Carnis

On Christmas morning I sat in church, listening to a sermon on the Incarnation. I realized that I have not spent much time thinking about the Latin word incarno. This verb combines “in” with “carnis” — which we usually translate as “flesh.” We read John 1 in the service and heard about how “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” But my mind continued to wonder about carnis and how other languages better capture the messy and powerful truth of incarnation. In Spanish, la carnicería is the butcher shop, and carne asada is a popular preparation of steak. In English, we talk about carnage from a horrible accident, and use carnal to describe a strong sexual/bodily desire. There’s a primal element to carnis, as reflected in her many forms across languages. “Flesh” doesn’t quite capture this feeling for me.

I was mulling over the Latin in my mind and picking at my cuticles (a bad habit that I am trying to break), when I wondered: did Jesus ever notice his cuticles? Thinking about the very real hands–and fingers and cuticles–of Jesus gave me a new understanding of the Incarnation. I will dive into the history of ancient nail care another time, but I am certain that Jesus thought about his cuticles at least once. Jesus was human, and being human comes with the seemingly endless tasks of grooming, attending to, and caring for our bodies.

The Incarnation is profoundly spiritual: God desired to be known and know humanity in the flesh. Jesus walked the Earth, just like us. But, this rich spirituality cannot sterilize the meaty-ness of in-carnis. Jesus lived in a real, messy, primal body. Perhaps us English speakers would better understand the depth of the Incarnation if we had to pick up our Christmas roasts from the carnate counter at the grocery store, where parents would explain to children that no, they don’t sell Jesus here despite hearing this word in church.

This Christmas, I’m remembering that God became human–incarnate–in the full messiness of Jesus’ human body. Cuticles and all.