Missing the Miracle

He looked like anything but a king. His face is prudish and red. His cry, though strong and healthy, is still the helpless and piercing cry of a baby. And he is absolutely dependent upon Mary for his well-being.

Majesty in the midst of the mundane. Holiness in the filth of sheep manure and sweat. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager and in the presence of a carpenter. This baby had overlooked the universe. The rags keep him warm were the robes of eternity. His golden throne room had been abandoned n favor of a dirty sheep pen. And worshiping angels had been replaced with kind but bewildered shepherds.

Meanwhile, the city hums. The merchants were unaware that God has visited their planet. The innkeeper would never believe that he had just sent God in to the cold. And the people would scoff at anyone who told them the Messiah lay int he arms of a teenager on the outskirts of their village. There were all too busy to consider the possibility.

Those who missed His Majesty's arrival that night missed it not because of evil acts or malice; no, they missed it because they simply weren't looking. Little has changed in the last two thousand years, has it?

From God Came Near by Max Lucado