Majesty in the Mundane

 

Majesty in the Mundane

Majesty in the Mundane - Audio/Visual 

In those days Caesar Augustus declared that everyone throughout the empire should be enrolled on the tax lists. This first enrollment occurred when Quirinius governed Syria. Everyone went to their own cities to be enrolled. Since Joseph belonged to David’s house and family line, he went up from the city of Nazareth in Galilee to David’s city, called Bethlehem, in Judea. He went to be enrolled together with Mary, who was promised to him in marriage and who was pregnant. While they were there, the time came for Mary to have her baby. She gave birth to her firstborn child, a son, wrapped him snugly, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them at the inn. (Luke 2:1-7)

The noise and the bustle began earlier than usual in the village that day. As night gave way to dawn, people were already on the streets. Vendors were positioning themselves on the corners of the busiest intersections. Store owners were unlocking the doors to their shops. Children were awakened by the excited barking of the street dogs and the frequent complaints of donkeys pulling carts. The owner of the inn had awakened earlier than most in town. After all, the inn was full – all the beds were taken. (Luke 2:7) 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 pregnant girl? Maybe. Maybe someone raised the subject. But, at best, it was raised but not discussed since there was nothing particularly novel about the young 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, even if it was for the purpose of collecting more taxes. 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 already upon them. Bread had to be baked. The morning’s chores had to be completed. There was too much to do to imagine that the impossible had actually occurred. Yet if someone had happened to come upon the sheep stable on the outskirts of Bethlehem that morning, it would have been a pretty strange sight to see.

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 could not exist. And off to one side is a group of smelly shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, perhaps perplexed, perhaps in awe, but no doubt in amazement. (Luke 2:16) Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. (Luke 2:10) You see, God goes to those who have time to hear him. So, on that 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, and 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 doesn’t have the energy to wrestle with the questions. What’s important is that the baby’s fine and Mary’s safe. And as sleep comes, he remembers the name the angel told him to use . . . Jesus. (Luke 1:31) “We’ll call him Jesus,” he mutters as he drifts off to sleep

Mary, on the other hand, is wide awake. She looks so young, and her pain has now been eclipsed by wonder. She looks into the face of the baby. Her son. Her Lord. 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 stinky 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.” (Luke 1:33) “He doesn’t look like a king, though,” she muses. 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 mundane. Holiness in the filth of manger. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager, in the presence of a blue-collar construction worker. But this baby had created and overlooked the universe. (Col. 1:16) 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. (Luke 2:15)

Meanwhile, the city hums. The merchants are unaware that God has come down. The innkeeper would have never believed that he had just sent God out into the cold the night before. 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 that possibility. But those who missed Jesus’ arrival that night didn’t miss it because of evil acts or malice. They missed it because they simply weren’t looking. And not a lot 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 were 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’ve been reading 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 no other because in that segment of time a spectacular thing occurred. God became a man. (John 1:14) While the creatures of earth walked unaware, Divinity arrived. Heaven opened itself and placed its 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 (Heb. 1:3) 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 with eyebrows, elbows, and a spleen. He stretched against the walls and floated in the amniotic fluid 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. (Matt. 2:1-12)

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 he might have let Jesus get a word in edgewise. 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 knobby. But one thing’s for sure: Jesus was, while completely divine, completely human.

For some 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 (John 4:6), 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 his 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 and sanitary.

But don’t do that this Christmas. Let him be as human as he intended to be. Let him into the manger of your world. For only if we let him in can he pull us out. And listen to him. “Love your neighbor” (Mark 12:31) was spoken by the man whose neighbors tried to kill him. (Luke 4:16-30) The challenge to leave family for the gospel (Luke 14:26) was issued by the one who kissed his mother goodbye at the doorway. “Pray for those who persecute you” (Matt. 5:44) came from the lips that would soon be begging God to forgive his murderers. (Luke 23:34) “I am with you always” (Matt. 28:20) are the words of a God who, in one instant, did the impossible to make it all possible for you and me. It happened in a moment. A most remarkable moment. The Word became flesh (John 1:14); majesty dressed in mundanity.

There will be another. The world will see another instantaneous transformation. In becoming man, God made it possible for man to see God. But 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.” (1. Cor. 15:51-52) The first moment of transformation went largely unnoticed by the world. The second will not.

So, the next time you use the phrase “just a moment,” remember that’s all the time it will take to change your world for eternity. So, perhaps take a moment this Christmas to change it now.

Grace,

Randy