There’s a moment in Scrooged, that 1988 retelling of A Christmas Carol, when Frank Cross—the cold, selfish television executive—comes face to face with the consequences of his choices. The visions are brutal. The Ghosts of Christmas tug at every thread of his carefully curated life, unraveling the image of power and success he’s built. What’s left is a man forced to confront his emptiness—a man brought to his knees by the weight of his own hardness.
It’s a painful yet strangely beautiful transformation. Frank Cross is broken open, made vulnerable, and in that vulnerability, something profound happens: love begins to seep in.
Richard Rohr invites us to ask a question that feels equally disruptive: What is our story as followers of Christ? His answer unsettles us. He points to a God who arrives not in power or majesty but in vulnerability—a little child. This God does not storm onto the scene with thunderous proclamations of judgment but instead comes as an infant, wrapped in rags and cradled in a manger.
This is not the God of our instincts, the one we’ve imagined as a cosmic Santa Claus, keeping score of our deeds and dishing out rewards or punishments accordingly.
No, Rohr reminds us, this God is startlingly different: humble, helpless, and here to love us in ways we’re not ready to be loved.
Frank Cross wasn’t ready either. Like so many of us, he had built his life around the illusion of control.
Generosity? It was a gimmick.
Love? A transaction.
But when he’s brought face to face with the truth of his story—his loneliness, his lost connections, his rejection of the vulnerable parts of himself—he is undone. And that undoing becomes his salvation.
The Christmas story invites us into the same unsettling and redemptive undoing. It asks us to step back from the cultural scripts about success, perfection, and self-sufficiency that we’ve been handed. It whispers to us, through the cries of a baby in Bethlehem, that God’s way is not one of strength but of surrender. That the heart of the gospel is not about earning but about receiving—a love that defies our logic and melts our defenses.
In Scrooged, Frank’s transformation is not complete until he finally gives. In an unscripted, chaotic monologue on live television, he pleads with the audience to embrace generosity, vulnerability, and connection. His words are messy and imperfect, but they’re real. He’s a man who has been touched by grace, and he’s desperate for others to experience it too.
And isn’t that the invitation of Christmas? To let ourselves be touched by grace, to let down our guard long enough to receive the kind of love that doesn’t calculate our worth but simply embraces us as we are. It’s an invitation to reflect on what stories we’ve been telling ourselves about God—and whether those stories look more like Santa Claus or like Jesus.
May we remember that the God we worship is not who we thought God would be. This God chooses vulnerability over power, presence over performance, love over lists. And this God doesn’t wait for us to have it all together but meets us in our mess, just like Frank Cross in his final moments of redemption.
May we, too, be undone by a love we’re not ready for. May it change us, unmake us, and rebuild us into people who reflect the vulnerable, generous, scandalously humble heart of God.
Scripture to Reflect On: “And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.” – Luke 2:7
Reflection Questions:
- What stories about God have shaped your faith? Do they resemble the vulnerable love of the Christ child or the transactional nature of Santa Claus?
- In what areas of your life do you resist vulnerability? How might you allow God to meet you there this season?
- Like Frank Cross, how might your openness to love and generosity this Advent transform not only you but those around you?
Grace and Peace, Andrea