And I am amazed because through the geography and the climate I see around me how improbable the Christmas story really is.  Breaking free of the oppressive anonymity of rural poverty is a hard task even in this upwardly mobile age of airplane travel, social media and easy money.  Two thousand years ago, the Lord’s request to Mary must have seemed not only bizarre but ridiculous.  From the womb of an unwed teenage mother in a patriarchal society, from a manger on the outskirts of a tiny stone and mud village in an occupied desert land of poverty and violence would arrive the savior of mankind?  Unlikely.  Wouldn’t a palace, an imperial lineage and a deep pocketbook be the preferred way to usher in such a profound spiritual and political movement?

Yet this is how He chose to bring his son into the world.  This has more meaning too for me this year – because it’s my first Christmas with my son.  As I look into his tiny innocent eyes this Christmas I realize what a fragile vessel the Lord used to deliver to us his most precious possession and our salvation.    

In America we have filled Christmas with pageantry and purpose; with live nativities and Santa Clause and family and presents and snow fights and music.  This is all good, and serves for us to commemorate that momentous occasion that happened two thousand years ago – something that changed everything.