Glory to God in the Lowest

The sky was iridescent orange, with streaks of pink, and yellow, and deep purple underscoring it all. Our lonely mountain stood right in the middle of it, solid and unchanging in the midst of the fading sunset. A glance out the other car window showed the silvery brilliance of the full moon beginning to peek over the jagged peaks of the Organ Mountains, heralding the beauty of the night before the blazing beauty of the sun was even done for the day. Over the speaker system in my car a Christmas hymn was playing:

“What child is this…?”[1]

The Maker of the sun and moon.

The Creator of colors.

The Master of our souls.

And he lay crying in an animal’s feed bin.

Cold. Frightened. Helpless. Homeless.

The wonder of it caught me by surprise this year. Every year it hits me, but it hit me harder than usual this time. Jesus Christ, the One who makes the intricacies of a butterfly wing, and the song of the whale, and each new cloud, the One who spoke all the universe into existence…a baby? A real live wrinkled helpless pink thing, looking uncomfortably like a chimpanzee? Really?

Unutterable love!

Unfathomable mystery!

This is a plot twist no human could ever create. Humanity tells stories about false gods, stories of half-gods even. But the half-gods are always weaker than the “real things,” contemptible, and usually sprouting from a rather evil beginning. This story…this is fully God and fully man. This is the true Creator of all things, the Ruler of every soul ever made, the Highest of high kings, the very essence of goodness, One Who is holy, holy, holy…He is the One to enter a virgin’s womb…Fashioned and formed over nine months like every other human, born in the same bewildering, painful, messy way we all came into this world.

The wonder of it all!

The open-mouthed unexpectedness of this thing called Christmas!

The hope!

Oh, the hope. Our only hope. Humanity broke the world. We broke ourselves. We broke ourselves to the point of being dead. Think crossed-out eyes, skull and crossbones, dead. No life, no breath, nothing to the soul but a lifeless hunk of indiscernible, putrid gunk. But God chose to step in. He chose to show His glory, how loving He could really be. Hope was spoken the same day we broke everything. Hope was breathed into humanity in our darkest hour. It was a spark that stayed alive through Israel’s line for thousands of years, hundreds of generations. There was speculation and wonder over what the hope would look like solidly. But no one ever guessed the awesome, majestic, utterly ridiculous unexpectedness of the truth. God as a baby. A tiny thing that can do nothing for Himself except bellow at the top of His lungs when He’s hungry or upset. A baby that had to learn to walk, learn to speak; He had to learn it of His ordinary, fallen earthly parents. Don’t you know that was a trial for both the parents and the Son? A baby who grew, taught like the Master He was, and…died. What?! Wait, that can’t be right.

Unutterable mystery! He took the gates of hell by shocked surprise. Satan thought he had won when Christ died. In reality it was the un-guessable plot twist.

The Master stroke of the ultimate Story-Teller.

And it all began in a manger.

The angels felt the wonder of it. They were awed, shocked, amazed, and delighted to the point that they just had to find someone still awake that dark night to blurt out their praise of this incredible story just beginning in David’s little hometown. We grow too used to Christmas. We sing the same songs. We put up the same decorations. We look at the same manger scenes. Take a step back this year. Don’t step back and see it with the eyes of a child. Step back and see it with the eyes of a grownup who is open to wonder. We know more than children. We can be awed in a deeper way than a child. But we have to let ourselves wonder. Don’t let callousness slip into you this Christmas. Step back. Think about the lyrics of the carols you’re singing. See the baby in the manger with renewed eyes.

Remember what He was.

Remember what He became in Bethlehem.

Remember what He came to do.

Remember where He is now.

Yes, now…Jesus Christ lives. He is watching you this very moment. Forget about Santa watching you when you sleep, Jesus Christ is really there, eyeing you every moment of your life, granting you the breath that goes in and out of your lungs this very minute! That baby…the King of Kings…He is real. Long live the King! Forever and ever. No wonder Herod was upset. He had good cause to fret. A new King was born into the world that starry night in Bethlehem. But it wasn’t a new King at all. It was the oldest of all Kings. Sleeping in an animal’s feed bin. Cold, bewildered, only shepherds, a carpenter, a housewife, and barn animals to admire Him. Oh, and angels. 

