Here are the basic circumstances under which our Savior entered our world:
- birth out of wedlock
- welcomed by a group of mystics who probably didn't understand his majesty
- forced to flee in the face of danger
And Irony's deepest kiss: his birth meant the death of many others:
"Then Herod, when he saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had ascertained from the wise men." (Matt. 2:16, ESV)
Lately, I have been empty - of words, thoughts, joy, peace, comfort, strength and so much more. And it's in this trajectory toward nothingness that I find the deepest sorrow and gloom. I'm forced to guess that hell, in some way, must be like this, projected out into eternity - the endless, inexorable erosion of me with no end in sight. It isn't in becoming nothing that I find dread, but in being carried toward that courteous end forever, with the certainty that I'll never actually be granted it.
Yet I am told to have hope, to understand that good things are withheld from me now so that the best may fall into my lap in the future, to wait and see that this drought serves a very worthy purpose. My mind agrees and pleads with this chorus of voices for my soul to follow suit, but it will not. I can say this in many euphemisms, but simply put, I refuse to accept any of this.
I've seen spring follow winter, without fail, every single year of my life. I've ridden roller coasters, literal and metaphorical, and have found great pleasure in the ups and downs once I've gotten off. I've waken up after falling asleep, without fail, every single day of my life.
Yet even with all this embedded in the deepest fibers of my feeble mind's understanding, and memories of post-suffering thanksgiving and apologies flowing from my eyes and lips each and every time life arises again fresh in my mind's eye, I choose to turn my eyes away and doubt all of this all over again.
So, tonight, I am trying to thrust the accounts of Jesus' disruptive arrival into this world down into the depths of my double-speaking heart, because it reminds me of this:
If, out of all the death, disregard and despair that saturated his Son's supremely afflicted existence - what seemed a downright God-damned mess - God can pull out resurrection and life to the fullest, can he not also do the same with my trifle?
Do I, or will I ever completely understand why Christ, who would mean life to so many, was born in circumstances submerged in death? Will I ever fully know why it should require this much destruction to get what's left of me to whatever end awaits?
No, and no.
Though a more composed me might have the gall to protest this, the weary me has nothing left to protest with. He only cries for the same kind of reversal - for relief, for retreat, for pardon, for faith and for the upswing to happen soon so that life might be tasted again, whatever the cost.
