Long before Mangers and Shepherds, sheep and kings a baby does not conceive Christmas . A saintly Burmese Christian I knew, this side of the veil,would bring her granddaughter to the virgin, to kiss her feet, to the creche to see baby Jesus. Perhaps for herself more than the child.
Each year our journey with Jesus begins with his birth, his exile- ” Out of Egypt I have called my son” As Israel was brought out by Moses.Who, then is Jesus? One who was born, as I was, as all children are. Special and beloved.
Precocious? Contradicting his elders, when I was 12 such an act would not endear me to anyone, I would have fled the scene of the crime. Yet the boy Christ seemed to me younger than his years. Innocent- the innocence of Grace.
His next 18 years are a mystery loaded with myth and supposition . Does the child question? Mostly not because the story continues to flow.
When I was a babe my parents baptised me, Jesus’ Font was a river, his father in heaven said he was beloved.
Sometimes I am afraid I am not beloved, I long for my dad to tell me so.
Then it is scary because Jesus, my best friend is drawn into the desert and tempted by the boogie man. I check my bed each night just to be sure. My friend Jesus had his dad’s word to protect him and Angels to feed him.
That boogie man did not want my friend to rescue us. Jesus’s dad had sent my friend to sacrifice himself to save us from our sins. Jesus told me-Much worse than any boogie man is the Devil called Satan. Hold on to me and you will never be lost.