By now, no doubt the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center is embracing skaters skimming across the rink, while carolers raise their voices in songs of joy, as did angels long ago.

Has the world ever seen a birth so celebrated down the centuries – this birth of the Son of God made man? In small shops, owners place miniature trees in windows, while in great department sores, a tree may rise five stories. Chefs from San Francisco to Boston furrow their brows over recipes for office parties, luncheons and formal black-tie dinners.

In the security of their bedrooms, children count their savings over and over, serious as any chairman of the board at ATT, regarding gifts for mom, dad and siblings.

Many families are struggling these days, and parents may well be juggling the mortgage payment with the traditional family dinner that grows numerically year by year, while salaries plummet.

On the streets, strangers greet strangers with a “Merry Christmas!” despite the protestations of the political correct. Suddenly, our world is a warmer, friendlier place, and worries recede into the background.

More generous, as well, for not to remember the poor and the lonely and the ill is to be poor and lonely and ill with the kind of poverty that shrivels the heart, while leaving the bank account in a healthy condition.

Through all the festivities, the purchases, the cards, the phone calls, the works of charity, Christians – with varying degrees of success – have tried to find periods of silence to remember the reason for turning a world bent on war into one with at least a shred of hope for peace.

And they find their personal peace in that little corner of the universe called Bethlehem, where lies a Child on the wood of a manger, to be one day replaced by the wood of the Cross.

Far from the glare of lights, with only the stars above them, modern pilgrims from Boston or Peoria or Washington, see more clearly where they have been and where they hope to journey together on their road less traveled.

The path of Mary and Joseph and Jesus is what the travelers have in mind, but many are afraid. Not afraid, as were the shepherds over the angels’ message, but afraid they will come to the end of their journey, never having really heard the message, never having answered it with their lives.

Yet, in that manger scene, exiles find hope because they know they belong there. They’ve come home, home where their hearts can find the rest Jesus promised to all who search for him.

No more wandering in the desert of questioning days and restless nights. They’re home. Home with Mary, their mother. Always room for one more, she tells them with a smile. Room for all who seek her son.

Mary knows about traveling without a map, save that of faith, about trusting when her heart was torn between joy over her pregnancy and confusion before the raised eyebrows of friends and relatives, softened by Joseph’s quiet trust. She understands that God’s ways are not always what the world calls wise.

The Prince of Peace would be born in the silence of a peace-filled night, far from the seat of power, beyond the sight of soldiers’ swords, removed from the trappings of prosperity.

He would be powerless that those without power might find power in his presence. In his weakness, they would find strength, and in his love, everlasting joy.

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