He is a tiny newborn in a trough of animal food in a drafty barn. He would be shivering and His very life in danger, were He not wrapped in strips of cloth. He has done nothing yet; said nothing yet; can do nothing yet. His survival depends completely on His mother and her husband. Within days or weeks, armies will be searching for Him to murder Him because of the time He was born and the star He was born beneath. And His little family will run for their lives.
They are nothing if not virtuous. But beyond that, they are nothing as the world counts somethings. Their royal heritage no longer counts for anything in the current regime. They live in a nowhere country. They have nothing but Him, a precious baby, and a mount for His mother to ride.
But for a moment or two, there is a timeless intrusion of eternity into this smelly stable - an indescribable glory that a few simple shepherds have abandoned their flocks to the night to witness; that seers have traveled hundreds of miles to see; that angels in the very heavens are distantly singing about.
For all have come to worship, and they have brought with them - through history or anticipation - a hopeful host of mankind who can see their salvation in His tiny face.