” (John 1). But how could man be born of God? First of all, by God’s free choice and predestination. Then, secondly, by grace. And, finally, by the Holy Spirit who, the spirit of adoption sent into our hearts, gives us the confidence to call God our Father: “In whom we cry out, ‘Abba, Father’” (Rom. 8).
It is an infinite glory to have the freedom to call God our Father, and, for St. John, of all the gifts God has given us, none equals it. Furthermore, there are the great and rich consequences that follow from this adoption. Being children of God, we are His heirs: “If sons, then heirs” (Gal. 4). And we become, in a sense, gods ourselves. Not, says Saint Augustine, gods like those created by pagan errors, gods who were only idols and trembled at the mere name of Him who is called the God of gods. No, we become gods, truly gods, who, loving the God of gods, are also tenderly loved by Him: “He brings terror to the gods of the Gentiles, but love to the gods whom He Himself made. Truth made the latter gods; error imagines the former.”
But, my dear brethren, let us move on. Let us think only about how we must be saints. This is what our station as children of God imposes upon us. This is God’s only aim in adopting us. He humbled Himself, and He elevated us, so that He might sanctify us. one of the primary ends of the Incarnation of the Savior is found here: that men might change how they live and have their morals reformed. Remember, my brethren, how prodigiously corrupted mankind had been prior to the advent of Jesus Christ. We find this corruption described not only upon the quill of Saint Paul, and thereafter by Saint Jerome, but also by worldly authors. Recall the deluge of iniquity that then flooded the earth. No, my dear brethren, do not recall it. Rather, erase the idea from your mind, and think only that in response to such corruption in the world, Jesus Christ came to reform it—that is to say, to change devils into angels and the impious into saints. The prophets proclaimed that His coming would have as its mark and fruit this change. David had prophesied that justice would be born in the world with Him: “In His days, justice shall spring forth” (Psalm 71). Isaiah had predicted that His coming would cause abundant justice to spring up upon the earth: “The consummation, foreshortened, will overflow with justice” (Is. 10). And Daniel had expressly said that at the birth of the Messiah, sin would end, iniquity would be consumed, and eternal justice brought back to the earth: “So that sin may receive its end, and everlasting righteousness may be established” (Dan. 9). Even the Sibyls had said that at the birth of this great law-giver the golden age would return, for a golden nation—that is to say, a life wholly pure and utterly holy—would arise in the world.
This, my brethren, was the change that Jesus Christ wrought in the world. He reformed morals, and, giving men the power to be made children of God, He made them saints. This is true, at least, for the apostles, the first faithful, our fathers in the faith. But, is it true for us? Do we live as children of God? Before answering, note that to be a saint, you must be conformed to Jesus Christ. Now, two things are to be considered in Jesus Christ: His spirit and His outward life. Innocence, gentleness, and humility are the characteristics of His spirit. His outward life is marked by poverty, penance, and mortification. So too holiness involves two things: its soul and its body. Holiness of body consists in conforming to Christ’s outward life; holiness of soul consists in conforming to Christ’s spirit, in conforming your thought to His: “For let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 2). We only recognize as saints those who take the child Jesus Christ as their model, who think and act like Him. But—alas!—how small is their number!
Let us begin with the outward life. What relationship is there between Jesus Christ and the majority of Christians—between His stable and their houses, between His manger and their amusements, between His swaddling clothes and their garments? Christ’s outward life preaches penance, that of Christians breathes nothing but delicacy and pleasure. One is poor, the other is full of finery. Be honest, my brethren, we see neither Christians in Jesus Christ, nor Jesus Christ in Christians. He does not oblige them to resemble Him in exact material details, to live in huts and appear as poor as He. However, there must at least be nothing in their outward life that is completely opposed to Him, nothing that He cannot endure, nothing that is incompatible with His penitent demeanor, nothing that dishonors His poverty. This requires moderation in expenses, modesty in dress, mortification, or at least temperance in drinking and eating. But this is something that most Christians cannot be persuaded to do. They prefer to conform to the present age rather than to Jesus Christ, and to clothe themselves in worldly pomp rather than to clad themselves with the poverty and mortification of the Son of God.
