Every Christmas we have someone read the Christmas story as accounted for in the first part of the book of Luke, chapter two. It's the simplicity, humility, and commonness of the tale that grips me.
A husband whose wife does not carry his own son travels miles with them to his hometown because of bureaucratic demands. The only place he could acquire for them was the stable of an innkeeper, literally a hole in the wall--a cave. The Creator of the universe lies swaddled in strips of fabric, the same wrappings of the dead, an outright foreshadowing.
Jesus was born. To die. For me. So that I could ask Him one day to save me from a death I deserve in exchange for an eternally joyful life I certainly don't. What IS this love...? It is the story of the Ages, the climax of which all of history hinges. The Christmas story. His story. History.
Thank You, Lord, for this Story of all stories.
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