Last summer my family saw the war tent of General George Washington. We sat in an intimate theatre in Philadelphia’s Museum of the American Revolution where the pre-reveal hype, in my opinion, was a bit much. We were told that the tent would move us to tears and be “an unforgettable experience.” I leaned over and made some crack to my family about the marketing hype. 

But then it happened. The lights dimmed, and the video started, explaining how Washington, the commander of the Revolutionary Army, didn’t keep his distance from suffering. Instead of staying home in Mount Vernon, he dwelt with the soldiers, setting up this very tent right next to his men. He endured the pain of sweltering summers and the chill of bitter-cold winters. Even though he was their lord, he lived their pain so he could lead them to victory. (I couldn’t help but think of Jesus. Jesus should have kept his distance from all this, from us, from me, but he didn’t.)

So when the curtains lifted and the music swelled to reveal the tent that had survived 250 years, I ate my words. I fought back the tears. I didn’t, couldn’t, forget what I experienced.

Who has the power to avoid pain but chooses it anyway? Who gives up their rights for others? George did. Jesus did first. “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14).