LOVE NEEDING FLESH

 

To probe and reflect on the essential meaning of Christmas, I want to begin with two stories…

Story #1

Once upon a cold Christmas Eve, a man sat in reflective silence before the flames flickering in the fireplace, thinking about the meaning of Christmas. “There is no point to a God who became human,” he mused. “Why would an all-powerful God want to share even one of his precious moments with the likes of us? And even if he did, why would God choose to be born in a stable? No way! The whole thing is absurd! I’m sure that if God really wanted to come down to earth, he would have chosen some other way.”

 

Suddenly, the man was roused from his musings by a strange sound outside. He sprang to the window and leaned on the sash. Outside he saw a gaggle of snow geese frantically honking and wildly flapping their wings amid the deep snow and frigid cold. They seemed dazed and confused. Apparently, due to exhaustion, they had dropped out of a larger flock migrating to a warmer climate.

 

Moved to compassion, the man bundled up and went outside. He tried to “shoo” the shivering geese into the warm garage, but the more he “shooed,” the more the geese panicked. “If they only realized that I’m trying to save them,” he thought to himself. “How can I make them understand my concern for their well-being?”

 

Then a thought came to him: “If for just a minute, I could become one of them, if I could become a snow goose and communicate with them in their own language, then they would know what I’m trying to do.”

 

In a flash of inspiration, he remembered it was Christmas Eve. A warm smile crossed his face. The Christmas story no longer seemed absurd. He visualized an ordinary-looking infant lying in a manger in a stable in Bethlehem. He understood the answer to his Christmas problem: God became one-like-us to tell us, in human terms, that we can understand, that he loves us, that he loves us right now, and that he is concerned about our well-being.

 

Story #2

One winter day, a little boy was standing on a grate next to a bakery, trying to keep his shoeless feet warm. A woman passing by saw the frosty-toed child and her heart ached. He had on only a lightweight jacket and no shoes, and the air was chilly, the wind sharp.

 

“Where are your shoes, young man?” she asked. The boy reluctantly admitted that he didn’t have any. “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll see what we can do about that?” the woman said. Taking his hand, she led him into a nearby department store and bought him a new pair of shoes and a warm jacket.

 

When they came back out onto the street, the little boy was so excited that he immediately started to run off to show his family his gifts. Suddenly he halted, turned around and ran back to the woman. He thanked her and then asked, “Ma’am, could I ask you a question? Ma’am, are you God’s wife?”

 

The woman smiled and said, “Oh, no, I’m not God’s wife, just one of God’s children.”

 

The little boy grinned and nodded enthusiastically, “I knew it! I just knew you were related!”

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The point of these two stories? Love. Christmas is the celebration of what is called “incarnation” or enfleshment—God taking on human flesh so that God could show us, on our own terms, how much God loves us and wants us to be filled with joy by following his teaching and his example.

 

And the point of the second story? Also love. You can understand the meaning of Christmas in theoretical terms. But you can’t show love theoretically. Love doesn’t go walking down the street abstractly. Love needs incarnation! Love needs to be lived. Love needs to be given flesh. It is only when we do that, can we say that Christmas is real for us. Not just an idea. Not just a warm, nostalgic feeling. Not just an image on a Christmas card. Christmas needs to be made real by the ways in which we make love incarnate. The birth of Jesus, then, is not just a memory. It is a model, a pattern, for us to imitate by showing love in the flesh. That’s how the world will know that we and God are related. Like Jesus, we are one of God’s children.

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