It’s hard to deny how divided the United States feels right now. Our politics, our media, our neighborhoods—and yes, even our churches—often seem more shaped by fear, suspicion, and outrage than by love. In that landscape, Jesus’ prayer in John 17 feels almost painfully idealistic: “that they may all be one.” Not just united in belief, but bound together in love, so that the world might believe.

For many of us, that prayer doesn’t feel like a present reality. It feels like a distant dream. Maybe even an unrealistic one.

And yet, every Christmas, we gather to celebrate good news of great joy for all people (Luke 2:10).

That phrase—all people—is beautiful. It’s also uncomfortable. Because if we’re honest, many Christians, especially here in the United States, have spent decades drawing lines around who counts as “all.” We’ve narrowed the circle. We’ve attached conditions. We’ve confused cultural identity, political allegiance, and national loyalty with faithfulness to Christ. We’ve allowed these boundaries to divide us – even over issues that don’t directly impact us.

The angel didn’t make those distinctions. The good news wasn’t announced to the powerful, the religious elites, or the morally “pure.” It was proclaimed to shepherds—people on the margins, people with little status, people others overlooked. From the very beginning, the gospel was expansive, disruptive, and boundary-breaking.

But somewhere along the way, our collective witness has made that good news feel… less good.

During Advent this year, our church ran ads inviting the community to join us for Christmas Eve worship. We received plenty of “likes.” But we also received harsh, negative, and sometimes vulgar comments and messages. Not all of them came from real people (let’s give it up for the AI bots!)—but many did. And behind many of those responses are real stories: people who were hurt by the church, excluded by Christians, shamed in the name of God, or told—explicitly or implicitly—that they didn’t belong.

Responding with grace in moments like that isn’t easy. But it matters. Because how we respond says something about the Jesus we claim to follow.

In the United States today, many Christians have embraced lies as truth. We have championed causes Jesus never addressed while ignoring clear biblical calls to love our neighbor, welcome the stranger, care for the poor, pursue justice, and bear good fruit. We have aligned ourselves with individuals, parties, and platforms that show little evidence of the fruits of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—and still insist on calling it “Christian.”

That’s not just a theological problem. It’s a credibility problem.

When the church is known more for what it opposes than for whom it loves, the good news stops sounding like great joy. When our words are loud but our compassion is quiet, the gospel loses its power. When our faith looks nothing like Jesus, people stop listening—and who can blame them?

And yet.

Right in the middle of all of this, we stop. We pause. We light candles. We sing familiar hymns. We tell the story again.

A baby, born in a manger. Not in a palace. Not in safety. Not with power or privilege. God choosing vulnerability. God choosing nearness. God choosing to enter the world as it is—not as we wish it were.

Christmas doesn’t deny the brokenness of our world. It declares that God shows up in it.

The hope of Christmas isn’t that everything is suddenly fixed. The hope is that something new has begun. Something better. Something greater than fear, division, and despair. A light that still shines, even when the darkness feels overwhelming.

At Christmas, we remember that the good news really is for all people. And maybe the hope this year is that it won’t just be something we proclaim—but something we live.

Maybe the hope is that we will become people of the good news.
People whose love is wider than our comfort.
People whose grace is louder than our outrage.
People whose lives bring great joy—not just to those who agree with us, but to all people.

That may feel like a distant dream.

But then again, so did a Savior born in a manger.