Wonderful Counselor, the Lord with You

But there will be no gloom for her who was in anguish.
In the former time he brought into contempt
the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali,
but in the latter time he has made glorious the way of the sea,
the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations.
The people who walked in darkness
    have seen a great light;
those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness,
    on them has light shone. . .

For to us a child is born,
    to us a son is given;
and the government shall be upon his shoulder,
    and his name shall be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
    Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of his government and of peace
    there will be no end,
on the throne of David and over his kingdom,
    to establish it and to uphold it
with justice and with righteousness
    from this time forth and forevermore.
The zeal of the LORD of hosts will do this.
- Isaiah 9:1-2, 6-7 

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. Today I light the candle of Jesus as our Wonderful Counselor.

This passage above is part of a full oracle given by the prophet Isaiah. It was a message delivered during a dark period in Israel’s history with both contemporary and future foretellings. With their enemies growing in strength, the people of God could not tell if the Lord was for them, against them, or if He had abandoned them to their fears. So Isaiah speaks into their desperation, prophesying about a grim future of defeat, exile, and return. But amid his bleak forecasts, Isaiah also delivers a sign from God.

Writers at the Zondervan Academic blog reflect on Isaiah 9:6, saying,

“Included [are] two prophetic visions of a child who would represent God’s presence, embody his characteristics, and bear the responsibility of governing his people.

Two chapters before Isaiah says “For unto us a child is born,” he prophesied the birth child whose name would signify the presence of God: 'Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel.' (Isaiah 7:14)”

In Luke’s gospel, we read of the Angel Gabriel visiting a young woman named Mary. His words echo that promise given seven centuries before. However, it is not just the angel’s description of this child — “He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.” (Luke 1:32-33)—that channel Isaiah’s prophetic words.

We all know that angels begin their messages with proclamations of “Fear not!” or “Do not be afraid!”, yet before that reassurance, Gabriel says something important we often miss. I don’t know why I’ve never noticed it before. He says, “Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you!” (Luke 1:28b).

In her book, Awaiting the Manger, Ocieanna Fleiss explores the “whispers of Advent in the Old Testament.” Reflecting on how Eve may have responded to God’s promise following the first sin in the Garden. She says,

“Only God could repair the broken fellowship, and we first glimpse his rescue plan in these words he spoke to the serpent, ‘I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and her offspring; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel’ (Genesis 3:15).

In these puzzling words, we find the whisper of a promise. Someday—tomorrow? Next week? Far in the future? Adam and Eve didn’t know when, but they did know that through his suffering, he would free them from the doom of hopeless wandering. They would walk with their Father once again.

But that was all they knew.

‘Send him soon,’ I imagine Eve prayed as she left the garden. ‘Yes, soon Lord.’

Millenia passed, and then, to a daughter of Eve an angel came. This angel was unlike those who wielded the flaming swords blocking entrance to the Father’s presence—instead, this angel announced the way to be with God again. 'Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you' (Luke 1:28). Did you see that? The Immanuel promise was right there in the greeting. 'The Lord is with you.' Finally! Finally, he would arrive—the one who would crush the serpent’s head, endure the fiery sword, and usher us into sweet fellowship once again.”

I recently learned that the Hebrew word for waiting, qāvâ (you can read more on the Blue Letter Bible website), has a meaning rooted in being intertwined. It holds connotations of endurance and strength like a length of twisted rope.

From the beginning in the Garden of Eden, God intended beautiful and complete communion with His creation. But then sin entered the world and a rift was made. We read above about the Lord’s promise regarding the serpent’s offspring and the woman’s offspring. But God went on to reveal a new reality full of painful child bearing, imbalanced partnerships between men and women, and hard labor for daily sustenance. From then on, Adam and Eve and all their descendants have been plagued by having to wait. Yet God never abandoned His people. Every step from the Garden to the Manger, and from the Manger to the Cross has been full of God’s new plan to mend, and heal, and make whole that which was lost.

