“...Who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.”
Philippians 2:6-8
In all the jolly festivities and happy spirits of the Christmas season, there is a heartbreaking, yet profoundly uplifting reality that gets shadowed among the joviality: God chose for His Son to leave perfection—to leave the unsevered presence of God Most High. There’s so much sadness around Good Friday and Jesus’s death, but Christmas is where that death began.
I can imagine the joy of God to know that the time has come to soon have his people reconciled back to Him. But I can also imagine the sorrow of sending his only Son not only to die, but to live in a dying world. To walk paths of hurt. To feel the first pangs of hunger. To sweat and toil and be exhausted and then do it all again. Not even to mention the ache.
If we, in our brokenness, hurt for the world so far from what it’s supposed to be like, how many infinite times greater is that ache for the One who tasted heaven daily and left it to taste dust? There is an undeniable sobriety of Christmas when we stop to remember this reality. Perhaps in it, we may find that long-forgotten, untainted joy of Christmas that we covet from children.
The solemn reality of a crying Divinity cradled with cloth and dirt in this season of Advent is the very reason I’ve felt a joy simmering deeper than ever before. A joy more mattersome than before—more lasting.
In three days, we will celebrate. We will eat and give and be gifted and sing and be merry. My prayer is that the sadness of Christmas etches a space deeper in our hearts to experience more joy and more celebration this week. And maybe even grasp more fully God’s love for us—that He would leave everything just to find us.
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”
Revelation 21:4
In the new heavens and the new earth, there will be no tears. Even more staggeringly, every tear will be wiped away.
When tears are present, there is some form of transcension from the surface to the deep. There is a loss of control. Here, in this humbly dependent part of our soul, is where God has decided to make his home. What if the salty drip is slowly dissolving the callouses of this world, bringing our hearts closer to Him? What if every tear we cry is paving our way home?
For some, this verse may incite in them longings for heaven. To be rid of pain and suffering. But what if the tears we cry are actually what God uses to make us ache for him? As we cry, we are digging—searching for a Father. A Father who will hold us and wipe away our tears.
Perhaps one day, we’ll remember our tears with fondness, as each one led us deeper and deeper to Him. Til a gentle hand meets our face and wipes the wet dust of Adam from our eyes, and finally, we can see again.