The Christmas story is beautiful- so beautiful. I love it on so many levels; as a Jesus-lover, as a writer, as a reader, this story has so much beauty.
It hit me today what it is about the Christmas story that gets me every time.
The way heaven’s greatest gift went unrecognized, cold and alone in a dirty stable.
It struck me that this is basically what my relationship with Jesus has always been like. Me taking. Him giving. Giving, giving, giving.
We like to think we have a lot to offer God. We like to think God needs us.
But in truth we have so little.
A couple of scared, probably broke, teenagers. A battered stable, some dirty hay. A few lonesome shepherds.
That was it.
The King of the universe, the Creator of the world, the perfect One- He enters the world to lie in a manger. There are no palaces, no thrones, no adoring crowds fighting for a glimpse of the Chosen One.
It was a messy, dirty world that the King of glory entered- but He didn’t enter it to sit above it, untouchable. He entered this world to die for it.
What kind of king would do that? We offer the lowest of the low for him. Poor parents. Dirty visitors. We couldn’t even spare a real room for our king to be born.
What kind of king does this? What kind of king- what person– could possible offer so much; offer everything after receiving nothing from an ungrateful people?
And this- this beautiful paradox- is the story of my life. How I offered Him so little. How I gave Him a scared kid, and handed off a messy load of fear and doubt and scars and depression and anger; I threw all the messy, jagged pieces of a shattered life at Him- at my King.
He took them. Took the hurt. Took the scars. Took the anger and fear and everything else.
And in return, He gave me the life He had bought with His own blood.
This is the Christmas story- the year round redemption of each lonely life. This is the Christmas story- me taking, Jesus giving and giving and giving. This is the Christmas story- the beautiful paradox.