This is one of the oddest stories ever to reach our ears. And it is all true. Oh the wonder of it!

“There has fallen on earth for a token

A god too great for the sky.

He has burst out of all things and broken

The bounds of eternity:

Into time and the terminal land

He has strayed like a thief or a lover,

For the wine of the world brims over,

Its splendour is split on the sand.

“Who is proud when the heavens are humble,

Who mounts if the mountains fall,

If the fixed stars topple and tumble

And a deluge of love drowns all-

Who rears up his head for a crown,

Who holds up his will for a warrant,

Who strives with the starry torrent,

When all that is good goes down?

“For in dread of such falling and failing

The fallen angels fell

Inverted in insolence, scaling

The hanging mountain of hell:

But unmeasured of plummet and rod

Too deep for their sight to scan,

Outrushing the fall of man

Is the height of the fall of God.

“Glory to God in the Lowest

The spout of the stars in spate-

Where thunderbolt thinks to be slowest

And the lightning fears to be late:

As men dive for sunken gem

Pursuing, we hunt and hound it,

The fallen star has found it

In the cavern of Bethlehem.”

-G. K. Chesterton, Gloria in Profundis

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[1] Lyrics by William Chatterton Dix

Not Alone

     “The watch feed went dead and Pete spun on his heel to march the other direction. He paced up the plane toward the cockpit, his features set and his heart heavy. Fifteen pairs of eyes kept glancing at him (seven of their rescuees were children, whose eyes were plastered on the tv, as they avidly devoured a Disney movie Pete had flipped on for them). The wiry old Akim, pastor of the small flock, stood up and offered the young man a smile as Pete spun around again at the cockpit door.

     ‘Come, brother,’ Akim said in Arabic, laying a hand on Pete’s shoulder. ‘Come, kneel with me and we will pray for your Jojo. And this brother you speak of.’ Pete blinked at him for a moment, obviously having to recall his mind to be able to understand the man. Akim knelt, his hand still on Pete’s shoulder, and the Parabaloni dropped gratefully beside him. Pete bowed his head with this old man he hardly knew, and let his overwhelmed thoughts speed out to the God Who knew all his sorrows and cares, however weighty or petty they might be, and listened with intense gratitude as Akim lifted up Jojo and Yousef, speaking the words Pete couldn’t quite bring himself to say out loud. Another strong hand landed on Pete’s shoulder. Then another, and another. After a moment he found himself surrounded by this small band of brothers and sisters, as they all knelt on the soft carpet and prayed for the Aziz family. Pete was overwhelmed. He let himself kneel there, and found every prayer was one of intense thankfulness for this gift of united hearts under Jesus’ cross. He only knew a few scattered names from this underground church. But they spoke his heart for him when he had no more heart to speak it himself, asking for salvation for the Aziz household, for safety for Jojo, for deliverance for Yousef’s soul…Pete let himself be overwhelmed and didn’t try and fight it.”

 –Scene from Chapter 4 of Running with SJ

I keep communion cups. Not from every time I partake of the Lord’s table, but I do keep them fairly often. I sit them on the dresser in my closet, and every so often my eye catches them. A little stack of old plastic cups. Most of them are from my church, obviously. But some are from congregations across the states, that I’ve had the opportunity to join of a Sunday. When I pull open my closet door, looking for something else, and see that junky stack in the corner it reminds me of two very beautiful things.

First, a warm joy fills me, speaking of a grace showered on my soul, a Father bringing an unworthy daughter to His table, and an unspeakable hope that flutters in my heart and tells me I will reach the marriage table of the Lamb. He has called me His own. “My God, my God, why have you accepted me[1]!” my heart cries out again when I spy that little stack of cups, and an overwhelming joy tells me that Jesus loves me. Like the old children's song. He really loves me! He calls me again, and again, and again, to sup with Him. To remember His blood and broken body, given up willingly for me at the cross. “I am the Good Shepherd: the Good Shepherd giveth His life for the sheep[2].” One of the beloved flock of God Himself, trained to recognize His voice, and called over and over to His own table! It is a beautiful reminder. But not the only thing that comes to mind when I see those old cups.

