by Max Lucado
From the womb, He spoke. His parents did not hear. The word was not for the ears of Mary and Joseph. Only the hosts of heaven and hell could hear the word. And when they did, all stopped. “Life!”
The command flooded the wagon as totally as it had flooded Eden. The demons began scattering like rats.
“Life!” came the command a second time. Simon coughed as air filled his lungs. “The reins!” I shouted. He gasped, grabbed the reins, and pulled himself erect. Through watery eyes he saw the edge of the road and instinctively yanked the animal back until it stopped. We were safe.
But even with the demons gone, I took no chances. My command to Sophio was urgent. “They found her on the road; they will find her room at the inn. Do what needs to be done.” Sophio saluted and soared ahead to the inn at Bethlehem.
Mary remained enveloped in my Light. Joseph watched her with alarm; she relaxed in my care. “I’m better now,” she said. “What happened to the rabbi?”
“But don’t you have just one room?” Joseph pleaded.
“To be honest, I did. But only moments ago a large delegation arrived and took every last bed. I don’t have a place for you and your wife.”
Joseph tried to be patient, but his jaw was tightening. He leaned forward so his face was inches from the innkeeper’s. “See that lady in the cart?” he asked through his teeth. “She is my wife. She could deliver any minute. She nearly had the baby this afternoon in a wagon. She is in pain right now. Do you want the baby to be born here in your doorway?”
“No, of course not, but I can’t help you. Please understand. I have no more rooms.”
“I heard you, but it is midnight and cold. Don’t you have any place for us to keep warm?”
The man sighed, looked at Mary and then at Joseph. He walked into his house and returned with a lamp. “Behind the inn is a trail which will lead you down a hill. Follow it until you come to a stable. It’s clean, at least as clean as stables usually are.” With a shrug he added, “You’ll be warm there.”
Joseph couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You expect us to stay in the stable?”
“Joseph.” It was Mary speaking. She’d heard every word. He turned; she was smiling. He knew exactly what the smile meant. Enough arguing.
His sigh puffed his cheeks. “That will be fine,” Joseph consented and took the lamp.
“Strange,” the clerk muttered to himself as the couple left. Turning to his wife he asked, “Who was the man who took all the rooms?”
Opening the register, the woman read the name aloud. “Different name. Sophio. Must be Greek.”
We were a wreath of Light around the stable, a necklace of diamonds around the structure. Every angel had been called from his post for the coming, even Michael. None doubted God would, but none knew how He could, fulfill His promise.
“I’ve heated the water!”
“No need to yell, Joseph, I hear you fine.”
Mary would have heard had Joseph whispered. The stable was even smaller than Joseph had imagined, but the innkeeper was right—it was clean. I started to clear out the sheep and cow, but Michael stopped me. “The Father wants all of creation to witness the moment.”
Mary cried out and gripped Joseph’s arm with one hand and a feed trough with the other. The thrust in her abdomen lifted her back, and she leaned forward.
“Is it time?” Joseph asked.
She shot back a glance, and he had his answer.
Within moments the Awaited One was born. I was privileged to have a position close to the couple, only a step behind Michael. We both gazed into the wrinkled face of the infant. Joseph had placed hay in a feed trough, giving Jesus His first bed.
All of God was in the infant. Light encircled His face and radiated from His tiny hands. The very glory I had witnessed in His throne room now burst through His skin.
I felt we should sing but did not know what. We had no song. We had no verse. We had never seen the sight of God in a baby. When God had made a star, our words had roared. When He had delivered His servants, our tongues had flown with praise. Before His throne, our songs never ended. But what do you sing to God in a feed trough?
In that moment a wonderful thing happened. As we looked at the baby Jesus, the darkness lifted. Not the darkness of the night, but the darkness of the mystery. Heaven’s enlightenment engulfed the legions.
Our minds were filled with Truth we had never before known. We became aware for the first time of the Father’s plan to rescue those who bear His name. He revealed to us all that was to come. At once amazed and stunned, the eye of every angel went to one part of the child: the hands which would be pierced. “At the pounding of the nail,” God told us, “you will not save Him. You will watch, you will hear, you will yearn, but you will not rescue.”
Paragon and Aegus turned to me, begging for an explanation. I had none. I exist to serve my King, and I must watch Him be tortured? I looked to Michael; his face was stone-hard with torment. I recognized the look, for I felt the same. We could not fathom the command. “How will we sit silent as You suffer?” we asked in unison.
There was no response.
Sophio was whispering. I drew near to hear his words:
“A child has been given to us; God has given a Son to us. He will be responsible for leading the people. His name will be:
Wonderful Counselor,
Powerful God,
Father Who Lives Forever,
Prince of Peace.
He will be wounded for the wrong they did, crushed for the evil they did. The punishment which will make them well will be given to Him. They will be healed because of His wounds.”
Once again, I heard the words I had heard first in the throne room. Only this time, I understood.
