One morning after I had made my morning tea, I was headed from the kitchen to my chair in the living room ruminating that I was about to read and meditate on the section of Luke where the passion of Christ begins. As I crossed the floor, I felt an underlying uneasiness as I considered Jesus, the man who would die on a cross as a perfect sacrifice for sin. Was I entertaining some kind of doubt? Could it be that after all these years I still wondered whether Jesus, the man, was indeed God? Or was it still inconceivable to me that God would become man?