And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. - Luke 2.7

The Tea Terrace Cafe in London will sell you yourself; well, more like "your selfie;" well, more like, "your selfiecinno." 

Here's how it works: You download the app and shoot 'em a headshot. The barista uploads it while he brews your beverage (hot chocolate is the other option) and the gizmo prints your portrait on the froth using flavorless food coloring. You, of course, then take pictures of the picture of your picture and post and text and share it while the coffee gets too cold to drink. And you're out seven-fifty American on the deal.

In a society that sees itself everywhere, we have to ask if we see Jesus anywhere. We see him in the Bible; we see him in sermons and songs; we see him in artists' renderings. But I sometimes wonder if what really appears is only a sugary-sweet self-reflection in the fading foam of our own minds. 

At this Christmas season, how will I know I have seen Jesus? The classic texts of the nativity offer a couple of ways. First, I've really seen Jesus if I want to worship him. We should avoid back loading a lot of developed theology on the shepherds and wise men; they may have seen the thing as more of a political than a religious action and they certainly didn't have the ghost of a clue about the Second Member of the Holy Trinity. Well, my own worship comes all jumbled with notions of nationalism and diplomacy and basic covering-my-uh-bases. But God has incredibly low standards about that sort of thing and receives my worship as much better than I offer it. If for even a brief hour on Sunday or a brief moment during the week. I see someone else's image in the latte of my life, I've taken a staggering step toward something greater than myself.

Second, I've really seen Jesus if I want to kill him. Herod's in-house seminary professors knew where messiah would be born, but not one of them left town that night. Some might say they stayed home where it was warm; I'd say they stayed home where it was lukewarm. Herod, on the other hand, took the thing seriously enough to attempt infanticide. If Jesus isn't the Savior, then he's a lot of trouble. Even if Jesus is the Savior, he's still a lot of trouble. Herod was the kinda guy who worried a lot about his brand; he put up a lot of buildings and saw that his name went with 'em. He wanted to be the only face in everyone's foam. If I ever really catch on to the full extent to which Jesus will not be an adjunct or instrument to my own plans, I will admit to a desire to ditch him.

In "Talladega Nights," a terrible movie with a surprising number of good lines, the main character, Ricky Bobby, prays to "Eight Pound, Six Ounce, Newborn Baby Jesus, in your golden, fleece diapers, with your curled-up, fat, balled-up little fists pawin' at the air." When someone protests that the Christ Child eventually grew up, Ricky snaps, "I like the baby version the best, do you hear me?!" Herod, of course, didn't even like that version, but the point is that we don't get to pick. We don't get to recreate Jesus in our own, fluffy, whipped-up image. 

As Christmas approaches, may God help us to see the true Jesus. And may God help us when we do!