I've been writing a sermon for Sunday in which I'm focussing on the Incarnation of Christ as the topic. It reminded me of an angry old lady I once knew, who shook her bony finger at my pastor (I was a teenager at the time) because he'd spoken in a sermon about how birth was messy and bloody, and Jesus was a baby like all babies.
"Jesus wasn't like that!" she growled, "he was perfect, not crying, or anything bad like that. He just wouldn't!"
That's vestigial docetism, folks (you might like to google 'docetism' to get the idea). But that story in turn reminded me of when The Boy was born.
You see, his birthday very nearly turned out to be the date of my own sudden and painful death.
The co-Director had been in labour for about 10 hours. Hard time. (Trying to squeeze a 9lb, 10oz monkey out of your pinks parts would do that, I'd imagine). So the baby was finally crowning, and I was standing at the head of the bed being as supportive as I possibly could.
But I was also watching the business end, so to speak. And things weren't looking 'right' to me. I grew up on an acreage, I've seen a lot of little animals born. I've seen some mother animals with severe complications, and this is what I was seeing right then.
At the other end with her catcher's mitt was a wonderful nurse. She was on overtime so my wife wouldn't have to deal with anybody new. She noticed me watching, concerned, and caught my eye. She looked cheerfully at me and (I think to distract me or something), asked: "isn't it amazing , watching a child being born?"
I said the first thing that came to mind. I didn't even think about it -- didn't think it was rude, or unfair, or anything -- I just said the first thing, which happened to be:
"hmm, cows do it quicker."
By Jesus, I thought I was going to die. By the look that nurse gave me, I'm pretty certain that she was even considering where to stash my dead body.
Luckily, my firstborn popped out about then and saved my bacon.
I think I'll go home and give him a cookie.
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