I’ve written a few stories in my time. But sooner or later you realize that the greatest stories can’t be written by men because the best of our humanity can’t pen the stories that will save our lives. And so, God sat down and wrote one on Christmas.

Heaven is where Christmas came from. And if we give it permission to do so, someday it will take us back there with it.

On that first Christmas morning, the cries of this newborn were ignored by a world off to greater agendas from which this child would rise to save us.

I need to be rescued from the thought that I don’t need to be rescued.

The depth of the hole might be determined by the foolishness of my choices, but the foolishness of my choices never determines the length of God’s arm.

Jesus was born into an existence that I cannot fathom, and He died a death of the very same sort. And therefore, what insanity causes me to presume His inability to understand the difficulties of my existence when His wildly eclipsed mine, and why do I doubt His adequacy to engage the death within me when He died a death for me?

If I’m not living this life in conjunction with God, I’m not living this life. Rather, what I’m doing is living the lie that I’m living this life.

I’m not certain that the greatest thrill was actually being rescued. Rather, I think that the greatest thrill was finally realizing that I would be. And the cry of an infant two thousand years ago was that realization.

Christmas does not invite you to something that happened in history. Rather, Christmas is God inviting you to something that’s already shaping your eternity.