Jesus is the Son of God. He was with God from the beginning.
John 1:1 (MSG) says, “The Word was first, the Word present to God, God present to the Word. The Word was God, in readiness for God from day one.”
I have wondered at what point in his life Jesus’s mother, Mary, understood his mission on this little ball of water and dirt that Jesus himself made from nothing. What were the points in Jesus’s life when different aspects of his mission became clear to Mary?
I have to believe Jesus always knew. The fully human part of him learned how to walk, talk, and eat independently, just as the rest of us do. He learned a trade by using his earthly father’s carpentry tools. At the same time, the fully divine part of him was always aware of who he was and is. Always. He is, after all, God.
Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who, although he existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. Being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.
—Philippians 2:5–8 NASB
I don’t believe deity and divinity are attributes one would or even could lay down. The idea of Jesus leaving the face of his beloved Father; leaving the love and affection of his Father’s home; and discussing and deciding in the great halls of eternity to come down to this tiny, time-inhibitive, gravity-grinding planet is incredibly claustrophobic to me.
First, in willingly walking away from his Father and coming to this tiny speck of dust in the universe, not to mention knowing ahead of time that he would be completely cognizant while deliberately floating in amniotic fluid for several months, Jesus understood that he was wrapping himself in the very dirt he’d created.
I can’t imagine the sacrifice of his Father, by design and with foreknowledge of what was to come, as he let the hand of his Boy go so he could leave home for a while and go away to fulfill a mission that would ultimately be rejected by many.
The one lesson I can carry away from all of it is service. Giving. The simple definition of sacrifice is “the act of giving up something or enduring the loss of something you want to keep, especially in order to get or do something else or to help someone.”
It’s easy for me to think of the sacrifice of Abba in relation to Jesus coming to earth to help us, teach us about God, and serve. But I equally love the idea that he sent Jesus to earth to get me. It tells me there is nothing he wouldn’t do and no opportunity he wouldn’t present to ensure I’m with him forever, and in fact, he made the most significant sacrifice by giving up his Son for a season.
I have, obviously, not seen Jesus, my Buddy, face-to-face yet. Though Jesus’s human existence was just thirty-three Earth years, it breaks my heart for Abba. He willingly went without the physical presence of his most precious possession, the One who knew him best; the One who was always with him; and the One who, for all of eternity up to that point, had lavished his love on his Dad.
But God and Jesus were willing and did it for us. Abba Father let go of that mighty, perfect hand, the hand that had created the universe, knowing that it would one day come back but would never look the same again. That hand would become, for a while, small and fragile, reaching up to be supported and held by parents and relatives. Those fingerprints would grow to heal the sick, hurt, and broken and even hearts. That wounded hand would one day become the symbol of my salvation. That wounded hand would, figuratively, never heal. The blood from that all-powerful hand still flows. It has covered me and saved me.
How can I, knowing the absolute reality of that love and sacrifice, not raise my own hand to reach up to such perfect devotion? I give such a small token as I hold on to the mystery and the hope of Jesus’s birth.
A few days before Christmas, even at the Christian bookstore where I worked, the stress was palpable. I could taste the anxiety in the demeanor of the guests I checked out. Every morning, I prayed before I walked through the front door that I wouldn’t let them get to me. Although 90 percent of the people I checked out were excellent, those remaining 10 percent pulled me down. A couple of times, I seriously wanted to just stop, look them in the eye, and say, “Tell me something. If I were not a follower of Jesus, what is it about your attitude right now that would ever make me want to say, ‘Wow, whatever you’ve got, I want it’?” Seriously, it was getting bad.
One day, after standing at the register nonstop for five hours, I looked up and saw a lady walking into my line. Just behind her, I saw a couple of my friends smiling and heading toward my queue. I couldn’t wait to connect with them. I knew they would make everything okay with a smile and a hug. If I could just get through this one lady first.
I looked down at the tiny woman. Her head was slightly bowed, as if she hoped I wouldn’t notice the tears streaming steadily down her face. I froze. I’m not talking about a few tears. She was silently sobbing; her body was discernibly racked with the pain of sorrow and terrible loss.
All I could do was respond. I leaned toward her. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head and said, “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not okay. If you want me to check you out, you’re gonna tell me what’s wrong.”
With tears still streaming down her face, she sobbed, and her voice trembled. “My son died three months ago.”
I leaned closer. “Oh my. What was his name?”
“Aaron.”
“This is your first Christmas without your boy. I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry. How did he die?”
“Meningitis.”
“How old was he?”
“Thirteen.”
“What is your name?”
“Sarah Ann.”
“Well, Sarah Ann, would it be okay if I prayed for you?”
She nodded.
I looked at my friends behind her, who’d heard the whole conversation. I motioned for them to move to the next checker. They nodded with full understanding and moved to the next queue. I put up my “We would be happy to check you out at another register” sign.
Sarah Ann and I moved past the busyness of holiday shopping to the children’s section. I took both her hands in mine.
At that moment, a miracle happened.
Remember the precursor to a miracle: there has to be a problem first. It is that moment when we give the Holy Spirit permission to move in and build a vacuum, an invisible yet palpable fortress, around us. The Enemy can’t penetrate the holiness of that place, no matter how hard he may try. Grief was the problem here, and in that moment, I physically felt the presence of the One who breathes out stars into the universe, understands grief, and is fiercely engaged in the next breath we take.
I began to pray. I prayed to a Parent who perfectly understood the specific emotion Sarah Ann was feeling—the excruciating loneliness—and was acutely acquainted with the impossible horror of experiencing the death of his own beloved Son.
I said it made no sense, from our vantage point, for this boy to die. But even if we couldn’t understand the experience, we could trust his heart.
I prayed for Sarah Ann. I asked the Lord to wrap his strong arms around her. I prayed that God would hold her so tightly she would have no doubt he was right there with her. I prayed that he would cover her with his feathers and that under his wings, she would find refuge. His faithfulness would be her safe hiding place. I prayed he would send angels to stand in strategic places around her so she would find a peace that the darts of the Enemy could never penetrate. I prayed he would hold her son’s hand and tell Aaron his mom missed him very much, loved him, and couldn’t wait to see him again one day. I told Jesus and Sarah Ann that I looked forward to Sarah Ann introducing me to Aaron one day. Then I said, “Amen.”
Sarah Ann turned toward me and wrapped her arms around my neck. We stood there for many seconds with her heart-wrenching tears falling into a deep ocean of loss.
I held her there, a pretty shabby life jacket, beaten and weather-worn, held afloat only by the buoyancy of grace.
Finally, Sarah Ann was able to stand on her own. She looked up at me with tears pooling in her exhausted eyes. I couldn’t help but, in that moment, see Jesus’s mother and think about how Mary must have grieved when she realized her Boy was gone. The searing emptiness. Confusion over what the future would hold for her Son. Lost hope.
But what that pivotal moment must have been like, and how glorious for Mary, when she finally reached out her tiny hand and once again wrapped her fingers around the warm, wounded hand of her resurrected Son.
I’m certain that somehow, someday, even in light of this inconsolable loss, Sarah Ann and Aaron will reach for each other’s hand, and there will be absolute joy in the reunion.
For the first time that season, there was only one thing I could say to Sarah Ann, and I genuinely meant it: “Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, Sarah Ann.”
