I think not of an innocent child in a manger, babbling the nonsensical language of an infant, reaching towards a clear night sky.
I think of a whipped and bludgeoned man. I think of blood and gore strewn across flesh so severely it makes me cry. It makes my stomach churn. It is not the image we let inhabit our minds in this most jolly of seasons and cheery of times.
I let a single, shivering tear drip down my face; a gush more warm than the fire crackling beneath stockings hung and Santa figurines displayed on my living room mantle.
How have I forgotten?
How have I lost sight?
How have I denied myself the true joy of Christmas, resting not in a baby boy, but a man mangled beyond repair, a man who felt more pain than any other on earth as he felt the sins of every human that would ever walk this planet.
So this is it. So this is where it comes from!
That sought after joy. That hope that we all long for. We race around the mall in search of it. We have lists upon lists of expectations for the season: I have to bake the cutest Christmas cookies this world has ever seen, I have to watch those animated films I used to love as a kid with hot cocoa in hand, I have to be crafty and have the most dazzling of trees, the most gorgeous of decor. Those things are all sweet when simply done, but sweeter still is the heart behind it.
The heart that began to beat that day we celebrate and the heart that would cease beating after being crucified.
And the heart that would beat again, anew, resurrected in all of God's glory, stirred with the salvation that will bring that fulfillment we seek every Christmas. The disappointment is gone. The expectations are so belittled, so insignificant.
Christmas lies at the cross. Rejoice! Emmanuel! The joy has been found!
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