The central truth of Christianity is this:  God has invaded this planet.  The very one who fashioned galaxies, comets, and other cosmic wonders walked among us.  He ate and slept; he worked and played; he laughed and cried; he was born, and he died.  As we approach Christmas Day, our minds turn to the events that transpired in a manger in Bethlehem, when a little boy breathed his first breath and began to cry.  In a world filled with inherited selfishness, this cry was a signal that pride would eventually die.  God, who needs no one, had willingly become the most helpless of creatures, a human infant.  He had, humbly and gently, entered our world.             

    This profound doctrine took on a new and refreshing reality for me on July 12th, when I decided to accept a staff position at Christ Covenant Church.  This choice forced me out of my comfortable little world.  You see if I was to place myself somewhere between the two extremes of social butterfly or recluse, I would definitely be closer to a cave than a ballroom.  I took pride in my ability to keep people at arm’s length.  I relished my fortress and routinely inspected the walls to make sure there were no breaches.  But on the third Wednesday of August, I could no longer maintain control.  Youth group had begun, and I watched as teenagers began to scale the walls at a rapid pace.  Week after week, new faces appeared and familiar faces returned.  My safe existence had been shattered.  My world had been invaded.             

    Maybe it’s a product of the fall or not, but the human mind has a strong tendency to imagine situations as being better or worse than they really are.  We seem to have an aversion to reality.  We prefer fantasy and run from the truth.  We desire tabloids and flee from the facts.  In my naïve mind, I had sculpted an image of what ministry looked like.  Unknown to me, this image had nothing to do with the real world.  It was fragile and frail, and when it came face to face with true ministry, it was demolished.  With each smiling or unsmiling face; with attentive or rolling eyes; with laughter or crying; with cold shoulders or hugs; my simple-minded view of ministry was being reshaped.  It was ceasing to be made of cold stone and was becoming transformed into flesh and blood.  My eyes were being opened and my Redeemer was forcing me to look at the real world and cast aside my fantasies.  And what I’ve seen is this:  true ministry must be incarnational.  It must invade people’s worlds.  And it must do so humbly and gently.  True ministry involves bandaging scraped knees and holding hands.  It involves laughter, hugs, tears, and sweat.  It lives at the intersection of comedy and tragedy.  And it never runs from reality. 

    The Incarnation of our Lord made it impossible for us to consistently ignore this world.  To be sure, we all flee to our safe, comfortable places, but because of the Incarnation, we cannot deny the truth.  If we seek to ignore brokenness or gloss over sin, we are confronted with the cross and if we say there is no hope, we are reminded of an empty tomb.  Jesus opens our eyes.  He awakens us from our slumber and shows us that he came to deal with the world not as we would have it but as it really is.  And if we are to follow him, we must learn to love this world and long for its redemption.  We must learn to deal with people in all of their messiness and point them to a manger in Bethlehem, where delusions were shattered; safe worlds were disturbed; hearts were exposed; and a baby’s cry meant the end of tears and sorrow.