After Malachi’s last prophecy, Israel spent 400 years of thinking God was finished making and keeping promises. Yet He was just getting started with the biggest Answer history had ever seen. The Angel Gabriel is sent to a small village called Nazareth and God leads him to a young woman named Mary. Just like her ancestor David, she is favored. God has sought her out. All of Israel’s waiting has not been in vain.

This Immanuel is indeed a Wonderful Counselor, sent by the Father to show His people the way of Light and Life.

Waiting in Traffic with Immanuel

It’s been a few days since I’ve written. I set out to write something last night, but before I would even begin to type, I felt my eyes drooping into sleep. . .

As the workdays end, I often feel like I have sufficient energy to tackle the evening with dinner-making, dishing-washing, and (this season) Advent-writing. But then I get into my car and head out on my commute home. By the time I’ve parked on my street, lethargy is seeping in. There are many reasons for this; chronic pain and the early setting sun don’t help. But this being Advent, I began reflecting on the longness of journeys home and the reality that chaos and uncertainty are exhausting. Commuting is essentially an exercise in perseverance (and often long-suffering!). For those two take a train or bus, it can be s fairly passive waiting for movement from point A to point B. Driving, one gets the added disadvantage of contributing to the ebb and flow of with little to no ability to adjust course or speed up.

All I want to do is get home. I don’t want to wait.

How much of life is like that? And how much of Advent is like that? I often find myself wanting to rush through Week 1 of Advent, to get the “waiting” theme over with. While there is rich theology in the exploration of hope and longing, and it’s pretty much the principal motif of this blog, sometimes I just want to “arrive” at the Nativity narrative. It seems a little more ordered, less open for interpretation, yet at the same time ready for deep contemplation.

Writer Laura Jean Truman reflects on this idea of waiting (in traffic). She says,

“Brake lights all the way down. . . I want to reach into this picture and wipe away everything in front of this sunset like ugly doodles on a whiteboard—clean out cars and utility polls with a wet rag and see the sunset that’s all clogged up behind chaos.

Instead, here we are in Christmas traffic, vibrating with bad news and family drama and fears for ourselves, our neighbors, and our earth.

I used to try to make holy and tidy Advent seasons, to wipe away everything unpleasant or ugly or too-human.

But if God was born in a garage during tax season on a roadtrip—maybe the work of Advent isn’t trying (uselessly) to wipe away everything chaotic. Maybe Advent is crying in the walk-in closet - wondering if Mary cried, too, that she had her first baby so far from home and family and friends. Maybe it’s showing up imperfectly, reminding ourselves that if something is worth doing it’s worth doing poorly, tending gently to our shame - wondering if Joseph felt shame, too, about inadequacies and imperfections as a dad raising this Messiah.

Advent isn’t for the ones who have succeed in wiping chaos away. The good news of Advent is “this too shall pass”. . . We are the weary world that isn’t rejoicing yet. Advent is for us. We are the people walking in darkness who don’t even believe we’ll see light. Advent is for us.

Advent honors the ugly and chaotic, and doesn’t tell us to pretend it’s OK when it’s not. Advent doesn’t say “act hopeful!” Advent doesn’t tell us to stop crying.

Advent whispers:
whether you feel hope or fear,
whether you wait patiently or anxiously,
whether you’re trudging forward or gave up and sat down on the path,  
the good news is that God comes anyway—right in the ugly. Right in the mess.”

I’ve never felt like my practice of Advent writing has shied away from the messiness of life, but this year it’s been really hard to focus. It feels a little bit like being in a traffic jam.

Jesus didn’t have to deal with cars during his time on Earth, but he did do his fair share of traveling (even with caravans as a small child). And He never declared those journeys as lost time. Maybe a part of His divine nature wished He could move through time and space in the blink of an eye, but as a human, he was humbly walking under the Father’s lead. And in God’s economy, nothing is wasted.

