From the cradle to the grave

This is not a post I want to write.

Not now.

Not today as so many grieve and as bewilderment fights for our joy.

I've put it off.

But some things must be done and some nudges are relentless in their pursuit of action.

Originally, the prevailing thought about "from the cradle to the grave" was that Christmas always reminds me of Easter.

Christmas is the pregame show to the SuperBowl…not the event.

I love carols and kahlua balls and sparkly lights and family gathered 'round, but this season of welcoming a baby into the world is not the Big Show. It's the warm up.

The baby in the manger, no room in the inn, angels we have heard on high & grandma getting run over by a reindeer sing of a (hopefully) merry time of welcome. It's when the favored guest arrives and we whip out the red carpet, strike up the big brass band, and roast chestnuts over an open fire.

We sing. We make merry. We are at peace.

Except that God knew that we wouldn't be…at peace.

He knew that this paradise he crafted for us…well, that we'd screw it up with our "I wants" and demands and sneaking out at night to steal a kiss or put a cape and Zorro mask on Johnny Kaw in the park (please…somebody do this.)

He knew all of this.

That we'd take his gift of existence and muck it up with our appetites and impatience.

So he sent his son – this kid – into the arms and care of a poor teenager and her equally poor carpenter fiance'. They'd be hunted, sent on a harrowing mission to an unknown land (check Luke out for the story), and be positioned for scrutiny. 

And then this sweet kid, this babe in a manger, would grow into a man with calloused hands and following the call of his dad – not the carpenter, but the Creator.

His dad would remind him of his job on earth – the tough part of being born where food and provision – safety even – was uncertain. His job to grow and remain pure – really pure – no tacks in the teacher's chair, no slipping your brussel sprouts to the dog, no kissing the girl who you pass each day on the way to the market. No selfishness. No pettyness. No bad words…or bad thoughts.

That one day, this young man would grow and invite people to life and they would reject him. 

That his job was to endure, persevere, engage, connect, love, build community, challenge, be a carpenter's son, and be persecuted by the folks who knew all of the signs and did not believe that he was the one true gift. 

Aw heck, I'd have a hard time believing that anyone is divine, too. I'd have probably been on the front row of the last earthly chapter of this kid's story – in shock, wondering, and not fully convinced.

But he came anyway.

He was born, he lived, and his entire life was a march from the cradle to the grave.

He didn't whine or punch the wall.
He didn't feel entitled to a stunt double or rescue.
He didn't bolt when things got bad
or lash out in his pain.

He walked through his life from the manger of hay in a dank cave in Bethlehem, through Nazereth, and up the Via Dolorosa, the way of suffering.

Essentially, he climbed up on the cross willingly. As the Son of God, he could have called on the wind, angels, or the mountain itself to rescue him. He could have argued and manipulated so that another paid the price of his coming. 

But he didn't. 

He kept walking until he hung.

Past my cheating on the 5th grade math test (so sorry, Mr. Entwhistle!), to the ugly word lodged in my heart, to the eschewing of my responsibility, through the shock and sorrow of each day – even past the days that are so good it is easy to forget their cosmological origination.

Christmas is joyful and bright and festive and so full of good faces and food that bursting seems imminent. 

But Christmas is still only the pregame, the warm up for the long walk through life and all of it's mystery and wonder and pain to Easter's cross where real life began.

So Merriest Christmas to you.

You have not been forgotten.

Your sorrows and burdens are not an afterthought or shock to the universe.

You are loved so much that the kid of Christmas grew up to be the sinless Son of Man of Easter so that the real gifts and blessings could begin.

Hope.
Love.
Life.
Compassion.
Joy.
Purpose.
Community.

And that is the best reason to whoop it up over Christmas; Easter is coming and with it…redemption.

Travel light my friends.