Thank Goodness. Christmas Doesn’t Make Sense
Through the power of the Internet, I am often able to look like I have my life all together.
I know the things to tweet and the things to edit.
I know the moments to Instagram and the ones to crop out like they never happened.
I know what to say in conversations with friends to give the appearance of stability.
But the truth is, all too often I kick my own life down a flight of stairs. I make mistakes. I blow opportunities. I chase distractions and hide. I make a mess of things. In those moments, I fear that perfection is the only path out of the chaos. That perhaps if I string together a few perfect days, I can repay the debts I’ve incurred from a life lived with brokenness.
Only I can’t. I know that. I’ve tried that a thousand times before and it doesn’t work. My track record of perfect living is perfectly flawed.
But then there’s Christmas.
It’s not what I expected. It’s not what I deserved. It’s not what I can comprehend most days. Why?
Because what is Christmas?
It is the answer to the question, “Are you loved?”
It is the answer to the question, “Do you matter?”
It is the answer to the question, “Is there more to life than this?”
Christmas is the answer to the question “Are You Loved?”
And it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t. The gift of grace fails to line up with everything I know about the world. When you make a mistake, you pay for it with an equal consequence. When you have a debt, someone eventually calls you on the loan. You made your bed, now lie in it. That is how life works.
But not Christmas.
Christmas doesn’t work that way.
Christmas is a gift from a sender who sent himself.
Christmas is a raucous world defining expression of love.
Christmas is enough because Christ is enough.
And it’s here.
Sometimes I try to fix myself. I look at my parade of mishaps, the failures bright and loud and think I have to fix it all. But I can’t. I can’t fix me, with me. And the good news of the gospel, the good news of Christmas, is that I don’t have to.
I can’t fix me, with me. And the good news of Christmas is that I don’t have to.
In fact, God knew I’d never be able to. That’s why he sent his son. That’s why he gave us Christmas.
It’s a gift.
Never feel your hands are too dirty to receive it. It was sent because our hands are too dirty.
Christmas doesn’t make sense. Thank goodness.
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