If we’ve learning anything from Scripture it’s that God uses any and all thing for His glory and our good. It’s on the journeys that we learn unexpected lessons. Some journeys take longer than others. Some feel more full of chaos. But the good news is that Jesus is there, right alongside us. Immanuel, God with us.

Blue Christmas: Wearily We Look to the Light

During a Passover Seder meal, it is traditional to spill a bit of wine from your glass at the mention of each of the ten plagues that God visited upon the Egyptians. The leader often says something like this: “We cannot allow ourselves to drink a full measure. Our own loves are diminished bye the recollection of this catastrophe. We express our sorrow that the Egyptians had to suffer punishment.”

So too with Blue Christmas.

Christmas and the season of Advent leading up to it are all about hope, peace, joy, and love. Those are the traditional names of the candles we light around the Advent wreath. But there is great suffering in this world. And it must be both acknowledged and grieved.
And so, on December 21 we set aside the longest night of the year to do just that.

But we don’t sit in darkness in self-deprecation. We recognize that the darkness of night makes the light of dawn so much more anticipated and awesome.

The other day as I was scrolling through Instagram, I happened upon a suggested post from ShannanWrites. She said, “Without the weariness, there is no thrill of hope.”

She, of course, is referring to the first verse of O Holy Night:

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth;
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
'Till he appeared, and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

I think we can safely safe we live in a weary world. And it appears wearier still from the effects of political unrest, racial tensions, economic hardship, and an on-going pandemic.

But in the “good times,” we have no need for hope. It’s only in desperate circumstances that we cling to hope that things might change for the better. This dichotomy is so striking. God is forever in the business of Light, but He permits the darkness so that we can better see the Brightness that has always been shining. We can call Him by name: Jesus, the Light of the World (John 8:12)--God with Us, Immanuel.

Tish Harrison Warren speaks often of this in her book, Prayer in the Night. I did not imagine this would be an Advent book, but so many themes have aligned this year. Allow me to share a few passages (note that all page numbers are from the eBook version):

“Mysteriously, God does not take away our vulnerability. He enters into it. Jesus left a place where there is no night to enter into our darkness. . .  To look at Jesus is to know that our creator has felt pain, has known trouble, and is well acquainted with sorrow. But our hope in suffering is not merely to gaze on the biography of an ancient man frozen in the pages of the Bible. The story of the gospel is not a mere mantra or a relic of history. It is alive and on-going. The work of Jesus continues, even now, in our everyday lives. So in hardship we do not look to Jesus solely as one who has been there before, once upon a time in a distant past. We find he is here with us, in the present tense. He participates in our suffering, even as, mysteriously, in our suffering we participate in the fullness of Christ’s life. (p. 92-93)

The hope God offers us is this: He will keep close to us, even in darkness, in doubt, in fear and vulnerability. He does not promise to keep bad things from happening. He does not promise that night will not come, or that it will not be terrifying, or that we will immediately be tugged to shore. He promises that we will not be left alone. He will keep watch with us in the night. (p. 103)

Redemption itself does not skip over the darkness, but demands that every last tear run. (p. 157)

As Christians, we take up watching as a practice, a task even. We stay on the lookout for grace. We proclaim that even in the deepest darkness there is one we can trust, who will not leave us. We believe that even if the worst comes to pass there is a solidity to beauty, to God himself, that will remain. Our posture of waiting does not deny the horrors of the night, but it bets on the morning to come. . . So, we pray for those who watch. (p. 165)

May we hold onto this truth. And let us pray this night for those who watch, and wait, and weep, weary and wore down by a myriad of weights. For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

 

 

Creator and Created

This week I began a new job at a new library branch, and it’s been hard. I don’t do well with change, and this new location is all sorts of different.

There are a lot of semi-religious platitudes that could be spoken into my experience. But instead, I am trying to think of something in the Nativity story that could speak to into this struggle. We are in the middle of Advent, after all.

