Motherhood has powerfully reinforced for me the significance of the fact that when God was most vulnerable - in the womb, nursing at the breast, as a child, at death - God was wholly entrusted to the care of women. I find that frighteningly profound.
When this baby is “milk drunk,” she is completely relaxed, eyes closed, mouth open in a slight smile, chubby arms resting above her head in a posture of complete surrender. To imagine God like that? To imagine God waking in the night with hungry screams? Takes my breath away.
I know the resurrection is supposed to be our main thing, but the incarnation is, to me, the most stunning and beautiful part of the Christian faith.
(This is also why I find John Piper’s claim that Christianity has a “masculine feel” laughably absurd. Tell that to the woman who nursed God at her breasts, to the woman who anointed his feet for burial, to the women who cradled him at birth & death & witnessed his resurrection.)
For better or worse, fair or unfair, women have often tended to the vulnerable things. And guess what? That’s where God shows up.
