Unconditional Love: Devotion for December 22

As I mentioned before, I used to visit New York City once a  year with women on a mission trip. Each trip was a gift—an incredible experience shared with an amazing group of women. One of our annual stops is St. Patrick’s Cathedral, nestled just a block from Rockefeller Center and across the street from Saks Fifth Avenue. Amid the noise, the crowds, and the constant motion of the city, the cathedral offers a holy pause.

Every year, I find myself drawn to the nativity scene. And every year, I’m struck by the same thing: the crowd’s quiet, rapt attention focused on an empty manger. In the Catholic tradition, the baby Jesus does not appear until after Christmas Eve, and somehow, that waiting feels sacred. Anticipation hangs in the air.

The life-size nativity itself is stunning—beautifully carved from wood by artists at the Demetz Art Studio in Ortisei, Italy. The craftsmanship alone invites reverence. But the story behind the creche makes it even more meaningful.

The tradition of the nativity scene began with St. Francis of Assisi in 1223. While visiting the small town of Greccio to celebrate Christmas, Francis discovered that the chapel was far too small for the gathered congregation. So he improvised. He brought hay, an ox, and a donkey and placed them around a makeshift manger outside the church. According to tradition, St. Francis “preached to the people around the nativity of the poor King; and being unable to utter his name for the tenderness of his love, he called him the Babe of Bethlehem.” Even the hay from that manger was preserved and believed to have healing properties.

That emphasis on tenderness—on the vulnerability and humanity of Jesus—has shaped nativity scenes ever since.

But there’s something about this creche at St. Patrick’s that always makes me smile. There is one animal present that you don’t often see. Have you noticed it?

In 2011, St. Patrick’s rector, Monsignor Robert Ritchie, made a small but meaningful addition to the scene: man’s best friend. The dog was modeled after his own beloved yellow lab, Lexington. And suddenly, the nativity feels even more human.

Monsignor Ritchie explains it this way: “The whole concept of having a manger, which came from St. Francis of Assisi, was to emphasize the humanity of Jesus and the fact that he was a very poor baby when he was born. His circumstances were very, very poor. Having a dog there is just making it even more normal.”

Why wouldn’t there be a dog? Shepherds probably had dogs, after all. And for me, that simple addition becomes a quiet sermon. Dogs love without condition. They stay close. They offer comfort without words. In that sense, they reflect something holy—something deeply true about the God we worship.

This nativity reminds me that God’s love is not distant or pristine. It is close, ordinary, and deeply personal. It shows up in the familiar, the faithful, and the everyday. It curls up beside us and stays.

Maybe we should all add a dog to our nativity scenes.

Merry Christmas!

Pr. Laurie Neill