I could write about Mary and how radically different her life became after the angel Gabriel appeared to her. Or Zechariah, having to completely shift the way he communicated for nine months, not knowing if and when he would be delivered from his muteness. I might even think on Jesus, experiencing a new identity as a human baby after inhabiting the expanse of the heavens.

But I think what I want to focus on is the life-giving thing that I’ve found in the midst of feeling unsettled.

The first day at my new branch I unintentionally began working on a holiday display about an hour and a half before closing. It was a simple and cute sign with a reindeer in the middle. It turns out, I really needed those minutes of designing and arranging, cutting and pasting. I left feeling like things could be okay. All because I allowed my brain to engage in something creative. To build and shape and imagine.

Today when that hour and a half time rolled around, I intentionally began working on a new bulletin board. Taping and stapling, cutting, and arranging. One of the after-school kids even came over and asked if I needed help. So I put him to work taping up the winter trees I had just made.

How does this connect to the Advent narrative?

I think it’s the whole point. God began work on an intricate and highly creative story when He decided (long ago back in the Garden) to send a Redeemer to save His people. Every step of the way was something completely new that God had never done before. From Abraham to David, from Solomon to Josiah, from Jechoniah to Joseph. Unheard of promises, unique leading characters, strange means and methods, the rise and fall of empires, circumstances no one could have imagined, the miraculous and the mundane. All so that the Son would arrive in a manger in Bethlehem.

I don’t think it was an accident that Jesus’ earthly father was a carpenter. Jesus spent the first 30-ish years of his life on Earth learning and creating, working with his hands. And when His ministry began, He plied that same sense of creativity, originality, and joy in everything He said and did. The Word made flesh, Creator, Teacher, Mediator, the Bright and Morning Star, the image of the invisible God, the Way, the Truth and the Life, Immanuel.

To say we serve a creative God is an understatement. How much can we learn from Creator in the flesh?

In her book, Prayer in the Night, Tish Harrison Warren quotes from English author and teacher, Francis Spufford and then goes on to say:

“’We don't have an argument that solves the problem of the cruel world, but we have a story.’ This is why, no matter what we claim to believe or disbelieve, what rises to the surface in our most vulnerable moments is inevitably the story on which we build our lives” (p. 88).

We are weak and vulnerable every day, some moments worse than others. But we are also creative beings, formed by a Creator God, saved by the Firstborn of all Creation. That is our story.

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.
- Colossians 1:15-17

 

 

A Lowly Savior

My small group has been slowly (for the last year) reading through Dane Ortlund’s Gentle and Lowly. Some of you may have heard of it. But it’s surprising that a book based on Puritan writings about Christ would be so popular last year—it must have been the impact of living through a pandemic. Stretched thin by anxiety and worry, people have been drawn to the image of the tender heart of God.

In some ways, the book is a perfect book for Advent. If we call Jesus “gentle and lowly” we can’t help but acknowledge his earthly beginning from the depths of a manger.

Ortlund writes, “Although his ways are higher than our ways, the way in which his thoughts are higher than ours is that we do not realize just how low he delights to come” (p.162). He then quotes from Isaiah 57:

Thus says the one who is high and lifted up,
who inhabits eternity, whose name is Holy:
I dwell in the high and holy place,
 and also with him who is of a contrite and lowly spirit,
to revive the spirit of the lowly,
and to revive this heart of the contrite.
(Isaiah 57:15)

“Where is the heart of God, the unspeakably exalted one, naturally drawn, according to Isaiah?” He continues, “To the lowly. When Jesus showed up 700 years after Isaiah prophesied and revealed his deepest heart as ‘gentle and lowly,’ he was proving once and for all that gentle lowliness is indeed where God loves to dwell. It is what he does. It is who he is. His ways are not our ways.” (p. 162)

When I read this passage, it reminded me of something C.S. Lewis wrote in his book, Miracles:

