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Let the Heads Roll
Toppling cherished
theologies, inherited traditions, reputations, comforts,
power and ego.
by Danielle Strickland
In our family, there’s a story that
resurfaces every so often, usually when something fragile
breaks. Recently, during home group at my house, a ball flew
through the room and knocked over one of the wise men in my
nativity set. His head snapped clean off.
My mother was visiting. She didn’t love
it.
She slipped instantly into an old,
familiar register - outrage layered with shame - and suddenly
we were both standing inside a memory that has followed our
family for decades.
I was seven or eight. We were moving
(again), driving across Canada, collapsing into a hotel room
for the night. At the last moment, my mom had been given a
farewell gift by a dear friend: a beautiful ceramic figurine.
It mattered to her. It represented being seen. Remembered.
Loved. She carefully placed it on the dresser, away from
danger.
But kids trapped all day in the back of
a station wagon don’t know how to be careful. A wrestling
match broke out on the bed. The dresser shook. The figurine
fell. Its head broke off.
My mother lost it.
The original figurines… repaired now 40+
years later. :-)
Of course, it wasn’t just about the
figurine. It never is. It was exhaustion, grief, transition,
anxiety, and the terror of a life constantly uprooted. But
that moment marked us. A head on the floor. A rupture in the
room.
So when the wise man fell at home
group, I reacted fast. “Mom - cut it out. Chill.”
This time, the stakes were different. I
wasn’t moving. I wasn’t overwhelmed. I wasn’t attached to the
figurine. And honestly? I think more wise men could stand to
lose their heads - especially if it helps their hearts lead
the way. Why not let some joyful kids, excited about Jesus,
help with that?
But here’s the real miracle.
My mother did chill.
She paused. She noticed what was
happening inside her. And led by the Spirit, she right-sized
the moment. She didn’t rush to fix the broken piece. The wise
man stayed beheaded on the floor for the rest of the night.
Instead, she watched the room fill with
worship. The same kids she had wanted to scold chose worship
songs at karaoke and sang with joy and abandon. The night bent
toward Jesus. Something deeper took precedence.
The next day, my
mom shared a reflection she had written - an honest reckoning,
posted publicly
<link>. The Spirit
had shifted her attention. Not condemning her, but inviting
her. Into rest. Into revelation.
You could say the Spirit beheaded her
too.
Not in violence - but in freedom.
She moved from her head - what’s right,
what’s wrong, what’s proper - into her heart - what matters
most. And that shift is never easy. For any of us.
But Christmas is designed to help us do
exactly that.
The story itself insists on it. Read it
closely and you’ll see how often God disrupts certainty in
order to make room for wonder. Herod cannot enter awe; he
clings to control and unleashes violence. Zechariah is
rendered silent because his frameworks can’t yet hold what God
is doing - especially not through a woman’s body and voice.
The shepherds proclaim astonishing news, and we’re never told
how most people respond. I suspect it was easier to dismiss
them than to let their message rearrange everything.
The Christmas story is a holy
interruption. A beheading of our false securities.
And it invites us
to notice what God might need to topple in us too: cherished
theologies, inherited traditions, reputations, comforts,
power, ego. Not to shame us - but
to free us. To get our hearts bigger than our heads. Or at
least back in charge.
So if I have a resolution this year,
inspired by this season, it’s this:
Let the heads roll.
Let them lie where they fall.
Let your heart swell with wonder at
God-with-us.
Because if God is with us, and I
believe He is, then no matter how fragile, unlikely, or easy
to dismiss this story feels, the question still echoes: Who
can be against us?
And the answer, rising from the Heart
of all hearts, is clear:
Nothing.
Nothing can stop God’s love.
This is the news that changes
everything - if we let it.
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