How COULD He Have Come?

It rained today. A cold driving rain that, if damp and miserable, was nonetheless welcome because – for the first time this year – it has felt like Christmas may come to Southern California after all. Not that the lack of winter has prevented me from delighting in the commencement of the Holiday Season thus far. The radio in my car has been set to the all-Christmas-music stations since the day after Thanksgiving (I refused to listen when several stations started playing Christmas music before Thanksgiving—tradition should mean something!). And despite the sunshine and seventy-degree weather, my efforts to celebrate have not been in vain.

Song after song tells the strange story of Bethlehem. Over and over again, they ask why God would sleep in a manger? How could the Messiah be born – not in a palace — but in a stable? So many times I have asked myself what kind of foolishness would allow animals and shepherds to welcome the Incarnate Christ. The modern democrat in me always turned to the human answer – an answer I have heard expounded by Pastors and Philosophers. They say Jesus’ birth was humble to establish man’s equality before God. He came not as the Savior of aristocrats and royalty but as Savior of the World. There is, no doubt, much truth in the explanation.

But it is not the whole story.

Yesterday, on the way to school, I heard the song Strange Way to Save the World. Suddenly I was arrested by one line: “to think of how it could have been if Jesus had come as He deserved.” I did think of how it might have been. 

What if Immanuel was born in Solomon’s Palace with the Queen of Sheba bringing tribute? What if the babe’s first cry had echoed through the halls of Versailles and been celebrated with feasts and galas across Europe? What if he were showered with gifts and lulled to sleep by the music of orchestras and choirs?

We would have missed the point.

What tales men would tell about the lavish celebrations thrown to welcome the king! Musicians would tell their children and their children’s children how proud they were that they were selected to play first violin in the birth-day concert. Artisans would advertise that their cradle, carved of the finest cedar and overlaid in pure gold, had been the cradle of choice for the newborn Messiah. A cradle fit for a King. And from generation to generation we would retell how we gave the child the welcome he deserved.

But we’d be wrong.

All the splendor of every court in every nation could not be what he deserved.

A child’s Christmas song asks “what can I give him, poor as I am?” The wealthiest man in history could ask the same question. 

 What is all the pomp and circumstance in the world, but the dimmest reflection of his own glory? Of what value are all the gifts that could be given to one who legitimately owns them all? Is the stable really any more humble than the palace? Is the court any more worthy of God?

The true humility of the Christ is not in his surroundings, but in himself.

Marvel not at an infant lying in a manger, but at God living in an infant.

Stare in wonder as He who holds the nations in the palm of his hand needs his own heavy head supported in the palm of his mother. Rejoice with great joy as the Word through which all things were made struggles to learn the speech of man. Be still in awe as the Eternal Son explores his own creation with the wide-eyed wonder of childhood.

And begin to understand that the humble delight of shepherds is a more fitting tribute than the proud offering of kings. The backdrop of the stable is only a protection against the ignorant foolishness of thinking Earth could be worthy of Him. Through Bethlehem God glorified His Son by clarifying forever how very unworthy we are of such a gift.

The foolishness of God is wiser than man.

Merry Christmas

Friday Night

Bare brick walls, open beam ceilings, simple, art-deco benches and chairs; it’s Friday night at the coffee shop. I order my Chai and survey the other patrons as I wait. There are a couple of girls by the front door with textbooks open, but their conversation doesn’t seem much related to their studies. There are four Asian guys – each with a laptop open concentrating diligently on the screens in front of them. I open my own laptop. We’re all losers, I think. It’s Friday night. Surely we could all find a party somewhere.

There are only two people in the place not even pretending to study: a lesbian couple sharing a piece of cake and talking quietly over their cups of coffee. The woman nearest my seat is quite pretty and put together, the other is thick-set and dressed in baggy jeans, a pollo shirt, oversized jacket and newsies cap. She wears men’s earrings.

I left my headphones in the car. Perfect. I close my computer and shove it back in the bag. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” I tell the barista, and she smiles patiently as she steams the milk for my chai.

It’s cold outside, but there’s a guy sitting in the dark at one of the outdoor tables anyway. He sips his coffee and watches the traffic pass. He surveys me curiously as I pass him for the second time in five minutes with nothing to show for my time inside. I blush slightly and hurry to the car.

There’s a diner in front of where I parked. It’s dark and locked up for the night, but I can still see the special in the window. Eggs, bacon, pancakes and coffee for less than what I paid for my chai. Why would a student think she could afford coffee shop prices?

On my way back, the guy at the table laughs, “Forget the power chord?”

I grin, “headphones.” I hold them up so he can see. He smiles through his scruffy beard. Since when did I like facial hair? I smile and pause, but I can’t think of anything to say so I wave and head inside.

My paper isn’t getting done. I keep leaning forward to look out the window to see if he’s still there, sitting almost next to me on the other side of the brick wall. But it’s not long before he leaves. I suppose I should get to work. . .

Just before bed . . .

There are certain times, and certain states of mind in which one should not be allowed to write. Times when tiredness, and sleeplessness, and sentimental music and looming lists of “things to do” make writing a tempting escape. But those are the very same times that the computer should be turned off without a thought to the endless blank Word documents and faceless internet readers. Much better instead to spend the evening re-reading a Jane Austen novel. . . or perhaps watching a Jeremy Northam movie. Or, I suppose, watching Emma, which is kind of a combination of the two.

So Alexandria girls, wanna fix a batch of sinful popcorn and join me? Not tonight? You’re right, I suppose it is getting rather late. I suppose I should power down and head to bed.

Miss you!

Saturday Fading. . .

Jimmy Stuart's voice fills the little house. Tonight, he has a western drawl, the annoying, affected accent found only in 1950s cowboy movies, even more exaggerated by the amazing volume at which the television is set. I wonder idly whether Grandpa turns the volume up because he is deaf, or whether he's deaf because he turns the volume up. At least Grandma doesn't seem to mind.

I make myself a cup of tea and steal a slightly overcooked sugar cookie from the bright red tin on the kitchen counter. My room is just down the hall from the television, but with the door closed, the ceiling fan on high, and music from the internet radio, I am finally able to drown out the sound of the movie. I nibble my cookie as I settle in to read A Communist Manifesto.

It's a quiet sort of Saturday evening. There's a calm safety to the business of studying on the weekend. For a little while, it will feel good to be productive. And then I'll go to bed.