One tends to think of a “hero story” as one in which man becomes, in some supernatural way, god-like. Perhaps this is why Christmas is not immediately thought of as a “hero story.”
The premise of the Christmas story, in fact, is quite the opposite — not man becoming god, but rather God becoming man — an anti-heroic move for the one who would come to be called Immanuel.
The Israelites waited hundreds of years for a Messiah to come, yet when he came, they hardly took notice. Maybe their indifference is not all that shocking, for he came in a way that they did not expect and hoped he would not. The Messiah came, not as a king that they wanted, but as a king nonetheless; not as a ruler that they predicted, but as a ruler reigning at the right hand of the Father; not as the conqueror that they hoped for to overthrow the Roman oppression, but as an infant. When they saw him, the Israelites waited anxiously to see how this heroic story would unfold.
A reasonable place to start this story is with Mary and Joseph. The couple traveled from Nazareth in Galilee to the city of Bethlehem in Judea. This journey was taken in order to comply with Caesar Augustus’ decree, which required them to return to their hometown for a census. At the time, Mary was not yet married to Joseph, yet she was already pregnant. She was not pregnant by Joseph but by some miracle to fulfill the words of Isaiah prophesied: “the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.”
Luke’s account of the story describes an angelic event — a divine song — taking place at Jesus’ birth. There was no room at the inn in Bethlehem, so in a last-minute effort to find a place to lie down, they settled in a manger. This angelic event is described as though the heavens opened up with praise, for God had been born into a world among a people that He had loved so dearly.
Several shepherds in the Palestine countryside heard about the event and, in Luke’s account, they said, “Let us go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened.” An extraordinary and overwhelming event occurred in a rather underwhelming setting, and the shepherds’ response reflected the God-given human nature of curiosity: “Let us go and see.”
When they arrived, what did they see?
The Christmas story, this nativity scene specifically, has been depicted in art throughout anno Domini human history, yet there are few completely accurate depictions of what probably took place. Giotto can paint a halo around the infant in his Nativity, and Rembrandt can depict a warm glow coming from Jesus himself in his Adoration of the Shepherds, yet the reality is that the opening of the heavens was quite possibly the most supernatural sight that took place in the manger that night.
It was quite possible that there was not even the slightest glow or halo coming from Jesus’ body, no marks or brands on the baby to remind the shepherds that he was king, no divine fragrance to put their minds at ease, and no holy sounds other than the ones a baby typically makes when he is born.
The hero of the story came as a rather ordinary character, underwhelming in size and might, with few, if any, signs to remind his audience that he was in fact the hero that warranted praise. Yet the shepherds who went to see knew that there was something peculiar about this newborn baby, and they left glorifying him as though they had finally met their savior face-to-face.
At a surface level, the Christmas story — the birth of Jesus in a manger — may not seem at all heroic, yet a hero was there and it changed the world entirely. Mankind was changed not solely on a grand scale of the Christian movement, but on, as well, a meaningful and highly personal level to all who read of it.
It is not, however, enough to simply read the story. It is not enough to read how a baby named Jesus was born from a virgin and was worshiped by the shepherds who saw him. Until one reads of it and realizes that the story is for him — the reader — it will always remain just a story. Until the reader realizes that the hero came as an infant for his sake, then the story will continue to be told in vain and the point will continue to be missed.
The Christmas story ought to be read as if the reader himself were witnessing this miraculous birth. And should the reader assume that the hero he desperately needs could not possibly be this unremarkable — by all appearances — infant, then he makes a critical, eternal error.
Should one, however, take the Christmas story for what it is — personal, life-changing, and wonderfully true — then he would necessarily see the unassuming infant as the hero, and himself as someone God treasures enough to find worth saving.
