Jesus & Gingerbread.

There's an ancient, medieval legend about gingerbread and Jesus.

Well, okay, fine, it's really about ginger, not gingerbread.

See, in an 8th century Greek document, translated into Latin as Collectanea et Flores, the wise men who brought offerings to Jesus didn't bring just frankincense, myrrh, and gold -- they also attempted to bring him ginger. However, the magus responsible for the ginger got sick, and was unable to make it to Bethlehem with his friends.

He was dying in a small Syrian village, and gave his chest of ginger roots to a Rabbi who had been caring for him during his time of need.

In response to this gift, the Rabbi told the Magus of the prophesies of the great King who was coming to the Jews; one of these prophecies intimated that he would be born in Bethlehem, which in Hebrew, meant "House of Bread." The Rabbi continued by telling his guest that he would therefore have his young students build miniature houses out of bread, a symbol meant to nourish the hope for their Messiah.

Hearing this, the Wise Man suggested the students start adding ground-up ginger to the bread for a flavorful zest and tang, and also to help preserve the bread for longer.

I don't know if this story is true or not, but I do know that gingerbread/gingerbread houses and the church go way back. According to one French legend, gingerbread was brought to Europe in 992 by an Armenian monk (who later became a saint), and he spent several years teaching Christians and priests how to bake the spiced bread. In 1444, there are records indicating Swedish nuns would bake gingerbread to help with indigestion pain. There were gingerbread masters as early as the 1600s, most of them priests.

This sweet, whimsical Christmas tradition of constructing gingerbread houses is a part of our church history, and most of us don't even know it. But why is it significant?

I don't have a deep theological answer, but as someone who has been more in-tune with Advent this year than ever before, I've thought a lot about our traditions and what they could mean for us today.

We work to knead dough with our hands. We mix, we measure, we move our muscles to create, an intentional dance done in our kitchens, once a year. We build beautiful things, which are also often fragile, cementing the pieces together with icing in hopes that it will last and not crumble, though there is never any guarantee.

We decorate the outside, leaving the inside often barren and hollow because we think it's the outside that matters most... and sometimes we build it up, just to break it down to eat later, effort preceded by desiccation of our own doing.

We put forth effort to build, without really knowing why we do so.

But maybe this is how Jesus moves within our midst, today. Maybe, He is kneading some of us, working out the clumps and extra air that doesn't need to be there. Maybe, He's sitting with us through the heat of refinement, offering us comfort and the promise of beauty to come afterwards. Maybe, He's cementing us together with the hope that we don't come apart, praying we will allow Him to hold us together like only He can. Maybe, He is making us beautiful, not just outwardly, but inwardly, too; because He knows that when we're torn down and apart, it's what we carry inside of us that makes the tearing tolerable.

Maybe He is building us, one by one, each uniquely and intentionally, and breathing hope into our hearts as He does so. Maybe, His efforts are always executed with purpose, and not just for the sake of the doing.

Each wall that Jesus erects within us is a piece of a greater whole, not meant to keep anyone out or to stand alone, but to create a space worth welcoming all in to, a home worth having in our hearts. Jesus is building, cultivating, working hope into us, one step at a time. Maybe faith is just hope, after all.

We need symbols of hope. We need them because they root us deeper into our faith, serving as physical reminders of our past and our future, of the saints who've gone before us. Symbols are our way of holding hands with our entire tribe, a bridge that unites us.

We need to remember that we are unfinished products -- collective works-in-progress -- but that we are called Beloved anyway. We need to remember that, just like baking, Jesus isn't rushing us but taking His time because if you rush the process of perfecting, you don't get the best possible results.

We need to remember that we are made by Hi and for Him, and that even if we are outwardly messy and unpolished and imperfect, Jesus is still the master baker and He loves what He makes.

This time of year is not about Hallmark movies, lights, or Christmas cookies, but rather about the God who died on one tree so that we could decorate another.

You are being built, friends. You are a symbol of hope, of what's to come, of heaven. You are both fragile and beautiful and delightful.

How sweet you are; how sweet Our King.