December 16, 2012
By my bank account’s statement, I am not rich.
By my own personal opinion, I am not rich.
By my banker’s opinion, I am not rich.
By the world’s standard – I am filthy rich.
Some years ago, I had an unusual feeling one day driving home from the cup that put this fact in contrast with Christmastime.
It was on one particular evening, coming home I saw as a black car passing by the home of a little girl with which I was familiar only by the fact that I knew her house and I sort of knew her parents. By most people’s standards, she was not rich. And as I watched as that shiny black vehicle passed her, with its smoked windows, I had a truly odd feeling as the driver waved to her passing her as she stood on the side of the road. For just a second, I felt, as her eyes were looking at that vehicle as if it was a passing chariot, a sedan for a king and a sense of hope or wish seemed to be registered in her childlike and humble smile.
And I watched as the driver simply waved to her and drove by.
I wonder if that is the unreconciled emotion of Christmas for many. I think it is.
We wish and wait for Christmas as children to not pass us by. We hope that what all that Christmas can be, is realized. In many ways Christmas is like a wonderful story of a King’s caravan that stops and not only recognizes us, but the King invites us in.
Today, the world’s interpretation of Christmas is a mixed up message. We ascribe the meaning of Christmas as if we ascribe the passing of the Kings caravan. We mistake the passing wonder, the seductive trappings, the glint of gold, the sparkle of silver, the Hymn of blessing as the event itself, and in that confusion, we actually miss the invitation.
Christmas is here, the King has stopped his majestic caravan and has Himself stepped down from glory to reach out to you, like that little girl on the side of the road who is hoping and waiting for the King to invite her in, to rescue and the bestow the blessings of a King.
And she, like each of us, then will know, just how rich this blessing truly is.
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