Por Eliezer E. Burgos-Rosado
The story of Nativity is part of our faith’s DNA. We have heard it so many times we risk domesticating it, rendering it inoffensive. Yet when it is viewed from the margins—from the impoverished, racialized, displaced, and forgotten peoples of Abya Yala*. Christmas ceases to be a gentle tale and is revealed for what it truly is: a dangerous disruption, because it destabilizes orders sustained by exclusion; subversive, because it overturns the logics of power and restores dignity to those who have been pushed aside; and profoundly hopeful, because it affirms that God does not abandon suffering peoples, but walks with them.
The Gospel of Luke does not narrate a neutral birth. It situates the event amid an imperial census, a policy of control that displaced bodies and fractured households. Mary and Joseph did not travel out of religious devotion, but under imperial compulsion. In that context of forced mobility and vulnerability, God chose to be born and insert himself into history, taking on its weight.
Here is where the prophetic denunciation begins. While the empire presented itself as the guarantor of the Pax Romana, the true peace of God arrived wrapped in fragility. Augustus called himself the “savior of the world,” yet the true Savior was not born in Rome or in a palace. He was born in Bethlehem, Palestine. Laid in a manger, surrounded by animals and impoverish. For the reason Christmas thus unmasks the lie of the powerful that promise order at the cost of the lives of the poor.
This contrast is no accident. Luke presents a social world in miniature—from the emperor at the top to the infant at the base. In that world, God chooses the most vulnerable body. In an era when infant mortality was extremely high and children possessed no social status, God chose to reveal himself as a baby—not as a strong adult, not as a warrior, nor as a triumphant king. God chooses fragility.
This choice unsettles our image of God and compels us to ask: what if God does not resemble our images of power, but rather those of our shared vulnerability? What if God is not on the side of those who control, but of those who struggle simply to survive?
It is no coincidence that the first to receive the news were shepherds. In their context they were people of low social status, suspect, rural, and despised by urban and imperial culture. They were not “respectable.” Yet to them was entrusted the greatest announcement in history. God not only is born in poverty; God announces his arrival to the poor.
Here the preferential option of God is revealed—not as a theory, but as an embodied praxis. God comes to those who “do not count,” to tell them that they do. God comes to those who have been displaced, to affirm that their stories matter. God comes to those labeled “surplus,” to proclaim that they are bearers of good news.
For this reason, Christmas remains profoundly relevant for Abya Yala. It is not merely a date on the Christian calendar nor an annual pious memory, but a lasting theological key for discerning where and how God continues to come into the world—especially where life is denied or discarded. In territories marked by colonialism, structural inequality, economic violence, racism, and dispossession, the manger still speaks volumes. God continues to come to us: in poverty that is not a choice but a wound; in the abused woman who endures another day; in children who live in hunger and should not bear the consequences of any system that has failed them; in exploited workers; in communities defending their land against voracious capitalists.
The Incarnation tells us something decisive: God claims us by becoming one of us. Not from above, but from within. God knows what pain is because God lived it. God knows what it means to have no place, to depend on others to survive, to be displaced, migrant, and vulnerable.
For this reason, Christian faith cannot be resignation. Christmas calls us to rise with hope. The salvation announced by the angels is not abstract nor merely future. It is concrete, communal, and begins now: where bread is shared, where solidarity is organized, where life is defended, where the lies of empire are exposed.
This is the prophetic call to our communities: you have not been forgotten. The God who was born in a manger continues to walk with you. And just as the shepherds left their routines to see what God was doing, we too are called to move from fear to action, from silence to voice, from a private faith to embodied hope.
Rise up in the name of the One who came before you!
For EMMANUEL is not merely a pious name; it is a spiritual and political proclamation. God is with us and no empire has the final word.
Abya Yala in the Guna language means “land in full maturity and land of vital blood.” In the 1970s, activists, historians, politicians, and theologians with a strong sense of ancestral identity adopted the term Abya Yala as a unified name for the continent, instead of referring to it as Latin America, among other names that perpetuate colonial divisions (Delgado & Ramírez, 2022).
Eliezer E. Burgos-Rosado
Puerto Rican theologian. Doctoral student in Theology at the Interamerican University of Puerto Rico. Pastor and graduate of the Evangelical Seminary of Puerto Rico. Works on topics of ethics, ecclesiology, and social justice. Founder of Ediciones Didásko.