THE Christmas season is over once more. Throughout that time many gifts were exchanged. Parcels were wrapped and then unwrapped, revealing things we had always wanted and things which took us by surprise.

Some were costly, others not; some we will cherish, others we won’t; and the gifts we will value most were not necessarily the most expensive.

Gifts, of course, can take more than one form. At Christmas we may be most aware of the objects we give and receive. We are aware, too, that what we give expresses our relationships: respect between colleagues, loyalty among friends, the bond with those we love.

But whatever we give, however costly or inexpensive the gift, and however distant or intimate the relationship, all gifts have one feature in common. A gift is free. That is its nature. If it creates obligations, then it is not really a gift.

Gifts are not only external objects, given and received, like Christmas presents. A gift can also be interior, not just as respect, loyalty and love may be called interior, but as something I already possess, something within, like a talent. A talent is not something I have earned, not something I possess because I deserve it. It is a gift because it comes free.

There is a story told about the actor Ralph Richardson. In 1952 he played Macbeth in the season at Stratford. The production was savaged by the critics. The following day there was a cast meeting before they took to the stage again. While they were waiting, Richardson was heard to ask in a quiet, slightly distracted way: “Has anyone seen a talent? Not a very big one. But I seem to have mislaid it.”

The words may capture his dismay at the play’s reception, but, of course, they also mock the notion that his ability as an actor was something he could lose, like car keys or a pair of spectacles. His talent was not something he had acquired through hard work; he did not earn it or deserve it; it was rather a gift, born within him.

Faith, too, is a gift. It is clear that it is not an object, something external which one person can hand to another, or leave beside the Christmas tree. Is it, therefore, like the actor’s talent?

In some ways it is. As a gift, it comes free; not earned or deserved, and it is discovered within. But there is also a difference: the difference lies in its origin. Faith is a gift from God. It may be found within, but I am not the source of my own believing. Faith is not credulousness. Credulousness, the readiness to believe anything, however feeble the evidence, is not faith. Genuine faith has its source beyond us. People recognise it most obviously when they find themselves believing reluctantly, in spite of themselves.

I received a letter recently from someone who described her own experience. “I had not been going to church at all,” she wrote. “So I don’t know what possessed me to go that particular day. I had never set eyes on the priest who said that Mass, but everything he said seemed to be meant particularly for me. I left armed with the courage to pick up the phone and call [for help].” And she did.

An actor’s gift may be born in him, while we are not the source of our own believing. For all the similarities, there is that difference.

However, faith and the actor’s talent have something else in common. They thrive only when cared for.

Richardson’s gift did not emerge automatically; he had to nurture it so as to stir it into life. And faith, too — this gift offered us by God — will not thrive if neglected. It, too, needs to be cared for. In St John’s Gospel, two men approach Jesus and ask: “Rabbi, where are you staying?” He answers, “Come and see.” And then they spend the day with him.

Now as always, the same voice is inviting us, not only to believe, but also to spend time cultivating a disposition in which that voice may be heard and faith may flourish.

Monsignor Roderick Strange is the Rector of the Pontifical Beda College, Rome.