Christmas actually

keep-calm-its-nearly-christmas-101Sitting staring at the warm glow from my plastic Christmas tree frosted with twinkly lights, I’m reminded of my Christmas’s as a young boy, all of which seem like a life time ago. The distant memories of my childhood festivities still linger in my mind like a sweet flavour that refuses to release its grip from your taste buds long after the treat has gone, such wonderful memories! My experiences as a child are quite different to the ones I look forward to now, yet at the same time a gentle theme connects the two.

I remember growing up, we didn’t have a silly plastic tree, oh no sir! We had the real McCoy, well at least as real as I’ve experienced in the warm climates of Africa, but it was real! Every spiky prickly leaf is unmistakably etched into my mind and the various scars that adorn my arms. We never had fir trees we had hypodermic needle trees! We’d need to move the thing indoors which if you’re wondering was similar to hugging a cactus and moving it from room to room. But when the starship prickles finally landed in our family room and after band aids and anti itch cream were applied, it was a moment of sheer jubilation.

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LOVE

What must it have been like, to exist as God no less, and watch as your son was being beaten, mocked, abused, jeered at, hated, spat on, thrown away, tortured and then murdered? Yes murdered.

The definition: The unlawful, intentional killing of another human being with the intent to kill.

Unlawful, because, He broke no laws, he was and is sinless, he had to be, otherwise He would not have measured up to being a perfect sacrifice.

Intentional, obviously.

Killing, obviously.

Human being? Well he had to be, you can’t kill God, and He needed to die to be offered as a sacrifice and regain the authority for us as a man that Adam lost as a man when he disobeyed in the Garden.

I look at my son, when he sleeps, when he’s playing, crying, laughing, sitting, standing and every moment in between, and I am filled with love, it overpowers me, it permeates my being and drips from my pores. How did God watch as His Son was put to death, for a group of people that for the most part, would never truly appreciate the sacrifice? I shudder when my son bumps his head, what was God’s expression when Jesus was whipped, spat on and brutally tortured?

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