Let us wait in patience for the Christ-child whose own life

The words of Stanley Hauerwas call us into a holy reflection: “Let us wait in patience for the Christ-child whose own life depended on the lives of Mary and Joseph. The Word of God was made flesh. He came so that we might experience the fullness of time.” Here, we are reminded of a paradox at the heart of all creation—how the Infinite humbled Himself to dwell in weakness, how the Eternal Word embraced the vulnerability of flesh, and how God Himself entrusted His life into the care of fragile, ordinary human beings. This is no simple saying; it is the unfolding of a divine mystery that shakes the proud and uplifts the meek.

Consider the image: the Almighty God, who spoke the stars into being, chose to arrive not as a conquering king, but as a fragile child. His survival was bound to the tender faithfulness of Mary and Joseph. The Christ-child was not born into a palace surrounded by guards, but into the arms of a young mother and her carpenter husband. In this, we learn that God does not despise human frailty; rather, He sanctifies it. Our waiting, our patience, our obedience, these too are made holy when united to His coming.

The phrase “The Word was made flesh” carries thunder across the centuries. In ancient times, philosophers spoke of the Logos, the eternal order of wisdom. But in Christ, that Logos was not simply an idea—it became a person, vulnerable to hunger, to cold, to rejection, to death. The very Creator of the world became subject to His creation. And why? That we, frail as we are, might taste the fullness of time—that moment when eternity enters history and history is redeemed by eternity.

History offers us images of this truth lived out. Think of the nurse in a war-torn field hospital, tending to wounded soldiers under fire. Her hands tremble, her body weak, yet in her care lies the difference between life and death for another. Just as the life of Christ depended on Mary and Joseph, so the lives of the broken depend on the faithful service of ordinary men and women. Such humble acts, though small in the eyes of the world, hold the weight of eternity.

To “wait in patience” is not a passive act. It is the heroic discipline of trust. Mary waited in patience, carrying the child in her womb, enduring shame and doubt from those around her. Joseph waited in patience, sheltering the mystery though he could not fully understand it. Together, they teach us that faithful waiting is the soil from which divine glory springs forth. In their patience, God’s promise was protected until its hour had come.

For us today, the lesson is clear: to embrace the weakness of dependence is not defeat, but the way of true strength. We are all, in some way, like the Holy Family—carrying responsibilities, guarding fragile hopes, entrusted with the care of something greater than ourselves. If Mary and Joseph had faltered, the story would have been different. So too, if we abandon our callings, the world is poorer for it. The fullness of time arrives when we remain faithful in small things.

Therefore, let each of us cultivate patience. Let us not despise the slow work of God, nor grow weary in our daily care for those entrusted to us. Practice acts of waiting: listen before speaking, pray before acting, serve before demanding. Tend to those who are weak, for in them dwells the Christ-child. Guard your responsibilities as though the future of the world depends on them—for indeed, in God’s mystery, it does.

Thus, O children of tomorrow, take this teaching: the Christ-child teaches us that divine glory enters through human faithfulness. Wait patiently. Live humbly. Care fiercely. In doing so, you too will touch the fullness of time, and your life will become a vessel through which eternity flows into the present world.