The Diocese
Posted: 01/02/2025
As we celebrate ‘Armenian Christmas’, I wish to share with you a story that has touched me deeply. When I was the pastor of the Armenian Church in Toronto, one of the priests of a sister church told me this heart-warming story.
It was a cold winter in Toronto, the kind where the wind slices through even the thickest of coats. Christmas was drawing near, and the churches were bustling with preparations. This particular church had set up a beautiful nativity scene in the sanctuary. The manger glowed softly in the candlelight, and at its heart lay the baby Jesus, a symbol of peace and hope for all who came to pray.
But something peculiar began to happen. Each night, the priest would arrive to find everything in its place—except for the baby Jesus. By some miracle, He was always back in the manger by dawn. For days, this mystery unfolded. Who could be doing such a thing, and why? The priest pondered this deeply, his heart torn between confusion and an odd sense of reverence.
One night, unable to bear the mystery any longer, the priest decided to uncover the truth. After the last parishioner had gone and the doors were locked, he slipped behind the pews and waited. The church was still and silent, save for the occasional creak of the wooden beams under the winter chill. Hours passed, and then, just before midnight, the door creaked open.
A small figure entered, bundled in layers of mismatched clothes, his breath visible in the frosty air. It was a child, no older than ten or eleven. He moved with a quiet reverence, his little hands reaching out to the manger. With great care, he picked up the baby Jesus, cradling the figure close to his chest.
As the child turned to leave, the priest stepped out from the shadows, his voice gentle but firm. "My child," he asked, "why do you take the baby Jesus each night, only to return Him in the morning?"
The boy froze, clutching the figurine even tighter. His eyes, wide with innocence and sincerity, met the priest's. "Father," he said, his voice trembling with both fear and determination, "I just… I just want to keep baby Jesus warm at night."
The priest's heart melted at the boy’s words. Here was a child, who in his simplicity and purity, saw the divine not as distant or untouchable, but as someone in need of love and care. Perhaps the child himself knew the sting of the cold nights, the longing for warmth and comfort. And so, in his own way, he gave what little he could to the Savior of the world—a gift of warmth, a gift of love.
The priest knelt down, his eyes brimming with tears. "You have already kept Him warm," he said softly, "but not just with your arms. With your heart." He gently placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. "Come. Let us sit together by the manger. Tonight, we can both keep baby Jesus warm."
From that night on, the nativity scene was not just a decoration; it became a place of connection, where the love of one small child reminded the entire congregation of the humble and human heart of the Christmas story. For isn’t this what Christmas is truly about? To welcome the divine into our hearts, to offer what little we have, and to be reminded that even in the simplest acts of love, we find the face of God.
And so, in that little church in Toronto, under the glow of the Christmas lights, baby Jesus was not only kept warm through the cold winter nights but also through the boundless love of a child’s heart—a warmth that kindled the faith of everyone who heard the story.
