Adoration of the Shepherds, by Rembrandt (1646)
It’s (very) late on Christmas Eve as I’m writing this and I’m tired. In part because it is late, but more because the Christmas season as the mother of young children has been exhausting. For weeks we have been trying to celebrate two holidays: a commercial Christmas, and a spiritual Advent, on top of closing out a year. The lists and logistics have been endless, but, sadly, peace and harmony in short supply.
And it isn’t my kids’ fault. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. It’s mine. I fell into the trap this year of chasing Christmas perfection, and not only the Hallmark version, but the spiritual rendition as well. It turns out achieving perfection in any sphere, much less multiple spheres simultaneously, is not possible, and certainly not on the holidays. Most of the year I am painfully aware of this fact, but there is something about the tinsel and twinkling lights that draw me into a Christmas rat race.
All this to say, I was looking for a reset, which is how I found myself in my closet listening to Maverick City music. I’m a big fan; if you’re not familiar with them, their music is more live performance than studio album, as they sing in a collective, combine songs and riff on known choruses. They have a version of “Mary, Did You Know?” so of course, I listened.
As he improvises on the familiar lyrics, Chandler Moore turns the question on himself and the audience, asking if we know what is inside of us; do we know that greatness is inside of us? Then he keeps going, singing over and over, “Glory is inside of you, just hold on…” and he seems to be singing to both Mary and to us.
The fullness of divine glory, somehow contained in Mary’s teenage body, is a paradox that has provoked wonder and contemplation in the church since the beginning. And, I’m willing to bet, we will continue to do so in eternity. The glorious mystery of the Incarnation, revealed in flesh and yet still inexplicable, has inspired many great writers and spurred countless songs and poems. A current favorite of mine is “Annunciation” by John Donne in which he writes:
… yea, thou art now Thy Maker’s maker, and thy Father’s mother, Thou hast light in dark, and shutt’st in little room Immensity, cloister’d in thy dear womb.
Donne’s emphasis here, as so many others writing on Mary and in the Incarnation, is the special privilege granted to Mary: she alone of humanity becomes our Maker’s maker. And surely, that is a privilege that does and should leave us in awe. What intrigues me about Maverick City’s riff on my favorite song, however, is the connection they make to the rest of us.
In Luke 2, Mary’s child descended out of her body and into the world; in Acts 2 His Spirit descended out of heaven and into the body of the church. In the same way that Mary gave her “yes” to God and miraculously conceived Christ, those who hear God’s call and answer their “yes,” are miraculously indwelt by the Holy Spirit. Mary’s role is unique in many ways, but her greatest privilege is to be first and not last. Her pregnancy at the beginning of Luke embodies for us the equally physical reality of the beginning of Acts: God Himself took up flesh not once, but twice.
The glorious mystery of the Incarnation is that it is both utterly unique and also ubiquitous among God’s people. God taking up flesh is not a one-time thing: first and foremost, because Jesus is still human, and we will see Him as such when He comes back; but also, because His Spirit has taken up residence in our flesh. At Pentecost the Holy Spirit moved the tabernacle into our neighborhood and the address of the Holy of Holies is our hearts. Mary’s swollen belly shows us this is not a mere spiritual idea; rather, a “yes” to God has physical and metaphysical ramifications.
There is a greatness living inside of you, and His name is the Holy Spirit.
It’s truly a modern miracle but for once my house is clean. Well, it was. My heart, however, is not. My spirit has been littered with unmet expectations, stress, chasing unrealistic ideals, among other idols fouling up the stable of my heart. Recognizing the state of my spirit only exacerbates the sense of disappointment of Christmas–aren’t we all supposed to be at our best?
But the story we remember and retell on Christmas is not a Hallmark story. It’s not a story of human achievement or idyllic perfection. It’s a story about God’s Perfection coming into our mess. It’s a story about God knowing we cannot reach our standards or meet expectations, and so He came to change everything. To change us, change the story, change the game. And He did so by entering the world in a messy, smelly stable.
If He was born once into an animal’s manger, surely He can be born again into the manger of my heart. That is, I think, the point. May He be born again in all of us today, even at this late hour. Heaven held in our humble humanity; immensity cloistered in our hearts.
Links and Things:
An Unexpected Christmas and The Christmas Story are fun videos created by a church in New Zealand starring children retelling the Christmas story.
As we close out the year, Lord Alfred Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” is worth a re-read:
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
A Moment in Time:
Merry Christmas,
Caroline