The gospel of the second Sunday of Christmas leads us to the heart of the Christian mystery: the eternal Word that becomes flesh. In this commentary, Friar Luciano Audisio invites us to contemplate the fragility assumed by God, the strength of the light that cannot be overcome by darkness, and the believer’s vocation to be a witness in the midst of history.
In the beginning was the Word
The Gospel of this second Sunday of Christmas is like the opening of a great symphony. It does not begin with a specific scene or with easily recognizable characters, but with an affirmation that places us in the depths of the mystery: “In the beginning was the Word.” John does not take us first to Bethlehem or to the Jordan; he takes us to the origin, where everything began, where the meaning of life is decided.
This initial word —“in the beginning”— was not strange to the ears of Israel. This is also how the Bible, the book of Genesis, begins. But the rabbis, already in the time of Jesus, asked themselves: what does that “beginning” really mean? They did not understand it as a simple chronological beginning, as the first day of the calendar, but as a founding principle: that by which everything exists and towards which everything moves. For many, that principle was the Messiah, the ultimate key that gives meaning to history and human existence.
John takes a decisive and bold step: he says that that principle is the Word, and that that Word was directed to God and that that Word was God. We are not facing an abstract idea or a cold philosophical concept. We are facing a living relationship. The Word is turned towards God and, at the same time, turns us back towards Him. Reading this Gospel means letting ourselves be guided, letting ourselves be led towards God.
The Word became flesh: the scandal of fragility
And here comes the scandal, the affirmation that breaks all our schemes: “The Word became flesh.” It does not simply say that he assumed a body, but that he became fragility. He became vulnerable. He became history. The principle of all things was not manifested in strength, but in weakness; not in power, but in closeness; not in the extraordinary, but in the everyday. Our faith rests on this disconcerting truth: we believe in a fragile God.
That fragile God appears in history as a child, as a man who cries, who gets tired, who eats with others, who suffers rejection and violence. And yet, John tells us that everything was made through Him. Only from there can we understand our own fragility. Only from Him does our weakness cease to be a failure and become a place of revelation.
Witnesses of the light that does not go out
In this context, John the Baptist appears. The Gospel presents him as a witness, a martyr. He is not the light, but he bears witness to the light. His mission is clear: to point out, confess, show who Jesus is, even if it costs him his life. And here the Gospel speaks directly to us. Because when John writes, there are already Christians who die for their faith. John the Baptist thus becomes a model for the communities, and also for us: witnesses who have seen and who, precisely because they have seen, cannot remain silent.
Reading the Gospel of John is not a neutral exercise. According to Hebrew law, two witnesses are needed so that someone is not unjustly condemned. Throughout this Gospel, Jesus appears as an accused: false prophet, impostor, blasphemer. And there is always someone who testifies of Him: a forgiven woman, a healed sick person, a transformed disciple. But there is almost always only one visible witness. The second is you. The reader. Each of us.
When listening to this Word, we are called to take a position. It is not enough to understand it; we are invited to testify to it. To say with life what we have seen, what we have experienced, what has changed us.
And the prologue ends with an affirmation full of realism and hope: “The darkness did not receive him”, or also, “the darkness did not overcome him”. Both translations are true. The light can be rejected, ignored, fought. But it cannot be defeated. This is the hope of the martyr, of the witness, of the believer of all times.
As we begin this year, perhaps we carry weariness, wounds, uncertainties. The Gospel does not promise us a path without darkness. It promises us a light that does not go out. A Word that has become fragile to find us where we are fragile. And it entrusts us with a simple and demanding mission: to see, to believe and to bear witness. Because, even in the midst of darkness, the light continues to shine.
