That is When

He was born there, in the midst of it. He slid right out into the muck of a stable. Into the mess of no-room and turned-away. The wet of His arrival mingled with yesterday's ejection, the whole stinking mess of it. The piled high stench of shame and fear. The slick mud of wanting-more and wishing-it-was-different.
He chose to take all that spattered ugly, upon Himself. It wasn't enough for His feet to sink into the black, to join us in the ache and agony of the destruction in our hearts.
No.
He longed to remove it. God lays Himself down in the form of a newborn babe, helpless, dependent upon the broken, like me, in a musty stall. It is there, in the stain of birth, on the edge of despair and the dark of hope-gone and in the sickness of the sin-swayed, that is when, grace was born.
All for love's sake.
This, my friends, is what the Mass of Christ is all about. It is Christ wading into our mess. It is the Eucharist, the giving of thanks, to God-laid-down. Willingly, sacrificially.
The Mass of Christ, Christmas, is when hope shines and all of glory sings.
Worthy! Worthy is His name!