In eight short days, Jesus will come into the real world. Not under a beautifully lit manger scene with new hay and a warm bath to welcome him. But to a dingy barn, with the smell of lanolin and poop to welcome his new nose, while a servant-class young mother and a manual laborer of a father will wrestle with first-time parenthood. That baby will preach and no one will listen, love and will be chastised. That baby will speak when others are silent, act when it is not in his best self-interest, and will pray when there are no other words. That baby will shelter the dead and will comfort the heart-sick, will cry out for the victims, and will weep when any of us are broken. Is it possible that this is our joy? Must our joy come from the least of these? The most broken of these?