A virgin named Mary held the Son of God in her arms. Jesus didn’t arrive with thunder or ceremony. He came as a real, wiggly, crying baby. He learned to crawl. He took his first steps. Those little hands likely played with toys, maybe even joined neighborhood games of hide-and-seek. The hands that formed the universe learned how to grip, how to work, how to bless.
As He grew, those same hands held the Torah. At twelve years old, He astonished religious leaders with wisdom far beyond His years. Then He returned home -- quietly -- working alongside Joseph, shaping wood, building furniture, living an ordinary life before stepping into an extraordinary calling.
And those feet -- perfect and plump at birth -- carried Him everywhere. Down dusty roads. Into villages. Toward the hurting, the sick, the forgotten. Those feet carried Him to teach, to heal, to love without limits.
Until one day -- those feet were pierced.
Those hands -- once lifted in blessing -- were nailed to a cross.
“In that body God declared an end to sin’s control over us by giving His Son as a sacrifice for our sins.” (Romans 8:3)
That’s the gospel. Jesus didn’t just come near to us -- He took our place. His sacrifice paid for every wrong, every failure, every regret. Because He was born as one of us, we can now live in peace with God. Because He died and rose again, eternity is no longer a question mark -- it’s a promise.
Christmas doesn’t end at the manger. And we don't sing "Away in the Manger" thinking He's still there. Oh no! This baby grew up and showed us how to live -- how to believe -- how to walk the walk of our Savior. Good News -- His walk led Him all the way to the cross -- and beyond it -- to an empty tomb.
God with us.
God for us.
God who saves us.
Hallelujah! Let's go tell it on the mountain -- and everywhere
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