…grit

Sometimes words are elegant wisps of contented musings, stringing together orchestrated ideas and pleasant considerations. Other times, syllables are brash, sniping scatterings of discombobulated wonderings. Like sandpaper, the latter words rub harshly – they have grit. Sometimes big events are wonderfully wrapped and presented with care. However, sometimes big events are gritty, and the truth is raw.

On a night we like to imagine as silent and peaceful, Joseph and his bride-to-be, Mary, sought a place in Bethlehem to rest for the night. They wanted solace in the midst of chaos, as Mary was about to give birth to her – not their – first child. (The chaos extended beyond the census taking place, clearly.) The night, still as it may have been, cracked with the cries of the newborn baby.
That baby grew up, and the cries became heavier. He cried from an outpouring of emotion, from physical anguish, and from supernatural justice.

The baby was wrapped snuggly in cloth, and laid in a manger. In the presence of sheep, the infant child slept. In the countryside nearby, an angel appeared to a group of shepherds, startling them with a pronouncement of the birth of a savior. Again the silence of the night shattered, as a great arrangement of angels appeared with the messenger, singing glory to God.
That baby was wrapped in cloth in the presence of his parents again, as His body was prepared for burial just thirty-three years later. A man regarded as a shepherd to those who followed His teaching became the sacrificial lamb for their sins.

The shepherds rushed to find the baby, operating entirely on faith. The angel told them, and so they went. After seeing the promised savior, snuggled in His mother’s arms, the shepherds rejoiced as they left, telling everyone they saw of what had happened. The baby’s mother fondly treasured all the events in her heart.
That mother later watched as her baby boy was falsely arrested, whipped and beaten, and crucified. She saw her son tortured by professional killers, accepting punishment for a crime she knew He never committed. She let go of her child, the one she once cradled in her arms to protect from the harsh world He came to save.

The Christmas story is a wonderful, joyous recounting of a night long ago. Yet, the whole story is far grittier than that night. Jesus came as a baby, entering the world in the same way as you and I. He grew up, maturing physically, mentally, spiritually, and socially. He made friends, He worked, and He prayed. In many ways, He lived a life much like our own.

Then He died, a miserable, violent death. He took the concentrated wrath of the people He came to serve and to save, exacted by Roman executioners. He cried and He bled, His body broken and His spirit crushed. In a moment when things could get little worse, with bloodied nails driven through His flesh and thorns wrought into His skull, all of eternity’s shortcomings were piled upon Him. Jesus bore the sins of all of us, becoming the manifestation of all injustice. In that moment, God turned His back on His only son – the son sent to live as a man to die for mankind.

Christmas is a wonderful reminder of the gift – sweet and gentle – given to us by God. Yet sometimes we get wrapped up in the presentation, and we lose touch with the grit of the motivation. This season is joyous and kind, with celebration in the air. The angels understood, and the shepherds followed wholeheartedly. Even still, the story didn’t end that night. We place gifts underneath the tree – God’s gift hung on the tree. It’s merry and bright, and just a little gritty.