Now that I'm married...

I've heard a lot of fascinating things happen when you get married: life starts making sense, you realize all your spouse's faults, you feel more confident, and you start learning all sorts of stuff about God.

Maybe I'm just an idiot, or Amy and I have been doing something wrong, but none of those things really jump out at me from two weeks later. I like being married a lot, prefer it, even, but I don't really feel like co-habitation and all that goes with it (that is, the practical side of marriage) has really given me any new wisdom. I'm just trying to love Amy's all, and I just have more opportunities now.

We were talking about sacrificing the other day, because we both have heard that it's pretty essential to marriage, and we've done our share of it in dating, and some in our short time of matrimony. Anyway, we were talking about how sacrifice and forgiveness are sort of the ultimate sides of selfless love, and I thought I'd mention somebody who really inspires me.

My friend Kyle is one of the most mercurial people I've ever met, but that doesn't mean I find much in him to dislike. He's had some tough times with his family, and that's really where I've been able to observe the most Christ-like love I've ever seen. I was sitting with Kyle and two other friends on the back of his houseboat at Easter, and we were discussing the "greatest things we'd ever done." None of us could really think of anything great we'd done, but Kyle, after a long silence which I thought meant he assumed the question was kind of dumb, spoke up with, "The greatest thing I've ever done is forgiving my Dad."

And it was the hardest thing he'd ever done. It's a scary hope, but I hope that I can, someday, love like Kyle has loved. He's getting married tomorrow, and I can't think of a luckier girl than his bride. Congratulations, guys.

Moaning Over the Nativity

Friday morning on my way to lunch, I was getting thoroughly annoyed with the constant sound of commercials coming from the radio, so I flipped to the classical station, where the songs are so long that the odds are against tuning into a commercial.  I had just enough time to hear "And this is his Nativity Overture" before the music began.

The first few notes sounded from the strings section, low and ominous.  A sad, slow air came from the flutes, and the rest of the orchestra eventually mourned along.  I was feeling sufficiently somber, and then I remembered that the song was called "The Nativity."  I thought, "Wait a second!  This is no ordinary carol.  Not a whole lot of good Christian men rejoicing here."  I had to consider why the Nativity would be such a sad song.

The normal scandal of being born in a stable hit me, and that was sad enough, I guess.  But I think there is a definite scandal to the whole Incarnation, even without the Crucifixion and torture and hate.  I'm thinking about the Light being dimmed so it can be seen by all men.  I'm considering what it means for the Son of God to be contained.  No wonder the gnostics couldn't handle the idea of the Word becoming flesh.  He reigns supreme over the Cosmos, and yet He made his dwelling with us.

I don't think the sadness is a result of these things alone, though.  Whenever someone is obviously humble, it produces a sort of tension between jaw-dropping and mouth-shutting.  I think when we look at a major step in the Greatest Humility we should feel a sort of sadness.

But I still can't help admiring the Joy brought To The World.