In A Moment

In A Moment

Let me reveal to you a wonderful secret. We will not all die, but we will all be transformed! It will happen in a moment, in the blink of an eye, when the last trumpet is blown. For when the trumpet sounds, those who have died will be raised to live forever. And we who are living will also be transformed. For our dying bodies must be transformed into bodies that will never die; our mortal bodies must be transformed into immortal bodies. Then, when our dying bodies have been transformed into bodies that will never die, this Scripture will be fulfilled: “Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” For sin is the sting that results in death, and the law gives sin its power. But thank God! He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ. So, my dear brothers and sisters, be strong and immovable. Always work enthusiastically for the Lord, for you know that nothing you do for the Lord is ever useless. (1 Cor. 15:51-58)

Curious, this particular throne room. No tapestries cover the windows; no velvet garments adorn the staff. And instead of a golden scepter, the king holds a crudely whittled olive-wood rattle. Curious, too, the sounds in the court as well. Cows munching, hooves crunching, a mother humming, a baby nursing. It could have begun anywhere, the story of this king. But, curiously, it began in a manger.

The noise and the bustle began earlier than usual in the village. As night gave way to dawn, people were already on the streets. Vendors were positioning themselves on the corners of the most heavily traveled intersections. Store owners were unlocking the doors to their shops. Children were awakened by the excited barking of the street dogs, and the complaints of donkeys pulling carts. The owner of the inn had awakened earlier than most in the town. After all, the inn was full – all the beds were taken. Every available mat or blanket had been put to use. Soon all the customers would be stirring and there would be a lot of work to do.

Did any of the innkeeper’s family mention the arrival of the young couple the night before? Did anyone comment on the pregnancy of the girl on the donkey? Maybe. Maybe someone raised the subject. But, at best, it was raised but not discussed since there was nothing particularly novel about the couple. They were, quite possibly, one of several families who had been turned away that night. Besides, who had time to talk about strangers when there was so much excitement in the air? Augustus had done the economy of Bethlehem a huge favor when he decreed that a census should be taken. Who could remember when this much traffic had hit the village?

No, it’s doubtful that anyone mentioned the couple’s arrival, or wondered about the condition of the girl. They were too busy. The day was upon them. The day’s bread had to be made. The morning’s chores had to be done. There was too much to do to imagine that the impossible had actually occurred. Yet, were someone to chance upon the sheep stable on the outskirts of Bethlehem that morning, what a strange scene they would have seen.

The stable stinks like all stables do. The stench of urine, dung and sheep is pungent in the air. The ground is hard, the hay is scarce. Cobwebs cling to the ceiling, and a mouse scurries across the dirt floor. A more lowly place of birth couldn’t exist. And off to one side is a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, perhaps perplexed, perhaps in awe, but no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. God goes to those who have time to hear him — so on this cloudless night he went to some simple shepherds.

Near the young mother sits the weary father. If anyone is dozing, he is. He can’t remember the last time he sat down. And now that the excitement has subsided a bit, now that Mary and the baby are comfortable, he leans against the wall of the stable and feels his eyes grow heavy. He still hasn’t figured it all out. The mystery of the event remains a puzzle to him. But he hasn’t the energy to wrestle with the questions. What’s important is that the baby’s fine and Mary’s safe. As sleep comes, he remembers the name the angel told him to use . . . Jesus. “We’ll call him Jesus,” he mumbles as he drifts off to sleep.

Mary, on the other hand, is wide awake. She looks so young. Her head rests on the leather of Joseph’s saddle. The pain has been eclipsed by wonder. She looks into the face of the baby. Her son. Her Lord. His Majesty. And at this point in history, the human being who best understands who God is and what he’s doing is a teenage girl in a smelly stable. Somehow, Mary knows she’s holding God. So this is he, she thinks, and then remembers the words of the angel, “His kingdom will never end.” He doesn’t look like a king, though. His face is prunish and red. His cry, although strong and healthy, is still the helpless and piercing cry of a baby. And he’s absolutely dependent upon Mary for his well-being.

