Editorial: You’re not a Christian if you only adore the baby

Life is a casserole, but many of us prefer a cafeteria tray with no two foods touching. That’s also how we want our Christmas—all sugar, hold the coffee and cream.

But Christmas is a casserole, too.

The baby we want to adore today later will issue challenges to our preferences, allegiances, cherished sins. If only we could take the baby without the man, but we can’t and call ourselves “Christian.”

Let us not forget the baby we celebrate today came to be the man we rejected and crucified. Oh, yes, we rejected him and crucified him. Unless, of course, we’re John the beloved disciple or one of the Marys. In which case, we couldn’t be Simon Peter, James or any of the other close associates—friends—of Jesus.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we? That’s Easter; this is Christmas. As if the two have nothing to do with each other.

Christmas is just the beginning

Here we are at Christmas. Unto us a child is born. This baby with his sweet, little head shed his sweetness when he became a man.

As a man, he confounded us in word and deed. He condemned the righteous and accepted the wicked. He touched the untouchable and loved the unlovable, and he had the gall to expect us, command us, to do the same.

This baby came to do his Father’s will, but not the father we expected. With the whole of his life, he fulfilled the Law and the Prophets, and he called us to such obedience. But we like our food not touching. We’ll take the Law or the Prophets, not the two together.

Some will take law and order. Some will take justice and love. Still others will take a dollop of moderation like the soothing of heavy whipping cream.

The baby we adore became the man we condemned. He subverted the nation, stirred up the people, they said (Luke 23:2,5). Our cries slurred, no, whiplashed from, “Gloria in excelsis Deo” to, “Crucify him!”

We fawn over the baby. We proclaim him the reason for the season, yet leave the manger forgetting our adoration of him as quickly as we forget the preacher’s sermon between the pew and the parking lot. We lay our gold-plated, frankly empty mirth before the child and caravan home as though we’ve done all that’s expected.

This baby lays claim on us

This baby lays claim on us, each one of us and all of us. Either this baby is Lord at his birth and Lord for all time, or this “Christmas” child is stillborn.

If we declare this baby alive and thriving, he lays claim on us. If we believe he went to his Father’s house as a preteen and taught the religious experts there, he lays claim on us.

If we believe he overcame the devil’s temptings, he lays claim on us.

If we believe he preached a paradigmatic sermon on a mountain, he lays profound claim on us.

If we believe all of what the Gospels proclaim about him, claim gives way to obligation, with the proper response of obedience, which is to adoration as wine is to the grape.

Let’s consider just one example: peace.

The angels proclaimed Jesus’ birth heralded peace on earth. Jesus blessed the peacemakers. He said he left his peace with us. Where is such peace these days? Where are the peacemakers?

I don’t know about you, but all too often, I’m closer to adoration than obedience. Just the other day, I chose a spoonful of self-righteous indignation over a healthy portion of peacemaking.

I wasn’t as unchristian as I could have been, and I wasn’t as Christian as I should have been. I was among a throng of people sending Christmas mail, and I forsook Jesus’ teaching about mercy (Matthew 18:21-35).

You’re not a Christian if you only adore the baby

Such seemingly mundane moments fill our lives. We might think they have limited or minimal consequence, yet they morph—not all at once, but almost imperceptibly—into movements of hate, like eggnog left on the counter too long.

Self-justified moments of anger, if ignored, become spittle-flung tirades at school board meetings. Well, that got awfully specific—as all hate does.

The eggnog’s on the counter, and the baby is growing old. The world cares little about his cuteness, much less about his commands. The milk is turning sour, and we haven’t noticed. We’ve poured a glass and brought it with us, even into the church, inviting it into our pulpits and pews.

In a few days, we will adore a baby named Jesus. We’ll approach the manger, knowing exactly who he will become, what he will do, and what he expects of us.

We’ll raise a glass of that sour brew and toast him “the reason for the season.” Then we’ll wobble away from the manger, mumbling something about “I love thee, Lord Jesus … stay by my side until morning is nigh,” and forget all about whatever it was we declared the night before.

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“Then Simeon … said to Mary: ‘This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many … and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul, too’” (Luke 2:34-35).

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Mary. Mary held in tension the whole truth about her son. She carried him, nursed him, cleaned him, clothed him, raised him, followed him. She saw him loved; she saw him hated. She witnessed his birth and his death.

Just as Mary held the whole truth about Jesus, so must we, Christian. So must we.

Eric Black is the executive director, publisher and editor of the Baptist Standard. He can be reached at eric.black@baptiststandard.com or on Twitter at @EricBlackBSP.