Around 2,000 years ago, the great commander of Heaven’s armies began his earthly warpath.
He deployed from the comfort and majesty of the throne room of the ages into a hellish nightmare of depravity.
He landed poor and under fire in an obscure backwater village that had no strategic value.
He was frequently alone and always outnumbered.
His allies betrayed him.
His enemies hunted him.
He was mocked and disbelieved.
He triumphed nonetheless.
The world has done its best to make his story “soft.” It gives us gentle manger scenes with smiling sheep and jolly shepherds, sung over by blonde angels with delicate features. It strips it down. It neuters it. It denies it.
The world is Enemy territory. Of course it wants to portray these events as tame. A defeated foe always retreats behind lies and propaganda. That way, he can convince people to put the story of his violent defeat in a Christmas card and go on with their lives guilt-free, having never pondered the true meaning of the season.
The King came during combat. From the perspective of his enemies, his arrival was terrifying. They had seen him on his white throne wearing his war armor. They had been there when he commanded the lightning artillery.
The arrival of Christ in human form was the greatest invasion in the history of warfare. It was Normandy for the soul. It was a masterpiece of misdirection and ambush. The Enemy has been on the run ever since.
Don’t rob this story of its power. That’s what the Enemy wants.
The twinkling lights are pretty and the fireplace is cozy. Family and friends gather near. It is a time of rest.
Also, this is the day we celebrate the crushing strength of the Rock of Ages as he bears down on the Serpent.
Sing the war song of victory.
Unfurl the banners of glory.
Rejoice that the Enemy will suffer, and laugh as the King refuses to give him quarter.
Merry Christmas.