So this is He. Immanuel. So this is God’s gift. A Savior. He shall save His people from their sins. “Worthy is the Lamb,” I whispered as I knelt before my God. My heart was full. I turned to Mary as she cradled her child and I spoke. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t hear me. The stars could. All of nature could. And most of all, my King could.
“Do you know who you hold, Mary? You secure the Author of grace. He who is ageless is now moments old. He who is limitless is now suckling your milk. He who strides upon the stars, now has legs too weak to walk; the hands which held the oceans are now an infant’s fist. To Him who has never asked a question, you will teach the name of the wind. The Source of language will learn words from you. He who has never stumbled, you will carry. He who has never hungered, you will feed. The King of creation is in your arms.”
“What manner of love is this?” Michael whispered, and again we were covered with silence. A blanket of awe. Finally, Michael again opened his mouth, this time to sing. He began quietly, pausing between the words. “Glory, glory, glory to God in the highest.”
One by one we joined in. “Glory, glory, glory to God in the highest.”
Gradually the chorus grew louder and faster: “Glory, glory to God in the highest. Glory, glory to God in the highest. Glory, glory to God in the highest.”
Our praise rose into the realms of the universe. In the most distant galaxy the dust on the oldest star danced with our praise. In the depths of the ocean, the water rippled with adoration. The tiniest microbe turned, the mightiest constellation spun, all of nature joined with us as we worshiped Immanuel, the God who had become flesh.
The babe of Bethlehem. Immanuel. Remember the promise of the angel? “‘Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and bear a Son, and they shall call His name Immanuel,’ which is translated, ‘God with us’” (Matt. 1:23 NKJV).
Immanuel. The name appears in the same Hebrew form as it did two thousand years ago. “Immanu” means “with us.” “El” refers to Elohim, or God. Not an “above us God” or a “somewhere in the neighborhood God.” He came as the “with us God.” God with us.
Not “God with the rich” or “God with the religious.” But God with us. All of us. Russians, Germans, Buddhists, Mormons, truckdrivers and taxi drivers,
librarians. God with us.
Cure for the Common Life
TINY MOUTH,
TINY FEET
The stable stinks like all stables do. The stench of urine, dung, and sheep reeks pungently in the air. The ground is hard, the hay scarce. Cobwebs cling to the ceiling, and a mouse scurries across the dirt floor.
A more lowly place of birth could not exist.
Off to one side sit a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor; perhaps perplexed, perhaps in awe, no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. God goes to those who have time to hear him—so on this cloudless night he went to simple shepherds.
Near the young mother sits the weary father. If anyone is dozing, he is. He can’t remember the last time he sat down. And now that the excitement has subsided a bit, now that Mary and the baby are comfortable, he leans against the wall of the stable and feels his eyes grow heavy. He still hasn’t figured it all out. The mystery of the event puzzles him. But he hasn’t the energy to wrestle with the questions. What’s important is that the baby is fine and that Mary is safe. As sleep comes, he remembers the name the angel told him to use . . . Jesus. “We will call him Jesus.”
Wide awake is Mary. My, how young she looks! Her head rests on the soft leather of Joseph’s saddle. The pain has been eclipsed by wonder. She looks into the face of the baby. Her son. Her Lord. His Majesty. At this point in history, the human being who best understands who God is and what he is doing is a teenage girl in a smelly stable. She can’t take her eyes off him. Somehow Mary knows she is holding God. So this is he. She remembers the words of the angel. “His kingdom will never end” (Luke 1:33 NIV).
He looks like anything but a king. His face is prunish and red. His cry, though strong and healthy, is still the helpless and piercing cry of a baby. And he is absolutely dependent upon Mary for his well-being.
Majesty in the midst of the mundane. Holiness in the filth of sheep manure and sweat. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager and in the presence of a carpenter.
She touches the face of the infant-God. How long was your journey!
This baby had overlooked the universe. These rags keeping him warm were the robes of eternity. His golden throne room had been abandoned in favor of a dirty sheep pen.
And so she prays . . .
God. O infant-God. Heaven’s fairest child. Conceived by the union of divine grace with our disgrace. Sleep well.
Sleep well. Bask in the coolness of this night bright with diamonds. Sleep well, for the heat of anger simmers nearby. Enjoy the silence of the crib, for the noise of confusion rumbles in your future. Savor the sweet safety of my arms, for a day is soon coming when I cannot protect you.
Rest well, tiny hands. For though you belong to a king, you will touch no satin, own no gold. You will grasp no pen, guide no brush. No, your tiny hands are reserved for works more precious:
to touch a leper’s open wound,
to wipe a widow’s weary tear,
to claw the ground of Gethsemane.
Your hands, so tiny, so tender, so white—clutched tonight in an infant’s fist. They aren’t destined to hold a scepter nor wave from a palace balcony. They are reserved instead for a Roman spike that will staple them to a Roman cross.
