As I tried to get the wheels turning in the brains of the 2nd graders I taught yesterday evening, I asked them how God (in heaven) could come to where we are (on earth) so that we could see Him. We know He came as a little baby, but why wouldn’t the God of heaven come with fanfare like a superhero?
How should a King come?
Even a child knows the answer, of course.
In the beautiful city in the prime of the day.
And the flags fly high in the morning sun,
And everyone knows that’s the way that it’s done.
How should a King come?
He should come for His treasures, and His houses and lands.
And sleep upon bedclothes of satin and silk.
With the lights of the city like jewels below.
That’s the way that a King should come.
On a star-filled night into Bethlehem,
And the only sound in the cobblestone street,
And a King lay hid in a virgin’s womb,
At last in a barn in a manger of hay,
And the angels cried, “Glory, glory to God!”
Men were dumb so the angels sang, “Glory, glory to God!”
Humbly, simply, deliberately, He came — and in His coming said, “I choose to identify with you, to cry, to laugh, to get dirt underneath My toenails, to be a child, a teenager, an adult, to attend church and weddings and funerals, to be tempted, betrayed, forsaken.
A paraphrase of Hebrews 4:15-16 says it this way: “We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all — all but the sin. So let’s walk right up to Him and get what He is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help.”
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