Inching toward Christmas . . . beginning to hold space for what it all means.
I am awed by this today: God could have saved us in a single word. He could have saved us by a wave of his hand. He could have just simply “fixed” everything. And yet, he didn’t. Instead, he came to us. To sit with us when we are overwhelmed. To walk among us. To be near us. To step into our displacement and homelessness. To understand. To empathize. To listen.
Isn’t this what we long for most essentially in all our relationships? Not someone who will shove a solution at us, a quick fix. But, instead, someone who will sit with us. Someone who will say, “Yes, this is hard, and I’m with you.” Someone who will enter the messy fray, right by our side.
To me, Christmas is God’s greatest poetry. The single greatest act of radical rebellion: God putting on flesh. All for you. All for me.
I love these lines from Chesterton:“A Child in foul stable,
Where beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home.”
Today — no matter what challenges we face, no matter what loss we mourn, no matter what hope we are struggling to hold on to, no matter what sense we are trying to make of it all, no matter how much time we’ve spent down there on the floor — may we remember that God so loved you and me that he sent his Son. Emmanuel. God with us. And may we take comfort in the fact that He has not loved us from a distance. But, instead, chose to come sit down on the floor right next to us. Amen.