Sleep deeply, tiny eyes. Sleep while you can. For soon the blurriness will clear, and you will see the mess we have made of your world.
You will see our nakedness, for we cannot hide.
You will see our selfishness, for we cannot give.
You will see our pain, for we cannot heal.
O eyes that will see hell’s darkest pit and witness her ugly prince . . . sleep, please sleep; sleep while you can.
Lay still, tiny mouth. Lay still mouth from which eternity will speak.
Tiny tongue that will soon summon the dead,
that will define grace,
that will silence our foolishness.
Rosebud lips—upon which ride a starborn kiss of forgiveness to those who believe you and of death to those who deny you—lay still.
And tiny feet cupped in the palm of my hand, rest. For many difficult steps lie ahead for you . . .
Do you feel the cold sea water upon which you will walk?
Do you wrench at the invasion of the nail you will bear?
Do you fear the steep descent down the spiral staircase into Satan’s domain?
Rest, tiny feet. Rest today so that tomorrow you might walk with power. Rest. For millions will follow in your steps.
And little heart . . . holy heart . . . pumping the blood of life through the universe: How many times will we break you?
You’ll be torn by the thorns of our accusations.
You’ll be ravaged by the cancer of our sin.
You’ll be crushed under the weight of your own sorrow.
And you’ll be pierced by the spear of our rejection.
Yet in that piercing, in that ultimate ripping of muscle and membrane, in that final rush of blood and water, you will find rest. Your hands will be freed, your eyes will see justice, your lips will smile, and your feet will carry you home.
And there you’ll rest again—this time in the embrace of your Father.
God Came Near
SOURCES
Some of the material in this book was originally published in the following books by Max Lucado. All copyrights to the original works are held by the author, Max Lucado.
The Applause of Heaven (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 1990).
He Still Moves Stones (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 1993).
He Chose the Nails (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 2000).
A Love Worth Giving (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 2002).
And the Angels Were Silent (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 2003).
God Came Near (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 2003).
Next Door Savior (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 2003).
Cure for the Common Life (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 2005).
3:16: Numbers of Hope (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 2007).
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God Came Near
CHAPTER 2
“JUST A MOMENT . . .”
It all happened in a moment, a most remarkable moment.
As moments go, that one appeared no different than any other. If you could somehow pick it up off the timeline and examine it, it would look exactly like the ones that have passed while you have read these words. It came and it went. It was preceded and succeeded by others just like it. It was one of the countless moments that have marked time since eternity became measurable.
But in reality, that particular moment was like none other. For through that segment of time a spectacular thing occurred. God became a man. While the creatures of earth walked unaware, Divinity arrived. Heaven opened herself and placed her most precious one in a human womb.
The omnipotent, in one instant, made himself breakable. He who had been spirit became pierceable. He who was larger than the universe became an embryo. And he who sustains the world with a word chose to be dependent upon the nourishment of a young girl.
God as a fetus. Holiness sleeping in a womb. The creator of life being created.
God was given eyebrows, elbows, two kidneys, and a spleen. He stretched against the walls and floated in the amniotic fluids of his mother.
God had come near.
He came, not as a flash of light or as an unapproachable conqueror, but as one whose first cries were heard by a peasant girl and a sleepy carpenter. The hands that first held him were unmanicured, calloused, and dirty.
No silk. No ivory. No hype. No party. No hoopla.
Were it not for the shepherds, there would have been no reception. And were it not for a group of stargazers, there would have been no gifts.
Angels watched as Mary changed God’s diaper. The universe watched with won
der as The Almighty learned to walk. Children played in the street with him. And had the synagogue leader in Nazareth known who was listening to his sermons . . .
Jesus may have had pimples. He may have been tone-deaf. Perhaps a girl down the street had a crush on him or vice-versa. It could be that his knees were bony. One thing’s for sure: He was, while completely divine, completely human.
For thirty-three years he would feel everything you and I have ever felt. He felt weak. He grew weary. He was afraid of failure. He was susceptible to wooing women. He got colds, burped, and had body odor. His feelings got hurt. His feet got tired. And his head ached.
To think of Jesus in such a light is—well, it seems almost irreverent, doesn’t it? It’s not something we like to do; it’s uncomfortable. It is much easier to keep the humanity out of the incarnation. Clean the manure from around the manger. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Pretend he never snored or blew his nose or hit his thumb with a hammer.
He’s easier to stomach that way. There is something about keeping him divine that keeps him distant, packaged, predictable.
But don’t do it. For heaven’s sake, don’t. Let him be as human as he intended to be. Let him into the mire and muck of our world. For only if we let him in can he pull us out.
Listen to him.
“Love your neighbor” was spoken by a man whose neighbors tried to kill him.1
The challenge to leave family for the gospel was issued by one who kissed his mother good-bye in the doorway.2
“Pray for those who persecute you” came from the lips that would soon be begging God to forgive his murderers.3
“I am with you always” are the words of a God who in one instant did the impossible to make it all possible for you and me.4