Skip the Sugar-Coating

"Are we going to do that blood thing again?"

OK, wait.  Sorry.  Let me set the stage here a little.  The one asking me this question is Brooklyn.  Brooklyn has one volume level: loud.  We're in the church foyer...walking into the sanctuary.  Not a terribly quiet moment, but quiet enough.  And, by the way, she has zero tact.   It is what it is.  No sugar-coating for her.   She skips that step every time.    

"Mom!  Are we going to do that blood thing again?"

It sounded so stinking gross.

Apparently the look on my face was worth more than my words ever could have been.  She knew that I had no idea what she was talking about and offered some more information.

"You know...the blood and cross thing."

"Ah.  Communion?"

"Yes, that's it."

"No, not today.  And by the way, Brooky, it's actually grape juice."

"I know.  But it's about blood.  It's the blood and cross thing."

The word "communion" sounds much more delicate.  Refined.  Sophisticated.  Neat and tidy and church-ish. 

"The blood thing" sounds repulsive.  Like it belongs in a horror flick.  Nasty and messy. 

But isn't that part of it?  For us to be reminded of the brutal, horrific, repulsive death that Jesus died?  All because He loved us.  And He loved us a LOT.  Shouldn't we be OK with being reminded of that?  Often, if we're honest, I don't think we are.  Because it reminds us of how brutal, horrific and repulsive our sin is.  The sin that put Him there.  The sin that brought Him to the earth as a Babe to begin with. 

Brooklyn doesn't sugar-coat stuff.  But I'm pretty sure most of us would like to.

I know that the story of Christmas is a lovely story.  It's beautiful and poetic and wonderful.  It is peaceful.  Visual images that make us feel warm and safe inside.  And it most certainly involves a lot of very wonderful gifts that God has offered us - joy, hope, peace, provision, life eternal.  In a world and a time where despair, doubt, pain and confusion abound, we need to focus on those things.  But we are totally missing it if that's all we look at. 

I'm not suggesting you replace the reading of the Christmas story with a graphic telling of what childbirth is really like or show the crucifixion scene from the Passion of the Christ to your 2 year old.  Heavens no.  But if we really want to glean all we can from the Christmas story, we must first be authentic and raw and brutally honest about our desperation.  How we can we expect anyone to believe us when we say Christmas is about our need to be saved if we aren't real about what it is we need saved from?  It may be messy and repulsive and as jarring as a random statement about blood in the church foyer.  But it is what it is.  It's not about sugar coating ourselves to make everyone believe that we have it all together...and if they come to church than they, too, can take a dip in the falsifying sugar.  No.  It's about being real.  Vulnerable.  Authentic.  Because it is in our imperfections and screw ups and weaknesses and gut-wrenching need that others will find hope.  The hope is not actually found in the mess itself, but in the One who sent a Baby to clean it up that mess.  Yet if we never admit there is a mess to be cleaned, then where is the significance?

God didn't say goodbye to His Son just for us to downplay the significance because it's too embarrassing to admit that we aren't perfect.  Jesus did not agree to be born as a lowly Baby and live a very misunderstood and hard life, ending in torture and death, for us to rationalize away the need to be honest about who we really are and the ugliness we are not only capable of, but guilty of.  All of those gifts that He offers us through the miracle of the swaddled Savior can only be grasped if we first let go of the other junk we are wrapped too tightly in ourselves.

As we are reminded of Jesus' birth, let us also be reminded of His life.  Of His sacrifice.  Let's skip the sugar-coating, hiding, masking, disguising and denying our need for Him.  Because the way I see it, that need was the true beginning of this season.  And I'm thankful for the wonderfully loud and poetically blunt 6 year old beauty of mine that issued such a fabulous Christmas reminder.