These days its fashionable to worship the footloose God, the God we’ve busted out of the box to not be safe but good, yes like that handsome Aslan (rawr). But wasn’t the very act of incarnation God boxing himself in? God tethering himself to this dirty little tennis ball? God limiting his usual wherever-the- wind-blows-roaming and shackling his feet to a particular planet/continent/ region/place filled with quite the cast of characters not limited to but including withered men/tormented women/scatter- brained disciples and at least one Pharisee who loved darkness more than light? Maybe, as is sometimes the case, getting God out of the box actually says more about us than God, like maybe it makes us quite cross to think inside boxes which are kissing-cousins to crates, those cramp- your-style-hard-to-breathe-in contraptions usually built by wood/hammer/nails.