The Imitation of Christ(mas)

Christmas is almost here again. And I think I hear the helpless wail of a baby. A baby in a cold, damp cave with the lifeblood of the universe pumping through His little heart. The baby who was not always a baby, and who never had to be one. (Much less enter the world in a dark, smelly cave.)

The God who allowed Himself to be confined in a human body because He so loved the world.

We know the story well, so well that it has ceased to amaze us. He lived here for thirty-three years, and then He died. Actually, He was murdered. And in His life and His death, He taught us how to live and die. But death was not the end of the story, and it will not be the end. He burst the bars of death, and hope surged through the universe. He ascended to the Father, and yet, through His extended body, He remained in the world. This Christmas, the weary world can still feel a thrill of hope because He still remains.

Christ, born in a stable two thousand years ago, still walks the dusty trails of earth. His Body is still present, ministering to those who are not afraid to call themselves needy. His hands still feed the hungry. And His feet still walk with authority into the darkest places on this earth. After all, what would you expect His hands to do? Where do you think His feet would go?

There are many of us who like to talk about being His hands and feet. But actually, we don't like the dark and the cold. We'd rather not feel the sweat or the blood that stood in beads on His forehead. Or cry the heart-wrenching tears of compassion. We'd rather not get close enough to the grime to pull someone out of it. We like our clean clothes and un-scarred hands.

And we don't want to give even the cup of cold water because...well...it's more comfortable in my recliner.

I am guilty. Lord, forgive us. Forgive us, change us, and equip us to be Your hands and feet to this world...those far away and those in our homes and on our doorsteps. This world You loved so much that You gave up the splendors of heaven itself.