Someone gives me those cups. A brother passes it to me, and bids me come to the table with him. A sister sits behind me, head bowed in prayer, silently offering up praises and petitions to the same Father I'm praying to as I sit, cup in hand. When my eye catches that strange stack of cups, it brings to mind the communion of the saints. All the people around me, praying to the same great God, Who not only deigns to hear our prayers, but commands us to bring our cares and sorrows and joys and delights to Him. Every time I take communion, in any truly Christian church around the world, I am surrounded by people with the same heart. Very divergent lives, and incredibly variant personalities, but people with the same destination and the same source to their joy. People with the same Father. It is a family table that I gather round of a Sunday morning.

     “Jojo Aziz had left home with the knowledge she might never again have a home in this world, at least not for years and years…And here she was, two weeks after landing in the West, surrounded by family and friends, all of whom she had a deeper bond with than any outward observer might guess. It wasn’t just that they had stepped in and risked their lives to save hers, and shared a rousing adventure with her already. That helped. But it was more that these three gathered here were the right kind of men. They were men who had been taken in their broken sinfulness and had their very natures twisted back round till they were right. Right with God, right with their fellow men, and right with themselves. Just like she had. It wasn’t a comfortable thing to admit you were fallen and broken from birth. But the aftermath of throwing yourself on a heavenly Father’s love, admitting nothing but grace could make you right again, was remarkable.

     As Jojo Aziz sat in that mountain meadow, laughing and listening to these three Christian brothers, she realized being made right did more than just save her eternally. It gave her this. Fellowship, in a deep, real way, with people from all backgrounds. She was flung into more than just her Father’s arms, she was flung into a new family. Algy’s greeting when he had first met her came back to her mind, and a broad smile spread over Jojo’s lovely face, though her eyes were tellingly moist. No matter where she went now, the world over (though some of them might be hidden away), there would be someone with this connection, someone she had a deeper bond with than mere common likes and dislikes. And at the end of her race she would come to a world where everyone had that deep bond and joy, with all tears wiped away and her Father’s arms opened wide…Algy’s words rang true in her mind, and Jojo whispered them to herself as her eyes rose to take in the rocky cliff side, a sprinkling waterfall tumbling down it, masking the Parabaloni HQ from obvious sight, and listened to the swift conversation and laughter of her brother and new friends.

     ‘Welcome home.’”

– Scene from Chapter 10 of Running with SJ

It is more than mere sentiment when we call our fellow Christians “brothers.” Christ has united us in a real, deep way. “So we, being many, are one body in Christ, and every one members one of another[3].” We are not alone as we walk this earth. It is both a highly encouraging thing, and a convicting thing. How many of your fellow Christians did you even say hello to in church this morning? How many names do you know in your own church body? How many families going to your church have you had over for dinner? How many have you bothered to ask, ‘What can I pray for you this week?’ We are supposed to be a body under Christ. We are meant to be working together. To be building each other up, and even to be helping in the material ways. Bring a meal. Offer a night of babysitting. Maybe just take the time and effort for a good conversation before you run off for lunch after church on a Sunday; you may never know how much a warm hug and honest interest in a brother or sister’s life may mean to them.

Never think you walk alone.

Christian, every time you come to the communion table, remember your Savior first. That is why you're there. To commemorate His shed blood and broken body, His love for you. But take a moment to look around you. So many souls, so many personalities, so many lives! All of them intertwined with yours in the ultimate goal of building a kingdom for this Savior Who died for you. Thank God, we do not fight this war alone.  

“For all the saints who from their labors rest,

Who Thee by faith before the world confess,

Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest,

Alleluia! Alleluia[4]!”

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[1] “Mystery of Mercy” by Andrew Peterson

[2] John 10:11

[3] Romans 12:5

[4] “For All The Saints” by William H. How