Birthday Cake for Jesus

Okay, it's time for a little transparency. This Christmas I baked my first birthday cake for Jesus. I felt just as silly baking it and singing around it as I thought I would. In fact, the entire experience was not the Christmas celebration I had anticipated.

I've never been on board with the idea. My literal mind could never seem to accept it. Jesus is eternal, therefore, no "birthday." You don't serve birthday cake at a baby's birth; Christmas might be best celebrated with blue bubblegum cigars or diaper trees. And shouldn't the one having the birthday be able to enjoy cake? Jesus doesn't eat the cake -- overweight, overindulged Americans do! But, I had decided I would do it as a way of re-enforcing the point of Christmas: God come to earth as a babe to save mankind. Then, one of our littles asked if we could bake a birthday cake for Jesus. "Great, she's into it. Anything for the kiddos, right?"

Christmas Eve we returned from church, sat down to a deliciously noisy family dinner. While dishes were cleared, we called the rest of our family overseas and collected some of the excitement of their Christmas Day. Then, it was time for cake. I got out the dishes, feeling as though, sooner or later I'd have to reel some of the older folks at the table back in with a gentle scolding, "Oh, stop! It's for the littles. I let you have your fun." Not a creature was stirring. Not one sarcastic comment left anyone's lips.

Candles. Just how many candles do you put on Jesus' birthday cake? He's eternal! Even if you're counting mortal years, there'd be no fitting that many candles on this cake. I settled on one and lit it. The lights were dimmed, the cake was placed in the midst of our family, and everyone sang. Everyone sang! Well, thank You, Jesus. That went well. I plucked the single candle from the cake and started slicing.

The following evening, as the house settled into quiet, Scott and I began to revel in the wonder and memories of the previous twenty-four hours. "I really liked the birthday cake thing. That was cool," he said. Really? "Yeah, I though it would be kind of weird, but it was cool. And I think all the kids were into it." I was dumbfounded. Sure, I hadn't heard any objections, but liked it?

A couple days passed, and the time came for Christmas ham to be made into soup and birthday cake to be parceled out and frozen. I unwrapped the colorful treat and noticed something -- a single hole through the icing, where the birthday candle had stood. Jesus came to die. His wrists and ankles pierced as He allowed Himself to be nailed to a tree, the punishment of the cursed. His heart pierced by a Roman sword. I fought back the tears. This "Christmas" celebration turned my heart to the cross. The place where it all began for me. My slate was washed clean. My heart was made new. Redemption was purchased -- for my life, for everything this world dumps on me, and for everything at which I fail or fall short. The place where I was healed and hope was restored. Where the Seed was given up to die that His life in me might flourish and bear fruit for all to see. The place where my victory masqueraded as Heaven's defeat, where the way things appeared to human eyes did not come close to what was being done for me. The place where a "silly" chocolate cake could bring glory to a King.

Happy birthday, Dear Jesus! Happy birthday to you!