Majesty in the midst of the mundane. Holiness in the filth of sheep manure and sweat. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager, in the presence of a carpenter. But this baby had overlooked the universe. These rags keeping him warm were the robes of eternity. His golden throne room had been abandoned in favor of a dirty sheep pen. And worshiping angels had been replaced with kind but bewildered shepherds.

Meanwhile, the city hums. The merchants are unaware that God has visited their planet. The innkeeper would never believe that he had just sent God out into the cold. And the people would scoff at anyone who told them the promised Messiah lay in the arms of a teenager on the outskirts of their village. They were all too busy to consider the possibility. But those who missed His Majesty’s arrival that night didn’t miss it because of evil acts or malice; no, they missed it because they simply weren’t looking. And little has changed in the last two thousand years. Because it all happened in a moment, a most remarkable moment – when God appeared to those who are looking for him.

As moments go, that one was no different than any other. If you could somehow pick it up off the timeline and examine it, it would look exactly like the ones that have passed while you have read these words. It came and it went. It was preceded and succeeded by others just like it. It was one of the countless moments that have marked time since eternity became measurable. But in reality, that particular moment was like none other. Because in that segment of time a spectacular thing occurred. God became a man. While the creatures of earth walked unaware, Divinity arrived. Heaven opened herself and placed her most precious one in a human womb.

The Omnipotent, in one instant, made himself vulnerable. He who had been Spirit became human. He who was larger than the universe became an embryo. And he who sustains the world with a word chose to be dependent upon the nourishment of a young girl. God as a fetus. Holiness sleeping in a womb. The creator of life being created. The God-man had eyebrows, elbows, two kidneys, and a spleen. He stretched against the walls and floated in the amniotic fluids of his mother’s womb.

He came, not as a flash of light or as an unapproachable conqueror, but as one whose first cries were heard by a peasant girl and a sleepy carpenter. The hands that first held him were calloused and dirty. No silk. No ivory. No hype. No party. No hoopla. Were it not for the shepherds, there would have been no reception. And were it not for a group of stargazers, there would have been no gifts, either.

So, angels watched as Mary changed God’s diaper. The universe watched with wonder as The Almighty learned to walk. Children played in the street with him. And had the synagogue leader in Nazareth known who was listening to his sermons, well .… Jesus may have had pimples. He may have been tone-deaf. Perhaps a girl down the street had a crush on him, or vice versa. It could be that his knees were bony. But one thing’s for sure, though: He was, while completely divine, completely human.

For thirty-three years he would feel everything you and I have ever felt. He felt weak. He grew weary. He was afraid of failure. He got colds, burped, and had body odor. His feelings got hurt. His feet got tired and his head ached. To think of Jesus in that light is — well, it seems almost irreverent. It’s not something we like to do; it’s uncomfortable because it’s much easier to keep the humanity out of the incarnation. Clean the manure from around the manger. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Pretend he never snored or blew his nose or hit his thumb with a hammer. He’s easier to stomach that way. There’s something about keeping him divine that keeps him distant, packaged, predictable.

But don’t do that this Christmas. Let him be as human as he intended to be. Let him into the mire and muck of your world. For only if we let him in can he pull us out. And listen to him. “Love your neighbor,” was spoken by the man whose neighbors tried to kill him. The challenge to leave family for the gospel was issued by the one who kissed his mother goodbye at the doorway. “Pray for those who persecute you,” came from the lips that would soon be begging God to forgive his murderers. “I am with you always,” are the words of a God who, in one instant, did the impossible to make it all possible for you and me. It all happened in a moment. A most remarkable moment. The Word became flesh.

There will be another, mind you. The world will see another instantaneous transformation. You see, in becoming man, God made it possible for man to see God. When Jesus went home he left the back door open. As a result, “we will all be changed — in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.” The first moment of transformation went unnoticed by the world. But the second one won’t. So, the next time you use the phrase “just a moment,” remember that’s all the time it will take to change your world. Instead, take a moment this Christmas and change it now.

Grace,

Randy