House on the Rock

I’ll say it: I’ve never been much of a baby person. My teenage self was never quick to volunteer as a babysitter. I often preferred the fourth and fifth grade classroom over the nursery volunteer list. And I couldn’t imagine walking up to someone holding a baby and extending my arms as if to say, “Give them to me!” It just wasn’t me.

Even when sweet little Luke entered the world and was placed on my chest, I had no idea what to do with my hands. How was I possibly supposed to cradle something so fragile? He couldn’t even hold up his tiny head and the sole responsibility for his entire stability was suddenly on my watch. I have to imagine the nurses were a little unsure if a child should get to go home with someone so clueless.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out just how much I didn’t know. The earliest weeks of Luke were spent constantly wet. All of us. Sweaty from holding him, covered in spit up, perpetually doused by a fountain of urine. Not only that, but literally every skill had to be learned for our little lump of love. He couldn’t swallow without coughing, he had no clue how to use his hands, and his eyes couldn’t quite make sense of the blurry blobs just a foot away from his face. It felt like he was staring into an abyss. And it turns out he probably was! Infant eyesight takes way longer to develop than I ever would have guessed. As precious as he was to me, I was, minute by minute, aware of his helplessness. His frailty. His utter dependence on me to cradle, feed, and keep him alive.

I have an 11-month-old now. He’s figured some more things out, but it is still up to me to get him dressed. To change his diaper. To make sure that food actually makes it into his mouth and not just in a heap on the floor. Even his mischievous acts of attempting to swat the ornaments off our tree require me to stabilize his chunky little tree-trunk legs. He can’t even rebel without my help! But it’s here, as I reflect on my baby’s helplessness, that I finally begin to grasp the wonder of the incarnation.

I’ve always known that Jesus came to earth as a baby. But truthfully, I kind of thought of him as some little God-man superbaby. Obviously I knew he was God, but song lyrics like Little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes and Radiant beams from thy holy face made me think he was a baby who was perfectly self-sufficient, entirely not needful, and constantly glowing. Never crying. Probably able to figure everything out right away. I understood fully God, but the fully-man reality was somewhat lost on me.

This is unfortunate, because the miracle of the incarnation lets us know that Jesus was utterly human in the fullest sense of the word. The tiny baby in the manger was crying. Spitting up. Shooting off that urine fountain that made his parents duck and cover. Fully man — needful of food, crying to be nurtured, unable to lift his head if not for the strength of a forearm beneath him. God became this for us.

Spurgeon sums it up well, and I’m indebted to my pastor for introducing me to the quote: Infinite, and an infant — eternal, and yet born of a woman…supporting the universe, and yet needing to be carried in a mother’s arms — king of angels, and yet the reputed son of Joseph — heir of all things and yet the carpenter’s despised son. 

As I hold my baby, older now but still so desperate for help, I can’t help but be in awe of Jesus. I reflect on the last eleven months with Luke, marked of course by snuggles and smiles but also by spit-up, slobber, and sobs. That’s the reality of a tiny baby, and that’s what Jesus became. For us. Fully God, but fully man. Completely acquainted with weakness, suffering, and sorrow. Dwelling among us. Knowing in fullness what it means to be a human. Stooping, first among men, and then lower still in his death on the cross.

The incarnation is not the story of a never-crying superbaby coming to save the world. It’s better than that. It’s the real, true, historical account of God leaving Heaven’s throne and coming as a helpless infant spitting up in a manger. Embracing weakness as we know it. Crying to be cradled, unable to lift his head if not for the strength of a forearm beneath him. Emptied of glory that we might one day have it in full.

And who would have dreamed / Or ever foreseen / That we could hold God in our hands? The Giver of life was born in the night / Revealing God’s glorious plan / To save the world.

This is our King.