The Hope of the Incarnation

Many years ago when I was a child, there was a newspaper columnist named Bill Vaughn. One year he wrote a Christmas column about his little girl getting in his lap and wanting him to tell her a Christmas story. I don't remember the exact order they were suggested, but I know he started to tell her about a snowman. She stopped him and said, "No, not that one." So he launched into Santa Claus, and again she stopped him. He tried one more, when she said, "no. Tell me the story about Christmas." He ended his column with the opening words to Luke chapter 2, the gospel account of Jesus birth.

Each Christmas, the Kansas City Star newspaper reprints it because of it's popularity. Each year, I re-blog the Christmas essay I wrote many years ago. I hope reading it has become a tradition for everyone. This a time of anticipation of hope for many. For some it's a time of deep pain, but the Nativity can keep the tiny flame stoked and at some point, it will burst into a fire that warms the desperate heart. Here again, is my Christmas message for you.

The season has officially arrived. Time to bring out the holiday decorations collected over the years, along with new ones purchased at half price after Christmas last year—the special trappings that announce the season of celebration. Trees are trimmed, candles lit, carols sung, lists made, gifts purchased and wrapped, parties planned, church plays produced, turkeys roasted, and every tradition of every family is carefully observed for the sake of memories.

It would be tempting to write a critique about the increasing secularization of our “holy days” traditions. But the deepening layers of fluff that threaten to obscure Christ are a legitimate concern I’ll save for another essay. Truthfully, the whole season with its traditions can produce a warm feeling in me, a kind of rosy glow that makes me want to stuff cash into the red pots of bell ringers, hug strangers, and maybe even “teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.” That’s a good thing—or is it?

I’ve heard many Christmas sermons over the years, but none has enlightened nor disturbed me more than the words of an unsaved woman I knew some years ago. While helping decorate an AA hall for a holiday party, she made the off-handed remark, “I just love Christmas. You know, the baby Jesus thing and all that stuff. It gives me a warm feeling.”

I had forgotten that conversation until today. At the time, I didn’t think much about her comment, except that she needed to know baby Jesus grew up and died for her. Maybe I even said that, I really don’t remember. Now I find her words unsettling in a different way. She had expressed sentimental feelings that are uncomfortably close to what I, and probably other Christians feel.

Sentimentality isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but when it masquerades as spirituality, it satisfies merely at a surface level, distorting love and grace by diminishing them. The deep ocean of God’s love and grace becomes a wading pool. Instead of being immersed in His great love, we slosh around, accepting shallow spirituality and risk missing the awesome waves of His passion that can only be experienced when we venture out into waters over our heads.

The memory of that comment resurfaced today in the form of a question God posed to me: Do you understand the cost of the Incarnation?

Christians are (or should be) familiar with the basic theology of the Incarnation: Christ was born of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary. God became fully human. We recite it in our creeds, we read it in the Bible, and hear it from the pulpit. We proclaim Christ’s divinity and humanity based on the doctrine of the Incarnation. But do we really understand the price the Son of God paid when He became the Son of Man?

I must confess, this morning during my prayer time, it occurred to me I did not. As I prayed, I wondered if indeed it was even possible in this life to fully comprehend the depth of sacrifice Jesus made when He stepped out of eternity and into time.

In The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis wrote, “… the higher a thing is, the lower it can descend—man can sympathize with a horse but a horse cannot sympathize with a rat.” I believe it was also C. S. Lewis who observed that it is barely within the capacity of humans to understand how amazing an act of condescension it would be for a man to become a lower creature. It is one to thing to have a level of consciousness that enables one to sympathize with a lesser creature, such as a cat, it is entirely another to actually become one and experience all that cats experience, having left the lofty realm of humanness and all that entails.

We can only imagine the possibility, since no man has ever emptied himself of all his natural attributes, retaining only the knowledge that he is still in essence a man, and taken the likeness and consciousness of a lower creature—to be both that lower life form and man. Even though the chasm between man and cat is incredibly broad, the analogy falls short because humans and cats still share a common bond: they are both created beings. The analogy cannot begin to express the magnitude of the condescension of the Creator in becoming the creature.

It is the mystery of the Incarnation: God becoming one of His creatures, yet still being God in essence. What Jesus left behind when He condescended to the level of a dividing cell in Mary’s womb is what I have never fully appreciated, and I say that to my sorrow, because the sacrifice of Jesus on my behalf began long before the cross.

The entire seventeenth chapter of the Gospel of John records the last time Jesus prayed with His disciples before His crucifixion. Next to the anguished prayer in Gethsemane, it is probably the most passionate prayer ever uttered, and He prayed it not only for the small band of men gathered around Him, but also for us:

“And now, O Father, glorify Me together with Yourself, with the glory which I had with You before the world was… Father, I desire that they also whom You gave Me may also be with Me where I am, that they may behold My glory which You have given Me; for You loved Me before the foundation of the world (v. 5, 24).”

The inclusion of that request in His prayer reveals His desire that we understand the level from which He had descended to walk among humanity. He had willingly left the Father’s presence in a place of grandeur and glory beyond human imagining, and emptied Himself of the attributes that made Him God.

In Philippians 2:6-11, Paul attempts to describe the depth Jesus’ sacrifice through the Incarnation:

Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross! Therefore, God exalted Him to the highest place and gave Him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father.

He made Himself nothing. The All in All, the Alpha and Omega, the Almighty became a creature, a lowly servant, and willingly bore the cross—our cross, our sin, our shame. The question still reverberates: do I understand the cost of the Incarnation?

I will enjoy the Christmas season. I will probably overeat, spend a little too much, and observe all the traditions, sacred and silly. But there will be a silent prayer offered continually from my heart: that I would grow beyond sentimentality and press deeper into the heart of God where emotions are transformed and become holy.

Moses prayed to see God’s glory, and God granted his request, but only gave him a glimpse of his back. He covered Moses’ eyes with His hand as He passed telling him, “you cannot see My face; for no man shall see Me and live.” But Jesus is the face of God, and we are commanded to focus our attention on and our hope in Him. The hand of God no longer blocks our view, only our own hands cast up in fear, shame, or ignorance.

It may well be that before “the mortal is clothed with immortality,” my vision will be obscured for countless reasons. But His prayer will ultimately be answered. Until that day, like Paul, I will seek to grasp the width and length and depth and height of His love, to know the love of Christ which passes knowledge, the love that compelled the Incarnation, and to truly understand His incredible Christmas gift.