the word became flesh

jesus left because of you. he laid his security down with his hammer. since he could bear your sins more easily than he could bear the thought of your hopelessness, he chose to leave. it wasn't easy. leaving the carpentry shop never has been.

-max lucado (god came near)

sometimes it's easy to forget how truly remarkable it is that god became human. have you noticed this theme in my posts? i'm enamored by jesus, god incarnate. i cannot wrap my mind around this package of deity and flesh formed together. i pretend i have it figured out, like i've got the whole thing nailed down, and i understand the virgin birth, the merging of god and man, the life jesus led, because that's what we're supposed to do. i can spit the gospels at you and quote ancient prophecy and give you a detailed account of christ's life and death. but what's alarming in all of this is that when we focus on the how's and why's and when's, we lose some of the "wow." we lose the ability and desire, i think, to just sit at jesus' feet and feel the innocent and genuine sense of awe. we start to look past the pictures of grace and compassion and mercy in the very ordinary moments of christ's life when we try to figure it all out - to understand it - to memorize it. when we were little, my dad read the christmas story to my brother and me every christmas eve. it was a great tradition, but after a while we gave it up. it's sad for me to think that so much of what i focus on are what i consider to be the "high points" of christ's life. the immaculate conception. the miracles. the resurrection. yes, those "high points" are incredible and essential to the story. but i think at this time of year, especially at this time of year, i need to focus on the ordinary. i want to sit with my bible pouring over the gospels and allow my mind to be completely saturated by the everyday parts of christ's very human and very god-like life. i want to read inbetween the written words and experience the christ who built tables, who brandished a hammer, who laughed with his brothers and sisters, who hugged his mom, who had dirty feet, who joked with his dad in the shop, who did chores, who scraped his knees, who sneezed. i think only when i even begin to grasp the very ordinary, can i appreciate the very extraordinary that marked christ's life. the same man who drove nails as his profession had nails driven into his hands. the same man who taught in the temple was crucified by the very men he had spoken words of prophecy and of encouragment to. the same man who reached out to a leper whom others sneered at was spit on and mocked. the same man who walked dusty roads and had calloused feet knelt to wash the feet of his beloved disciples. the same man who tripped and fell as a little boy was beaten beyond recognition. the same man who carried jugs of water to his mother in the morning labored a heavy cross through city streets and up a steep hill. even in the ordinary there is extraordinary.

as this week continues and i'm still pondering john 1:14 and chapter 13, something struck me: i was asked to make a hard decision, but i will never be asked to do something that christ hasn't already done. he always goes before. jesus knew the reason for his birth: death on a cross. he knew that eventually there would come a time when he had to leave. he had a lot of leaving to do. he had to leave his family, his home, the comfort of the familiar, his work at the carpentry shop, neighbors who had seen him grow up, friends he'd had for 33 years, a place to sleep, the guarantee of the next meal, safety and protection, good standing in the community. he had to leave these things, because his father asked him to - he had been called to something greater. i cannot imagine how it must have wrung his heart to say good-bye to those things. but he did. he made the choice to obey, and he left. then on calvary's cross he was asked to say good-bye to his life - his very breath. what fear must have plagued his human heart and mind in the moments leading up to that first splintering nail - the sword to his side - the final breath. and then he was asked to say good-bye to his father, whom he had never been apart from. ever. he had not known any - much less total - seperation from god. the certainty of that truth approaching must have gripped him so tightly. i imagine there was a lump in his throat as he cried out to abba father from the cross.

praying for jesus to overwhelm me with who he is - not what he does.