Helpless, bundled against the night chill, the baby lies. Ordinary. His squinting eyes dim, hardly seeing. What thoughts would fill this newborn’s mind? He cannot speak his needs; his self-expression limited, virtually to tears. His young adult parents hover near, attending to the child’s unexpressed needs. They know that this baby, like all others, is completely dependent. If they do not cover him, he will be cold. If they do not hold him, he will whimper his loneliness. If they do not feed him, he will weaken and die. And yet, before this frail, ordinary newborn, rugged independent adults bow to worship, claiming him to be the extraordinary Son.
Years pass.
The young man sits at the crest of a hill, the focus of a small circle of friends. He is dressed as others are dressed, no uniform or emblem to signal him as different. His voice not unlike other voices; yet he speaks his ideas into the afternoon air and a crowd forms. And grows. The words are common words, simple and direct. Children understand them. Adults smile at their beauty, nod agreement at their logic, wince under their demanding clarity. And they walk away astounded at the authority and uniqueness of the man.
With arms stretched wide, as if to embrace the whole world, he dies, as weak and helpless as a newborn. Yet what proves truly weak and helpless before him? Death itself.
Christ did die with his arms stretched wide, and he did so to embrace the whole world. And he way, by choice, for a few days, as weak and helpless as a newborn. Weaker even. Lifeless. But he did all this to give us good reason to celebrate. He has tied Christmas to Easter, and given himself as the most costly gift.
Copyright © 2007
