By Icarus
Another View of Christmas
With Christmas and New Year fast approaching, it is hard not to notice the things that seem to obscure the season’s warmth. Traffic for instance is at an all-time high. Instead of Christmas lights, we are greeted with a trail of red brake lights everywhere we go. Christmas parties engulf the night with their boom boxes and announcement of prizes. Families who decided to travel abroad leave their home unattended, turning their community into a ghost town. For those who don’t have much of a home, sidewalks have transformed into a cesspool of anyone’s festivities, with garbage littered on the newly renovated streets.
Yet despite these realities, I like to believe that religion still finds its place amid the noise and excess. Churches are still present, honoring the tradition of the Simbang gabi. I myself have been guilty for only completing halfway through the 9-day novena. AI Slops have emerged to give us a fact check that Simbang Gabi was intended for Filipino farmers who started their day before sunrise to avoid the heat in the fields. One of my teachers, however, said otherwise: that Simbang Gabi traces its roots to Rorate Caeli, Masses dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary celebrated over nine days.
The belen, too, holds its place during Christmas. These nativity scenes—humble arrangements of statuaries—are often placed inside or near churches. Some appear strikingly realistic, adorned with tapestries and lights, and are always ready to be captured by the inevitable selfie. My family owns a miniature version of the belen, the same size as my old action figures but with a maple wood finish (or at least I like to think it is). Last year, a friend gifted me the Sleeping Joseph, another figure which I can add to the Holy Family collection. At first, I felt uneasy about these mass-produced statuaries. I worried that something essential was lost in their replication. The German term kitschification captures this idea well: cheap recreations that sacrifice authenticity for commercial appeal. I felt almost embarrassed by how cynical this made me. However, upon closer inspection and reflection, I realized that the Sleeping Joseph was pointing to a virtue I had long taken for granted in everyday life.
Relevance of the Bible’s Infancy Narratives
The Gospels leading up to Christmas recount the days surrounding Christ’s birth. One story that deeply intrigued me was that of Zechariah. After the angel Gabriel revealed that he would become the father of John the Baptist, Zechariah responded with doubt. As a consequence, the angel struck him silent until the prophecy was fulfilled.
Why silence?
I found an answer while reading The Anawim Way, a collection of reflections by priests. Anawim, a Hebrew term meaning “the poor in spirit,” reframes silence not as absence of speech, but as active listening—attentiveness to what is already unfolding before us.
As an introvert, silence has always shaped how I move through daily life. Reflecting on Zechariah’s story made its relevance today even clearer. Malls are filled with background music, so much so it becomes noise to families who must raise their voice just to understand each other. Occasionally, however, a mall will host a live choir on stage. People gather, pause, and offer their attention. What forms is an organic silence—a space that communicates beauty between artist and audience. Voices from the audience are not drowned out but are preserved as intimate talks or echoed chants of the artist. At the end of the performance, an applause from the audience is already enough to show gratitude for the artists’ effort. A warm smile naturally emerges from the group of singers, and that perhaps indicates what music intends to accomplish. It is never easy to form a choir or to demand harmony, even for the most talented. Music in its authentic root is an invitation for us to listen and value silence. In turn, we find home in music.
Mary’s story parallels Zechariah’s in striking ways. Like him, she was greeted by the angel Gabriel. Yet her response differed. Mary asked how the pregnancy would come to be, not out of doubt nor a desire for proof, but out of openness. She accepted her mission wholeheartedly, trusting in God’s providence. Her choice stands in contrast to Eve’s in Genesis, where temptation led to distrust. Scripture, in this way, continually reflects upon itself—a pattern that The Anawim Way brings beautifully to light.
The Light of Providence
Providence is often defined as “the protective care of God,” sometimes reduced to fate. AI-generated explanations suggest that providence works haphazardly—events simply occur to mold us or lead us somewhere. I refuse to believe it is that simple.
When I read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, providence was deeply evident in the story of Levin. Levin is a character who suffers without spectacle, confronting the world’s injustices without selling away his soul. When he held someone he loved dearly in his arms, there was a reluctant feeling. It was not a feeling of indifference, but a repressed outpouring of joy borne out of sacrifice and love. Also in other words, he didn’t want to cry like a baby to show how happy he is. This experience leads him to marvel at the world, to question how it can remain majestic despite corruption and evil. This also lead to his realization of providence when he declared, “but my life now, my whole life, regardless of all that may happen to me, every minute of it, is not only not meaningless, as it was before, but has the unquestionable meaning of the good which it is in my power to put into it” (Tolstoy 817).
I am drawn to characters who begin with intellectual confidence only to be humbled by mystery. Levin admits that intelligence alone cannot explain everything; meaning is completed through action. Providence, then, is not merely protection. It is an opportunity—one that must be received with both body and soul.
Presence of The Sleeping Joseph
When Joseph’s story is placed beside the Annunciation to Mary, it reveals a quiet mystery. Despite the temptation to leave Mary quietly, Joseph accepts his role as her protector and invites her to his home. I once viewed the Sleeping Joseph as symbolic of Joseph’s disappearance from the Gospels. After Christ’s early years, Joseph is no longer mentioned. Only Mary remains to be with Jesus. I wondered what kind of ending awaited Joseph, and whether his absence marked a tragic fate.
Yet, the sculpture tells a different story. The Sleeping Joseph is, above all, a figure of stillness. Just as music invites us home through silence, Joseph rests in God’s presence. “My soul rests in the stillness of God” (Psalm 62:1–2). His encounter with the angel Gabriel comes through a dream, a providential moment that guides his role as Jesus’ foster father. Pope Francis describes St. Joseph as “a strong man of silence,” a phrase that reshaped how I see him.
I can no longer look at the Sleeping Joseph the same way, especially during Christmas. Perhaps this season still holds space for the small things—not material objects, but small moments that form hope. Traffic will eventually thin in January. Hearts, perhaps, may also change. Stillness began for me in contemplation. Providence gestures toward the vastness of the world, yet it begins in what makes smallness beautiful.
As I lie down on a cold December night, I feel gently tucked in, resting beside a quiet reminder of stillness: the Sleeping Joseph.
Works Cited
Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, Vintage Classics, 2000.
Pondering The Word The Anawim Way: Liturgical Meditations. Dec. 2025
Painting by Francisco de Herrera the Younger, Saint Joseph’s Dream, 1660. Oil on canvas, 196.5 × 209.5 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
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