But that is not the truth. That picture does not hold the hope we need and it cannot contain the truth about the Son of God. No - this is the witness of Scripture:
"The Word was made flesh and made his dwelling among us."
He was made flesh - made like us in every way, except for sin. Made to feel the cold, the hurts, the longings and the agonies of life in a such a world as this. Not exempt, but frail and breakable. Able to be crushed on the cross, pulped by Pilate's henchmen. Not evading evil but putting himself into its hands, to do its worst to him. Not hiding away from the horrors of sin but standing up, up from the trenches into the full force of enemy fire.
And being made flesh, he made his dwelling among us. Not apart from us. Not a distant neighbour that no-one ever really sees or gets to know. No, dwelling among us, such that those closest to him could speak of him and his life with complete authority.
You might know that the original language uses the term tabernacled among us. It's quite a word. It points to Jesus as the true temple, the fulfilment of the tabernacle from the wilderness days. The place where God is present with the people, where their sins would be exposed and atoned for. The place of fire and light, of judgement and mercy, of holy, saving love. All this, and so much more, in the unique Word that was made flesh.
We don't need more schmaltz and sentimentality. We need a Saviour. We need the Word made flesh. We need him to live among us, to make his home in us, as the true dwelling-place of God. That's why he came and that's what he is, in the glory that is radiant with truth and grace.
May this be, in the kindness of God, a truly happy Christmas!
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After all pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I, both tir’d, bodie and minde,
With full crie of affections, quite astray,
I took up in the next inne I could finde,
There when I came, whom found I but my deare,
My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to him, readie there
To be all passengers most sweet relief?
O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapt in night’s mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is thy right,
To Man of all beasts be not thou a stranger:
Furnish & deck my soul, that thou mayst have
A better lodging than a rack or grave.
(Christmas (1) by George Herbert, 1593-1633)
