Saturday night we went with Sloan's family to the live Nativity at the Billy Graham library in Charlotte. It was the first live nativity I've ever been too. I was really looking forward to it, despite the standing in the wintry mix and waiting in line for the shuttle in said wintry mix.
Henry loved riding the shuttle (I riding a white school bus, Mommy!) and also loved the Nativity. He was very sweet. He wanted to kiss and hold the baby Jesus. I told him that Jesus had to stay with his Mommy and Daddy right now. "Tell Mary I only kiss Baby Jesus' toes. How 'bout I kiss his toes?"
My dear, precious boy.
Other than the sweetness of my son, I must say I found the experience to be less than what I expected. Sure, the was a camel, a donkey, and some random sheep. And yeah, there was the holy family and a shepherd. But all in all, it was too quiet. Plastic baby Jesus was too still and quiet as Joseph and Mary sat in the cold and looked lovingly upon him.
I guess that is what also gets me about the song Silent Night. I loved it as a child. As does Henry. But, come on? Silent night? Picture what the night of Jesus' birth must've really been like for Mary. She spent the beginning of her labor riding a donkey. Then she popped out her first born in a stable amongst animals. I'm sure it smelled horrible. And then, hours after giving birth, a pack of strange shepherds come and visit. I doubt any of them thought to bring a home cooked meal for the new family. And did they really all stand around silently and stare at each other? Does anyone else think that's a little weird? "Hi, we're hear to see the new born King. And stare at you while we hold our lambs across our shoulders..."
And once again, let's revisit how silent babies tend to be. Even when sleeping, both of mine as newborns made grunts and groans. Not so helpful to the new Mom and Dad who were probably trying to find a spot without poop on it to sleep.
I wish there was a song about this. Perhaps Smelly night, Holy Night. It's not calm, but He's still bright. Please don't think I'm being sacrilegious. It's just that romanticized versions of truth don't really help me. I don't live in a Norman Rockwell painting. Why we envision Precious Moments fat babies as angels when every time they appear in the Bible they scare the mess out of people, I don't know. Why we think Jesus was a tender and mild newborn who came out of Mary's blessed womb sleeping through the night is beyond me. Because THAT incarnation isn't God becoming man but God becoming a superhero. And that doesn't save me at all.
On a day when my son wakes me up by jumping up and down on my bed in his birthday suit, then my daughter cries for 2 hours straight because she hates her car seat and being strapped in the grocery cart (yes, old lady, I'm aware my daughter is upset, thank you very much) and oh yeah, she is cutting all 4 of her molars at the same time, and then my son cries for 15 minutes because I won't let him play on my Ipad for more than 30 minutes, I'm glad I don't have a Savior whose God-ness made it easy for Him. That when I cry out to Him, "Sweet Jesus, I need your patience" I know that His patience has withstood testing. When I cry out, "Lord, have mercy on me, it's freezing cold and I'm stuck here in a parking lot with my in laws" it is to a Lord who left his throne to be born in a poopy barn and then have people come stare at him.
He gets it. Life is rarely silent. And it often doesn't smell very good. And people show up you weren't expecting. And yet, there He is. In the midst of the chickens and the cows and the sheep. Son of God, Love's pure light. Radiant beams from His holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace.
Jesus, Lord at thy birth. Jesus, Lord at thy birth.
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