A few days ago, our Bishop Hicks was announced as the next Archbishop of New York. Quite a promotion! I’m sure he’ll remember us lowly ones here. The news brought back to mind one of my favorite images, one that I shared in a homily not long ago. If you were at that Mass, forgive the repeat, but some images are worth repeating.
Across the street from St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, at the heart of Rockefeller Center, stands the iconic statue of Atlas. This mighty figure strains to hold the globe on his shoulders…his muscles taut, his face grimacing, the weight of the world threatening to crush him. The statue is an emblem of human strength, of effort, of raw power. It’s dramatic, impressive... and heavy.
Now, step inside St. Patrick’s. Walk all the way to the back of the cathedral, beyond the altar, past the pews, to where the archbishops of New York are buried. Above their crypt stands a much smaller statue, almost easy to miss. It’s the Infant of Prague, the Christ Child. And in His tiny hand? The same globe that Atlas struggles to hold. Except He’s not straining. He’s not sweating. He’s not even trying. The world rests lightly in His palm.
It’s the same globe.
But a very different kind of power.
Tonight’s Gospel speaks of an enrollment, a census decreed by Caesar Augustus and administered by Quirinius. We think of a census today as bureaucratic, maybe even boring. But in the Holy Land of Jesus’ time, a census was a political weapon, a statement of control: How many people belong to me? How many soldiers can I draft? How vast is my dominion?
This wasn’t about statistics…it was about power.
The people of Israel, however, knew a different story. Their identity wasn’t found in imperial rule but in covenant, a relationship with the living God. That’s why censuses were controversial. In fact, in 2 Samuel, when King David orders a census, God is furious. Not because counting is bad in itself, but because David was no longer trusting in God’s strength—he was measuring his own.
There’s a truth here for every generation: When we try to carry the weight of the world ourselves, it always goes badly.
Luke places the birth of Jesus right in the midst of this extremely political moment. The census, the journey to Bethlehem, the no-room-at-the-inn drama—it all speaks of chaos and control and human striving. And yet the Christmas proclamation tells us: All things being at peace.
How can both be true? How can there be peace and no peace?
Because peace, as God defines it, isn’t the absence of trouble, it’s the presence of Christ. God does not enter history to dominate or measure us, but to save us.
When you leave Mass tonight and step out into the quiet midnight air, take a deep breath. Let the stillness settle over you. It’s the same world as it was during the day…but now there’s peace. The world is loud and anxious, but God is writing a deeper story.
I’ve been thinking about Bishop Hicks’ journey. In 2009, when Cardinal Dolan arrived in New York, Bishop Hicks was serving the poorest of the poor in El Salvador. He had no clue what his future held. In 2009, I was just a high school student. I didn’t even know where Elmhurst was.
Where were you in 2009?
Reflecting this way has a way of humbling us. The things we thought were the end of us... weren’t. The moments that seemed ultimate passed. And here we are, still standing. Still cared for. Still part of the story.
The Christ Child enters into the mess of the story.
There are four different Christmas Mass texts, celebrated depending on the time of day…the Vigil Mass, the Mass during the Night, the Mass at Dawn, and the Mass during the Day. Each of these Masses has different readings. The Midnight Mass readings do not focus on swaddling clothes and mangers, but on power and dominion:
“On his shoulder dominion rests.”
“His dominion is vast and forever peaceful.”
“He is Father forever. Prince of Peace. Mighty God.”
Who really owns the people? David answered wrongly and had to repent. Caesar answered arrogantly, and where is his empire now?
God answers simply:
“The people are mine. They are in the palm of my hand.”
And holding them there is not a burden. It is not too heavy.
We’ve all tried to take on too much. We’ve chased control. We’ve measured and counted and compared. And it never works. It leaves us tired and anxious, like Atlas beneath his globe.
But the real King, the true Lord of all, comes to us in silence. In poverty. In rejection. In stillness.
Every time we try to take up the world’s power for ourselves, it fails.
Woe to the one who tries to take up worldly power and glory and dominion.
But all glory to the one who comes to us small, unnoticed.
Glory to the child born in a stable, to the mother nearly rejected, born in utter silence, in abject poverty.
Glory to the one who spent 30 years in silence, and conquered the world not with armies, but by simply saying: “I call you friends. Peace be with you. Follow me. Come to me, all who are weary.”
Glory to the one who lived our life, died our death, rose again, ascended to the Father in the fulness of his humanity and prepared a place for us there.
“Glory and power and honor and dominion to the one that the world rejects.”
Here’s my challenge to you tonight: write this down. Not on your phone. Not in a text. With your own hand. On paper. Tape it to your bathroom mirror, your dashboard, your fridge.
“Do not be afraid, for behold, I proclaim good news of great joy:
Today in the city of David, a Savior has been born for you, who is Christ and Lord.”
Write it. Read it over and over again. Write it in your own handwriting as a reminder to yourself from yourself about what you felt and believed about God, the world, and yourself tonight, with all things being at peace.
The one who holds the world is not weary.
Glory, honor, and dominion to Him, now and forever. Amen.
