The world was an enemy occupied kingdom—and the enemy had turned the hearts of the people against the king they had once loved. Those who had been alive when the king was physically present and ruling were long dead; all that was left for the younger generations were stories, stories that had been distorted over the centuries. The king knew that the only way to win back his kingdom and the love and trust of his people would be to sneak into their midst. Propaganda wouldn’t work because they had been fed so many lies and misconceptions of what his kingdom was actually like. The people wouldn’t be won back by an extensive military campaign—they would either feel conquered and obligated to return their allegiance to him or they would turn to him because they saw he was more powerful and wanted to be on the winning side. But what the king wanted was the trust and allegiance of their hearts. He wanted them to follow because of who he was, not just what he could offer them. The only way to do this would be to sneak into the kingdom in disguise and let them get to know him, slowly revealing his true identity. Then his true kingdom, formed by the band of those who knew him, could rise up in the midst of oppositional rule, to reclaim and reorient the kingdom as it was meant to be around its rightful king.

As soon as the weather cools and the New England foliage drifts leaf by leaf to the ground, I start to think of the holidays. The season evokes a sense of warmth in my heart—time with family, beautifully wrapped gifts all carefully chosen, tiny lights glimmering between colorful antique ornaments, the smell of pine and freshly baked cookies, the familiar sound of songs crackling from the record player. It’s a precious time.

This year, I’ve been mulling over the Incarnation. If Jesus was just a normal baby born to a poor family in 1st century Palestine, his birth would not be important at all. If he was just a revered teacher, it might be notable but certainly not something worthy of being celebrated by millions of people worldwide.

But Jesus, he was fully God—the ruler of the universe, the creator of everything—God putting on human skin. We could not approach God ourselves. He was too big, too high, too far out of our reach. So he came to us. But he came in disguise - as the rightful king slipping in to win back the hearts of his people. He didn’t come in extreme power so that we had no other choice but to submit to following him. He came as a small baby, born in a barn, a supposedly illegitimate child of a poor couple, in a land ruled by foreigners. He was Emmanuel—God with us, not in a flash of power, grandeur, and might, but in the soft skin, the whimpering cries, the fragile, sleeping form of a newborn. And this—this birth of the long-forgotten, long-awaited king, this was the first moment we could see God with a human face.

This week, I would simply like to share with you a story from Francis Chan, which has been floating around in my mind since I heard it several weeks ago.

There was a missionary who spoke at our church years ago who had gone to Papua New Guinea and won a tribe to Jesus. It was a beautiful story. At the end, he mentioned the pivotal influence of his youth pastor, a man named Vaughn, who loved him and told him that his life was to be lived for the glory of God.

Then, the next week, we had another man come and talk about sponsoring kids, and when he was at the end of his presentation, he said, “Under God, I owe this all to the influence of my youth pastor Vaughn.” So I asked and found out that these two guys had been in the same youth group.

Then the next week another speaker named Dan told us about his ministry at a rescue mission in the inner city of L.A. After Dan's talk, I casually mentioned, “It was so weird: the last two weeks both of our speakers mentioned how much impact their youth pastor, Vaughn, had on them.” Dan looked surprised and then he told me, “I know Vaughn. He's a pastor in San Diego now, and he takes people into the dumps in Tijuana where kids are picking through the garbage. I was just with Vaughn in Tijuana. We would walk in the city, and these kids would run up to him, and he would show such deep love and affection for them. He'd hug them and have gifts and food for them. He'd figure out how to get them showers. Francis, it was eerie: the whole time I was walking with Vaughn, I kept thinking, If Jesus was on earth, I think this is what it would feel like to walk with him. He just loved everyone he ran into, and he would tell them about God. People were just drawn to his love and affection.” And then Dan said this, “The day I spent with Vaughn was the closest thing I've ever experienced to walking with Jesus.” (Francis Chan, 2010, “Think Hard, Stay Humble”)

Has anyone ever had reason to say that of you? When people leave your presence do they say, “Wow—that was the closest thing I’ve ever had to walking with Jesus”? Do we love so freely, see others so clearly, act so compassionately that the strangers with whom we casually cross paths or the family, friends, and colleagues who interact with us day-by-day see Jesus in us? Does the love of Christ dwell in us so richly that it spills out onto every path our earthly feet may walk?

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