He came, not as a flash of light or as an unapproachable conqueror, but as one whose first cries were heard by a peasant girl and a sleepy carpenter. The hands that first held him were unmanicured, calloused, and dirty. No silk. No ivory, No hype. No party. No hoopla. Were it not for the shepherds, there would have been no reception. And were it not for a group of star-gazers, there would have no gifts.
For thirty-three years he would feel everything you and I have ever felt. He felt weak. He grew weary. He was afraid of failure. He was susceptible to wooing women. He got colds, burped, and had body odor. His feeling got hurt. His feet got tired. And his head ached.
To think of Jesus in such a light is - well, it seems almost irreverent, doesn't it? It's not something we like to do; it's uncomfortable. It is much easier to keep the humanity out of the incarnation. Clean the manure from around the manger. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Pretend he never snored or blew his nose or hit his thumb with a hammer.
He's easier to stomach that way. There is something about keeping him divine that keeps him distant, packaged, predictable. But don't do it. Let him be as human as he intended to be. Let him into the mire and muck of our world.
Max Lucado, God Came Near