Christmas reminds us that God was a baby, the newborn king in Bethlehem. But since God is outside of time, we can think of him that way all the time: Jesus Christ, God himself, is the eternal newborn described in Revelation 12.
At a New Year’s retreat at Conception Abbey in Missouri, I was struck with the many ways being open and loving to God is like being open and loving to an infant.
Babies change everything. So does God.
A baby can’t walk or talk or hug you or hold things, but a baby changes everything, absolutely everything in your life by becoming the reason you do nearly everything you do.
It’s the same with God. He isn’t something in the world that can help you out in superficial ways. You still have to do the small stuff. But he is the whole reason for the world, whose very presence requires your attention and fills everything else with meaning.
To care for a baby you need to reject sin.
To be a good caretaker of a baby, you have to give up bad things in your life. You can’t waste your money or your time, because the baby needs both; you have to be gentle or the baby will be upset; you have to drop anything that endangers the baby; you have to stay sober and alert.
God is the same way: If you value something else more than him, you will lose him. You can’t keep both God and serious sin in your life.
But a baby goes further: A baby demands silence and detachment.
Ridding yourself of big problems isn’t enough for a baby. You have to change little things, too. You can’t have loud noises or you will wake the baby, and you can't wear headphones or you won’t hear the baby. You can no longer go the places you used to go, because the baby won’t tolerate that. You can’t even schedule your sleep; the baby schedules your sleep for you.
It just so happens that this is what God needs, too. Beyond avoiding sin, we need silence to hear him, pastimes that are compatible with him, and we need to budget out time and money around his priorities.
Some people resent babies for the demands they place on them. The only way out of that is love.
It is easy to get fed up with babies who demand so much and produce so little — they cry and won’t be consoled in reasonable ways, they dirty not just their diapers, but their whole outfit, in nasty ways at terrible times. They shut down small opportunities and large ones that may never come again. They demand a life of constant sacrifice, and they never say “Thank you.”
But mothers and fathers know a secret: Babies teach you that love alone is worth it.
Actually, it’s not a secret, because proud parents tell you all the time. They consider it newsworthy when a baby rolls over. They beam with pride at a baby’s smile as if a smile were unprecedented. They can describe the utterly unique way their baby crawls. They love that their baby is fat or thin, bald or bushy, wrinkly or smooth.
They have embraced unconditional love so completely that it has become unconditional delight.
Well, God is that, only infinitely more.
Like a baby, God puts crosses in your life: giant crosses that shake the foundations of your world and change the course of your life, and irritating little crosses that spoil your afternoon rest and derail your morning routine. He pushes everything out and takes the center place in your life, demanding that your attention stay on him.
And what does he give in return?
Everything. Every single thing you see and touch, and things you can’t see or touch.
He gives you shelter in every storm, happiness in every hardship, and the deep peace that comes from having a purpose. He also gives you every good thing you eat, every restful place you sit, every sight that attracts you, and every truth that consoles you.
Everything he asks of you to give him is something he gave you first, and nothing you can give him comes close to who he is for you: Emmanuel, God-with-us, our all in all.
You can probably come up with even more ways God is still like the baby in the manger.
It’s easy. Just sit and stare at the tabernacle, where Jesus Christ in the Eucharist is still our all-powerful, all-vulnerable God.
