Shortly after setting up our nativity scene last week my seven year old son, Joseph, swung a pillow at his sister and accidentally sent one of the fibreglass wise men flying across the room, landing in several pieces at my feet.
After the initial moment of uncomfortable silence we gathered up the broken remains, taped them back together and stood him awkwardly beside his more elegant looking peers.
“It looks as though there will only be two and a half men visiting baby Jesus this Christmas,” I mused as we pondered the decimated figure.
“Yeah, I guess so”, Joseph replied meekly as he tried to straighten the angled torso.
It wasn’t until a few days later that I began to appreciate the powerful symbolism of our fragmented figurine. It reminded me of how I attempt to present myself to God.
I want Him to see me as the perfected and intact wise men, externally glorious and with something to offer.
Yet the reality is, I stand before Him more closely resembling our broken Magi, full of faults, failings and imperfections.
But why is it that I attempt to hide what I know God is divinely aware of?
Do I fear that if I acknowledge this truth He will love me less?
It made me think of my friend, Jessica.
Her dead body was found sprawled across a cold floor, the victim of a toxic batch of heroin. Jessica had a much more courageous and honest relationship with God than I do.
She had neither delusions of perfection nor concerns about personal image or social acceptance.
She had an addiction and worked in prostitution to fund her life-destroying habit.
She knew where she stood in the eyes of the world – “I am nothing but a drug addict” she would say when she was feeling sad. But deep down she knew the real truth and she shared it with me shortly before she died – “I am a new creation, I have been washed by the blood of the Lamb”, she had said.
Jessica knew that what she inflicted on herself was not what God wanted and at times she would valiantly lift herself above the destructive lifestyle but, tragically, the brokenness within would overcome her.
But it never stopped her bringing herself to Jesus in between her drug use and sex work, and possibly even within it.
As most fatal heroin overdoses take several hours to finally stop one’s heart, I can only hope that Jessica, for her last earthly moments, was able to draw on Jesus’ loving presence as the life drained from her tormented body.
I hope that she truly knew that He was with her as she took her last breath; just as He had been when her tiny body and spirit were being shattered by the many years of childhood sexual abuse.
If I can learn something from Jessica’s short, but heroic life, it should be that no matter what I do or how I am perceived by others, God’s love for me will always remain the same – and that the only offering He desires from me is myself – no matter how imperfect that gift may be.