Now, if their outward bearing differs from His, we are justified in guessing that they do not have His mind and that their spirit is no less opposed to His than their outward bearing is to His. Christians, says Saint Paul, must have the same dispositions and sentiments as Jesus Christ: “Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus.” But what were the sentiments of Jesus Christ? What are ours? What did He think? What do we think? O Spirit of the Word made flesh! O spirit of men honored by divine adoption! How great is your opposition!
I find in the spirit of the Word made flesh not only indifference for human grandeur and riches but in contempt for them. His abasement and poverty were His own choice. He could have been born in royal robes, on a throne, amid abundance. Yet, He willed to be born poor in a stable. His choice teaches me that He despised grandeur and riches, that He preferred a humble, poor, and abject state. Such were His sentiments, and such should be ours, if we were as holy as children of God ought to be.
But what do we think? Let us avoid all subtlety: our minds are exactly the opposite of Jesus Christ’s. As high as the heavens are above the earth, so are the thoughts of the Word Incarnate different from the thoughts of men. Jesus Christ had nothing but contempt for the goods of the earth, for grandeur, for pleasures. But what of us? We regard them as our sovereign happiness. We declare that those who possess them are truly happy. And when we are deprived of them, how miserable are we! Our minds are not those of our Savior, and our spirit is no less opposed to His spirit than our outward bearing is to His. Therefore, not conformed to Him, we are not saints, as children of God ought to be.
Ah! Christians, how desolate are the thoughts that come to my spirit, rather than the feelings of joy that should fill my soul when I think upon the Church! I am filled with sorrow and overwhelmed, trembling for you and for me. The Word, who humbled Himself to such utter depths, willed to fill us with love for Him, yet our hearts are cold. By becoming man, He willed to make us children of God and to sanctify us, yet, we remain slaves of the world, not His saints. What then should I say to you amid such criminal opposition to the designs of Jesus Christ? Shall I say to you like the Angel: “Rejoice, for a Savior is born to you”? Should I not rather say to you: “Tremble, O Christians, for the Savior who is born to you, whose mercies are so abused by you, is perhaps anything but a Savior for you.” Tremble, for He is a Savior for the resurrection and the salvation of many, yet perhaps has come only for your ruin, your confusion, and your condemnation. And, finally, tremble because this Savior cannot be indifferent to you: the moment He does not save you, He must necessarily be your ruin: “Behold, this child is set for the fall and for the resurrection of many” (Luke 2). Desolating thoughts for those worldly souls whose only love is for the world, whose only anxiety is placed in its goods! Terrible thoughts for those unworthy Christians who, despite these great truths, remain obstinately resolved to change nothing in their heart’s affections or in their life’s conduct!
For me, O lovable Savior, prostrate at the foot of your manger, which is today the throne of your mercy, I humbly confess to you my wandering steps. Your love made you descend all the way to me, Lord. And Your love must carry me entirely to you. The world is moved only by splendor and power, by riches and pomp. But as for me, my God, what touches me are Your humiliations. When, looking upon this stable and kneeling at foot of Your crib, I say to myself, “It is for me—for me—that this great God has brought Himself to nothing and so humbled Himself, ah, Lord!, I feel my whole heart set aflame for You,” I blush for having loved You so little until now. And if, reflecting even more, I consider that by humbling Yourself down to my level, You have raised me up to Yourself, that by making Yourself the Son of man, You have made me a child of God, then, indeed, I recognize the loftiness of my estate and the vital necessity that I sustain it by living a life worthy of You. This is what I now will, O gracious Jesus. I profess this kneeling at the foot of Your crib. Yes, these are the resolutions that I today wish to offer You in homage, together with the shepherds, in the name of all who are gathered here. Receive them, Lord, with the same goodness with which You received the gifts of those humble adorers, once upon a time. Confirm them by that grace which You came to bring into the world, so that, having loved You here below as our dear and only Savior, and having lived in a manner worthy of our dignity as children of God, we may one day be heirs of the glory that is promised to them. Amen.
This sermon is taken from a series of hand written texts attributed to Billuart, edited and gathered in Sermons du R.P. C.–R. Billuart, ed. [Étienne] Lelièvre, vol. 2 (Paris: Lecoffre 1846), 15–30.↩︎
