Becoming Human- from Christmas Eve Sanctuary service

[Tony] If you were to ask my parents, they would tell you that I am afraid of babies; maybe in the same way parents are afraid to bring their kids into a china store. The smaller the child, they would tell you, the more fervently I will avoid interaction. It is a fear that is two-fold, and maybe some of you can relate: first, it is a fear of the immediate presence of a child's complete vulnerability-- so small, so fragile, so precious, and so not mine-- but most of all, so dependent, and so in need. The second face of my, potentially irrational, fear is the gripping reality of my own inadequacy-- the fear that, even if I could give every ounce of myself, a child would still need more from me, a fear of not knowing what to do when who knows what happens, or gets lost, or gets hurt, or comes out-- a fear that what I have to give is not enough to offer.
There was something about this child, about the way that He looked at me, that caught me off guard. There is something in the way a baby will look into your eyes that seems to speak gently, but clearly to something inside of your own heart that cannot ignore the words: "Hello. Yes, I am here. Yes, I am very real. I can be hurt. I can feel alone. I can know joy. This is what I am. This is all I am. You are all I have. I cannot live without you. I will be yours. I already am yours. How do I know if I can call you mine? Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me? Will you care for me? Will you comfort me? Will you keep me warm? Can I show you that I am frightened and know that you will protect me? Is it okay if I change your life? Is it okay if you become someone different than who you are now? Can I surprise you? Is it okay if I need you for the rest of my life? Do you need me? How will I know that you are there? How can I show you that I need you? Is it okay if this isn't easy? Would you believe me if I could tell you that you won't regret this? Will you talk to me? Will you sing to me at night? Will you hold me? Will you pick me up? Will you hold me? Do you love me?"
This child was in love with me even before I picked him up and held him. His need of my love was love. When I picked Him up; when He allowed me to hold him, something happened. I felt a vastness within me that I didn't even know was empty, become flooded. I became a child. I learned a love that was new and real and terrifying and irresistible. It was only while I held Him that I was able to truly love him, because it was only while I held Him that I was truly vulnerable. I began to ask the same questions, allowing myself to surrender to His answers-- "Am I doing okay? What do you need? Can I make mistakes? Where will you take me? Where should I take you? Do you love me?" If an almighty God can become a man, I would need Him to be a child first. In order for me to have a relationship with Him, I would need to know that He could love me like a child. This child is the Christ-child, yes, but this child is also fully human. My relationship with this child has grown much like He would slowly grow in front of His own parents. I was only able to start a relationship with God if He too became a child, because there is where my walk needed to start. He met me where I was and He walked with me from there. I was a child and He met me as a child— fragile, dependent, and so human.