Do you remember when you used to make Santa Clause cookies and milk on Christmas Eve? And then you’d try to wait up to watch him come down the chimney, escape the roaring inferno of your fireplace, set your presents under the tree, and then eat your cookies? Now suppose you slaved away on those cookies, made them your very best. Formed them just so, perfectly golden brown, chocolate chips just the right texture of gooeyness, walnuts bursting with flavor. And suppose you left those on the plate, and then Santa came in. He spied your cookies. He took a cookie, and ate it. And then he said – out loud – I wonder how these cookies got here? I know: probably flour and sugar and brown sugar and eggs and butter and chocolate chips and walnuts spontaneously grew in the various kitchen receptacles of this house, and then somehow all fell into a spinning bowl, combining them into the perfect substance, at which point they dropped in exactly the right pattern onto a sheet that was at that moment sliding into a 350 degree oven, then the oven must have burped, spitting these cookies onto this plate right here. OR, maybe aliens brought them.” How would you feel? “NO YOU MORON! I made them. I put them there for you! And you think it’s just some big cosmic accident? What’s wrong with you? I made them and put them there for you because I care about you and want you to be happy. It’s no accident. I did it!”
Don’t you think Jesus feels just a little disappointed, when he’s created everything, and nothing exists that he didn’t create? When he knit it all together just perfectly and set everything in its right place? What’s the mind of Christ regarding creation? It’s simple. Jesus says, “I did that.”
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