No one really knows exactly when the kid was born. Everyone pretty
well agrees it wasn’t in December during a pagan holiday. Mostly, the people who write history say it
was in the spring, when the ewes were lambing. Sheppard’s had to watch them day
and night, just like the story says.
There wasn’t a lot written about the boy’s younger years. He had younger brothers, a mom and dad, had some time teaching in the local temple. There was always something about the boy. Always something, well, special. He could read and write at an early age. Nothing too unusual for boys his age. He had to read the Torah.
There wasn’t a lot written about the boy’s younger years. He had younger brothers, a mom and dad, had some time teaching in the local temple. There was always something about the boy. Always something, well, special. He could read and write at an early age. Nothing too unusual for boys his age. He had to read the Torah.
Later in his life, he was a blue collar guy, but was eloquent and friendly.
“Joseph’s kid,” some would say. He was the carpenter’s son and eventually, a
carpenter himself. He was nondescript. Today, people probably like to think of him as
some steal-blue-eyed hard body. He was probably just like everyone else-dark hair, dark eyes, darker skin, just like today. His
hands had cuts and scars from working with the wood, calluses and dry. At least one black nail
from where he missed with the hammer and hit his finger. His body was thin from
the lack of an abundant food supply, and days of hard work.
He spit. He spit a lot and since Kleenex wouldn’t be
invented for another nineteen hundred years, he blew his nose like a major
league ball player. The Shopsmith I (you carpenters out there will understand)
filling his nose with ancient saw dust. He was funny. He told jokes that
started with “A Sanhedrin, a Roman, and a donkey walked into a tavern….” He was
pretty good on his town’s equivalent to today’s little league but he wasn’t the
best. He had trouble with grounders hit to his back hand. It took him years to get use to the body he was in.
He smelled like all the rest. His garments were plain,
probably torn around the sleeves and worn in the seat. He had fixed his sandals
several times and probably spent a lot his time just walking barefoot. It was
just easier. His hair was oily, and his beard was untrimmed. Maybe a little of
the morning’s breakfast hung in the hair on his face. He surely had cavities.
Maybe even a bad tooth that today would have needed to be pulled or have a root canal. He
experienced everything we did—everything.
He was The Carpenter’s kid.
This morning, some time in the spring around 6 BC,
a child was born to a teenage mom and a terrified dad. He was warmed by the
body heat of some animals he shared a birth stable with, maybe even some baby lambs, because there was no room for his mom and dad in
the section where people stayed apart from their animals.
Let’s pretend, just for giggles, recorded history actually recorded the events
right. Let’s pretend Joseph’s kid grew up to be the guy the writers and
historians actually say lived, that the Qur'an and Hebrew historians acknowledge
walked and talked and eventually was put to death for what he walked and talked
about. Let’s pretend what is written about the kid, actually took place and that we celebrate the arrival this morning every year. Is it
such a leap then, to pretend the boy was here to do what he said he was suppose to do? To adopt us? To call us brother or sister?
To love us? Just the way we are? In our own sauce? In our
own tent? On our worst day—He screams our name in pride. "Look, Dad! Look what they did! They beat it, defeated it, ran it, tossed it, drank it, got the joke right, cried, laughed fought the good fight?
Is it such a leap to believe there is a God and that god has the ability to reach down and call us by name? A Dad who knows us right where we sit?
He was just the carpenter's kid-----------for a while.
Merry Christmas
Happy birthday Lord
