Christmas bursts forth once again in bustling cities and tranquil villages. A profusion of multicolored lights and carols, garlands, artificial snow, and fir trees laden with decorations floods streets and shops. However, in this diverse ritual—which currently shapes the aesthetic commemoration of the birth of the Son of God in this world of men—it is the nativity scene that reigns supreme in the intimacy of homes.

Since childhood, I have enjoyed its presence in our family home. At that time, my maternal grandmother was responsible for setting it up. Of the many figurines that comprised it, I still have a tiny flour mill, a variety of domestic animals, and a young village woman who, kneeling by the riverbank, was meticulously washing clothes. This humble figure and the clothesline from which the garments hung to dry form the most vivid image I retain of that nativity scene.

The family tradition of home nativity scenes was deeply rooted in Spain in the late 1950s. It was the centuries-old legacy of a custom that appeared as early as the 16th century, itself derived from medieval sacred reenactments of the mysteries of Christmastime. Among these simple representations, the first Franciscan nativity scene in Greccio stood out. Greccio is an Italian town nestled on the edge of a wide valley in the province of Rieti, in the Lazio region. Thanks to this nativity scene, the profound experience of this Christmas spirituality was passed down to posterity.

In 1223, three years before his death, Saint Francis of Assisi, meditating on the mystery of Christmas during Advent, felt the desire to have a vision of Christ’s birth. He thus resolved to celebrate the memory of that event in that village near Rome with the greatest solemnity and fidelity possible. As the date drew near, he summoned men and women from the surrounding area, who, according to their means, prepared candles and torches to illuminate the night.

In the heart of nature, using the natural cleft in the rock, the saint of Assisi had a manger prepared for the Christ Child, hay brought in, and the ox and donkey placed there. During the Mass celebrated at the manger, Francis experienced ineffable joy, sang the Gospel with a resounding voice, and then preached, sharing his own vision of Bethlehem. In doing so, the “Little Poor Man” sought to vividly recreate the event that had occurred centuries before, so that those present could participate in what was being commemorated, and so that this celebration would inspire them to a renewed and deeper experience of faith.

He sought to make visible a new dimension of the mystery of Christmas: that of the humanity of Jesus, the child God born of the Virgin Mary, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger, and whom, in addition to being adored, could be touched and caressed. What motivated Saint Francis was the desire that the grandeur of the birth of God-with-us be vividly perceived. As Benedict XVI noted, “he sought to highlight the defenseless love of God, who reveals himself to humankind to teach a new way of living and loving.”

Now, more than six decades after the first nativity scenes of my childhood, I still set one up every year. It’s not my grandmother’s—from which I was only able to salvage those endearing figurines, which I’ve added to my newly created nativity scene—but both serve as an outward reminder of the profound meaning of Christmas. Its full significance is difficult to grasp amidst the frenzy and consumerism of our times, which mask the mystery of God’s goodness and true life. To fail to understand this properly is to miss the defining element of our existence.

If to the social baroque of this celebration is added the emotional erosion brought about by the passage of years, one will feel –upon contemplating the home nativity scene– the need to exclaim with Unamuno: “Enlarge the door, Father, for I cannot pass through; you made it for children, I have grown up, against my will. If you do not enlarge the door for me, shrink me, for pity’s sake; return me to the age, that in which to live is to dream.”

Pedro Paricio. Give me three minutes