The thing about Christmas and the Incarnation that every now and then breaks through my stoic emotional defenses and leaves me blubbering like a child, is that God, the Maker of Heaven and Earth, who sits on the Throne above every Throne, loves not just the human race in general, but loves me, cares enough for me, that he took on my flesh and my frame and came to be like me – that he came to know my suffering, and my darkness, and my pain – and that he came to be rejected as I am rejected. That he came into my mess to make his home in my despair, to live his life in the places where I can only see pain and death. That he came to take the ...