Christmas for me and my friends strikes me as difficult this time around. In a season of peace and welcome, we are increasingly aware of violation and exclusion. I have never in my life touched a firearm but altogether too many of my fellow citizens have abused their right to do so. Images of the horrific consequences have become numbingly routine.

The president’s calls for reason and measure seem to fall on deaf ears. In an era of crisis, extreme solutions are gaining in popularity. Thus, the governors of many states are refusing to grant a safe haven to refugees from Syria. How can we withhold a welcome that we extended to our own ancestors? When our governor said that he was uninterested in admitting Syrian refugees, I was disappointed. But I took heart when our archbishop, like many other religious leaders, took a different position. They are doubtless remembering the biblical injunction: “You shall love the alien in your midst, for you were once aliens in the land of Egypt.”

I think back to the safe haven that my parents created for their six children. Christmas was the best time of all, a blend of security and excitement. So even now I remember the special magic of that day. Coming downstairs in the early morning, we found a treasure trove of gifts surrounding the newly decorated tree. Later on, as a Jesuit novice, I experienced my first Christmas away from home. Sound asleep on Christmas Eve, I was suddenly awakened by what seemed to be an angelic choir. The angels were actually second-hand novices, providing us homesick recruits with a moment we would never forget. Years later, still a Jesuit, I celebrated other Christmas seasons in exile, first in Wales and then in France and Belgium. It wasn’t quite like home, but I remember abundant good fellowship and delicious feasts.

For decades now, this season has meant my own home and family. Our daughter was born just after Christmas, something that has made the holidays a time of special delight.

We love learning from old friends at this time. I think of my friend, Frank, who writes each year from an eight-sided house in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Frank, a deeply spiritual man, is sorry that Jesus did not live long enough on earth to experience life as an old man. Be that as it may, he still feels profoundly blessed in his family and friends.

So do I, and I am grateful that both of us are able to share our blessings with a caring and celebrating community. Our neighborhood resonates with good cheer and occasionally off-key carols. For the best in Christmas carols, we count on our next-door neighbors who have been bringing our street together for 35 years. We will gather once more this week. I remember celebrating with the elders of the community; now, to my astonishment, I realize that I am one.

But what about this year otherwise? The blessings persist but the surrounding world seems to have grown more fearful. As we rejoice in our own traditions, are we excluding those who do not share them?

Last week’s New Yorker cover showed a Christmas-shopping couple loading up a shopping cart with firearms and grenades. It is true that our world is dangerous; it always has been. But, we cannot defend our blessings with physical or political violence.

As we gather in our own safe havens we should give  thought to the homeless, exiled young family whose story we keep telling  That story should serve as a challenge as well as a consolation.