On rare occasions I lead the brief, quite informal chapel service at my boys’ school, and I love doing this. This morning Will and Nate were boarding a bus for a field trip to the Daughters of the American Revolution Museum, while I was in the sanctuary reading to the non-field trip bunch. It was one of my all-time favorite books: If Jesus Came to My House by Joan Gale Thomas. I have the 1951 version with simple sketches in mostly black and white. It is a precious little book and tackles some important theological concepts. I used it as a jumping off point to talk about how we are Christ’s ambassadors, as we wait patiently and expectantly for His return.
Yet one of the things that really struck me with the kids this morning is how beautifully this simple story illustrates the incarnation.
I asked a kindergarten boy sitting in the front row, “Was Jesus ever the same size as you, like the little boy in the book imagines?”
“No,” he answered, with self-assurance.
And so I talked about how sometimes we think Jesus was a baby and then somehow an adult. As a child we don’t often ponder that Jesus was once just our size, just our age. Jesus knows exactly what it is to be five. He knows just how it feels to be ten.
When I blogged through Hebrews last year, I was moved by how Jesus carries our burdens as a compassionate, “I’ve been there” friend. Whether as an adult or a little child, Jesus longs for us to relate to Him, to open our hearts by pouring out our sorrows and concerns, confident that He understands. After all, Jesus was tempted and hurt, He was betrayed and taken for granted, He was beaten and crucified.
“Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”