four-year-olds and Jesus

dear rory,

she was whimpering. her face was scrunched up in an effort to keep the tears in her eyes.

"mommy..."

"come here," mom and I both said at once. being fourteen years older than my little sister, sometimes I forget I'm not her mom.

Megan forgets sometimes too, and so she threw her little self into my lap. which may have been a good thing, since mom was already crying.

with her head turned back, Megan watched the tv as she wrapped her arms around my neck.

"why are they doing that to Jesus?" she whispered sadly into my cheek.

"they want Him to die," I said. "they say He is a bad man."

"but He's not."

"you're right. He is perfect."

we both watched. the movie showed Jesus standing before jeering crowds. crowds that, only a week before, had been singing Hosannas to His name.

Jesus stayed silent to their insults.

He was oppressed and afflicted, yet He did not open His mouth; He was led like a lamb to the slaughter... (Isaiah 53:7)

they struck Him. and though it was simply a cartoon, I felt my eyes burning, and I squeezed my sister tighter. we were both watching our God die.

our God who had, as Joni Earickson Tada once described it, "poured Himself into baby flesh."
for a minute, I wanted to tell my sister that it would "be okay". that Jesus wouldn't die. but then I remembered... that's why He came as a baby in the first place.

***
"How can you become a Christian?" the Sunday-school teacher asked.

Hands shot up.

"Yes, Renee?"

"You have to ask Jesus into your heart," my seven-year-old self replied.

"And what did Jesus do to save you?"

"He died on the cross for my sins."

Easy.***

"Nay, what are they doing to Jesus now?"

"They're nailing Him to the cross."

She buried her closed eyes under my chin, as the video tactfully, but emotionally, showed the Roman soldier bend over our Savior. What it didn't show, I knew. The Roman soldier hammered metal through His outspread palm and punctured skin and bone.

But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him... (Isaiah 53:5)

I looked over towards mom. She watched as her four-year-old struggled with Jesus' death. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Dad turned the volume down, but said quietly, "This is good. She understands."

"Is that His mother?" Megan whispered when she looked up.

"Yes, that's Mary." Mary, who was also a mother crying for her child. Mary who had carried the Son of God in her womb.

***

"Mary, did you know? That your baby boy, will one day heal the nations?"

the words were being sung to me by my cousin Elizabeth, who had been barren her whole life, but was now with child herself.

my own child felt like it could fall out at any moment.

I stood on the stage in front of a couple hundred people and tried to nonchalantly adjust my child. just for the record: rolled up blankets are not good children.

how I was chosen to be Mary for our old church's Christmas play, I still do not know. I can't sing, and I can't act. but I loved the nativity story. and I suppose my enthusiasm carried me through to the top spot.

I felt a little funny. not terribly nervous. just funny. I was at my most awkward stage of life, Joseph was like a foot shorter than me (I had to kneel down for the scene he placed his hand on my shoulder), and my solo went a little higher than my vocal chords could manage. but there I was, dressed in rag-like clothes, pretending to carry the King of the world inside my dress.

"When you kiss your little baby, you kiss the face of God..."

the stage lights were making me sweat, but at that moment, I shivered and imagined I really was Mary, about to give birth to the one who would redeem the nations. it was a scary feeling.

what would it be like to raise God in the flesh? for wholly God He would be. but also wholly man. "my" child would suffer hunger, pain, and temptation like all the rest of us. He would get thirsty. He would get sick, have headaches, wake up only to find He was still exhausted. He would face annoying people. He would have brothers and sisters to pester Him. He would have chores. He would see death and pay taxes and work hard. People would let Him down, lie to Him, cheat Him, spit on Him, hate Him, beat Him, and mock Him.

and yet He wouldn't sin and blame it on His circumstances. He would remain perfect.

I forgot about the audience and the fact that Joseph was a midget compared to me.

I was Mary. God was about to make His appearance on earth.

"This child that you deliver, will soon deliver you... oh Mary, did you know?"

***

it was useless holding my breath. seeing Mary weep as she watched her son, perfect man and perfect God, hang on the cross was heart-breaking.

Megan and I clung to each other, and I let quiet tears slide down my face. I felt like I was watching the story as a four-year-old again. Jesus is good... why are they doing this to Him?

I looked back at the seven-year-old me who had thought that salvation was so easy. In a way, salvation is easy... for us. but for God, it meant sacrifice and blood and tears and sweat and heartbreak.

my pre-teen self up on stage had grasped that concept for a moment. and now I was grasping it again. not for the first time. not for the last.

we kept watching Jesus' final hours on earth. we cried until His last breath.

and then, there was silence for three days. a dead man lay in his tomb. the world waited.

the Son of God came back to life. the grave could not stop Him.

and He is the mediator between God and man to this day. He knows what it is to be God. and He knows what it is to be man.

***

After He has suffered,
He will see the light of life
and be satisfied;
by His knowledge my
righteous servant will
justify many,
and He will bear their
iniquities...
because He poured out His
life unto death,
and was numbered with the
transgressors.
For He bore the sin of many,
and made intercession for
the transgressors.
(Isaiah 53:12)

***

thank you, Lord Jesus. for making salvation so easy that a four-year-old can understand. for making salvation so complex and beautiful that we'll never really understand all that you sacrificed by "pouring yourself into baby flesh."

love,
muffin