God left heaven. The gravity of such a thought somehow loses itself within a season filled with lesser things. God left heaven. Willingly, intentionally, presumably without hesitation, He left.
Why so many of the thoughts and actions of the eternal author should seem peculiar, the mortal mind may never know. Yet they do. All of creation with mind and heart enough to conceive it spends its collective lifetime hoping toward heaven. The pinnacle of all goodness, heaven is no place to be left.
Forget the dingy manger, the filthy animals, the picture of an unclean place within a society that knows it. What would it matter if it were a palace, a portrait of splendid opulence? He came from heaven. Were He not already God, would He have known the difference?
God left heaven. Even for the supreme maker whose thoughts transpire so laughably far beyond our own, that decision must be questioned. Why would He do it? Perhaps, among the more obvious answers, He did it to answer His own call.
God knew what He would ask of man. Leave it behind. Leave it all behind. Everything—every sight and sound and simple sensation ever known—leave it. It will not be easy, but leave it. It will not always make sense. Leave it. The reward to come makes distant memory of all the confusion, of all the care. Leave that behind, too.
No comments:
Post a Comment