Made Something So Small
I'm barely a man, and in no way am I ready for this.
What Earthly wisdom, skills and crafts can I teach this child of my king. My God.
What if I raise my hand in anger? Will he strike back with the power of a thousand rushing seas? If I don't spare the rod, will he spare me for the pain I cause him? How can I ever seek to tell him he did something wrong; will he ever anything wrong?
Will he anger? Will his eyes burn with the heat of Elijah's burning chariot? Will I succumb to the awe and majesty of the tender flesh, falling to my knees, a weak and trembling father bowing before his rightful ruler?
Whose Child is this? I took no part in the creation of his flesh, but my words and actions will imprint upon his mind and hands. I can teach him how to build cabinets and crosses, but I have no hope to teach him how to rule nations or create worlds. My life, my thoughts, my bride and all that is mine will be shadowed by the knowledge that this one child will change the world.
People will write books about him, live their lives for him, devote themselves to him. And I? I am just a carpenter.
Even the shepherds know to worship him. How, how will I raise this newborn son?
There is a time in everyone's life when they must rise above themselves. Find that they are destined for something beyond this flesh and bone. We think so highly of ourselves, hoping to connect with God and the angels, hoping for some supernatural response to our devotion and ritual. And yet...
Here he is. In flesh in bone. Something beyond, made something so small, so weak, so frail.
And I - I have been tasked with wiping his nose, holding his arms as he walks, and handing him his first hammer. I must provide the mundane neccessities like food, shelter and warmth. And he - he must change the world.
What child is this? The babe, the son of Mary?
What Earthly wisdom, skills and crafts can I teach this child of my king. My God.
What if I raise my hand in anger? Will he strike back with the power of a thousand rushing seas? If I don't spare the rod, will he spare me for the pain I cause him? How can I ever seek to tell him he did something wrong; will he ever anything wrong?
Will he anger? Will his eyes burn with the heat of Elijah's burning chariot? Will I succumb to the awe and majesty of the tender flesh, falling to my knees, a weak and trembling father bowing before his rightful ruler?
Whose Child is this? I took no part in the creation of his flesh, but my words and actions will imprint upon his mind and hands. I can teach him how to build cabinets and crosses, but I have no hope to teach him how to rule nations or create worlds. My life, my thoughts, my bride and all that is mine will be shadowed by the knowledge that this one child will change the world.
People will write books about him, live their lives for him, devote themselves to him. And I? I am just a carpenter.
Even the shepherds know to worship him. How, how will I raise this newborn son?
There is a time in everyone's life when they must rise above themselves. Find that they are destined for something beyond this flesh and bone. We think so highly of ourselves, hoping to connect with God and the angels, hoping for some supernatural response to our devotion and ritual. And yet...
Here he is. In flesh in bone. Something beyond, made something so small, so weak, so frail.
And I - I have been tasked with wiping his nose, holding his arms as he walks, and handing him his first hammer. I must provide the mundane neccessities like food, shelter and warmth. And he - he must change the world.
What child is this? The babe, the son of Mary?