The Cradle and the Cross: A Gentle Reminder
Main Street in Boerne was alive last night, brimming with the spirit of Christmas. Tens of thousands strolled through the heart of the town, bundled in scarves and jackets, their faces glowing from the holiday lights and the palpable joy of the evening. The annual Dickens on Main had begun, transforming our charming Hill Country Mile into a Victorian wonderland.
Carolers sang timeless hymns, their voices mingling with the hopping country tunes of the Noah Kurtis band and the general buzz of the crowd. Vendors lined the streets, tempting passersby with salty and sweet delights, creating a feast for all the senses. Children laughed as they ran in circles in the magically falling snow—snow in Texas! If ever there was a scene designed to embody holiday cheer, this was it.
Yet, amidst the festivities, I found myself thinking about contrasts—how these grand celebrations often juxtapose the quieter, more introspective moments of the season. Isn't it curious how joy and stillness, noise and reflection, seem to dance together at Christmas? Little did I know that my real moment of reflection wasn't waiting for me under the lights or a tree but in the stillness of an early morning nudge.
An Awakening
It came to me in the quiet of REM sleep, that space where thoughts aren't always yours and seem to come from somewhere beyond. "My God, My God, this is why You have forsaken Me." The words stirred me awake—not in a jolt or confusion, but with an overwhelming sense of peace and gravity. They weren't just words—they were spoken.
I didn't hear them in the usual sense, yet they resounded within me as though Jesus Himself had placed them there. I assume you've had these moments too—the kind where you know you've been invited into something more, something deeper. Sleep evaded me after that.
Later, sitting with my morning coffee, I turned the words over in my mind. Were they a revelation? Imagination? Or perhaps a leftover remnant of last night's bratwurst, as Scrooge might have quipped.
Later, sitting with my morning coffee, I turned the words over in my mind. Were they a revelation? Imagination? Or perhaps a leftover remnant of last night's bratwurst, as Scrooge might have quipped.
Scrooge's Question and Mine
It was Scrooge himself who came to mind as I wrestled with the moment. His sardonic jest about the ghost of Jacob Marley—"There's more of gravy than of grave about you!"—is relatable, isn't it? Don't we all, at times, try to explain away the unexplainable?
And yet, this moment didn't feel like "gravy." It felt planted. Intentional. As though I'd been gently reminded of something I'd been too busy or distracted to see. Maybe, just maybe, I'd been invited to lower my own shield of rationalization and simply listen with curiosity and humility.
The Cradle and the Cross
What I heard in those words wasn't a call to re-interpret Scripture or discover some hidden meaning. It was more like the afterglow of something already known—the overtone of a truth that stretches from Bethlehem to Golgotha. "My God, My God, this is why."
The birth of Jesus was always about the cross. The joy of Christmas was always meant to point us to the hope of Easter. The cradle and the cross cannot be separated. Jesus came into this world for one purpose: to redeem us.
Perhaps the real meaning of that early morning nudge wasn't to invite me into theological gymnastics but to remind me, simply and beautifully, of what Christmas is all about. To hear again the heart of the season, not just in carols and snow, but in the echo of the One who came to suffer, to redeem, to reconcile.
An Invitation to Reflect
This isn't about insisting on an interpretation or turning Christmas into a heavy theological exercise. It's about remembering. How does Christmas speak to you this year? Have you felt the connection between its joy and its purpose?
For me, this simple nudge—this overtone, this afterglow—was a reminder to pause, listen, and see the beauty of Christmas in its fullness. I hope it might remind you, too.
Closing Thought
So, as Boerne's streets fill with laughter, music, and the sparkle of Christmas lights, may we each find a moment of quiet to reflect. Whether it's in the joy of a carol, the stillness of a midnight nudge, or the laughter of children in falling snow, may we remember: This is why He came.