“In the Christian story God descends to reascend. He comes down; down from the heights of absolute being into time and space, down from humanity; down further still, if the embryologists are right, to recapitulate in the womb ancient and pre-human phases of life; down to the very roots and seabed of the Nature He has created. But he goes down to come up again and bring the whole ruined world with Him. One has the picture of a strong man stooping lower and lower to get himself underneath some great complicated burden. He must stoop in order to lift, he must almost disappear under the load before he incredibly straightens his back and marches off with the whole mass swaying on his shoulders.” (p. 173, 179)

Who are the lowly? We are. And why do we call Jesus lowly? Because he descended to lowliness to be with us. It is our very weakness and sinfulness that prompted the Lord of all the Universe to make a way; calling His own Son lowly so that He could bring us salvation for all eternity. That is love. Immanuel.

The Stable Mess

We have curated the Nativity scene to fit our needs. It is often clean and cozy, gentle and serene. But that is the opposite of what Jesus’ first night on earth would have been like. Even from the distance of a stable or cave or whatever the shelter was, there was the unmistakable din of the sound of thousands of people descending into narrow streets of Bethlehem. It was a Census year, after all.

The stable would have been loud. The mooing of cows, the clucking of chickens, the uncomfortable rustle of straw. Not to mention the annoyingly bright star that shown overhead, when all new parents would want was some peace for their new baby to fall asleep. They must have forgotten, in the thick of things, that the Prince of Peace was right there with them in the chaos.

Maybe they could hear the herald from the angels, as a shepherds received the good news. But how much less were they expecting visitors when they had still to wipe up the muck of birth, when Mary was still damp with the sweat of such a midwife-less feat.
But God does not make mistakes. He could have made it easier; simpler for a young woman and her husband to have a baby who would grow up to be the Savior of the world. But instead, God embraced—even chose—the mess.

All through December I run across wonderful Advent one liners as I read books and articles and posts on social media. Last week I saw this one, a quote from pastor and author Ashlee Eiland. She wrote: “Your mess is a suitable stable for the Light of the world.”

If it wasn’t, God would have become Immanuel some other way. Despite what those in Herod’s palace thought, God’s son was not going to be cradled in marble halls and clothed with fine robes. He came to be like us; He came to be with us. His birth, life, and death were messy—all so that He could show us the way. And in His resurrection we have this hope of heaven:

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.”
- Revelation 21:3-5

We have this assurance: The King who traded the glory of the Throne for the mess of a stable, He is coming again, and this time He will bring order to the chaos, unsnarl the tangles, cleanse the stains, restore the fragments, and redeem the ruined.

The Implausible Journey

Yesterday while “weeding” children’s nonfiction at the library (looking for outdated and damaged books to discard), I ran across a fun book called Packs. It describes various groups of animals; what they are called and how they function as a community. On one page I read that a herd of wildebeests is called an implausibility. Can you believe that? This mostly useless fact seemed to jump off the page at me. “That’s something for the Advent blog!” it shouted.

Wildebeests, also called gnus, are large African antelopes. One online article describes them as “one of nature’s most befuddling quadrupeds… with the thick, horned bust of a buffalo, the spindly legs and wispy tail of a horse, and the scraggly whitish beard of a wizard.” They are itinerant enigmas, migrating up to 1,000 miles a year, across dangerous routes filled with predators.

Now for the word, implausibility—"the quality of being unlikely or difficult to believe.”

Sounds like the Incarnation to me.

There is a quote from Charles Spurgeon that goes something like this: “See how low He fell to lift us from our fall!”

Jesus didn’t just journey as a fetus from Nazareth to Bethlehem, He shattered the dimensions of time and space by traveling from Divine to Divine Incarnate. A huge distance. For us. To identify with us and vanquish the powers of sin and death for eternity. Sounds a little implausible—that the Lord of the Universe would descend to Earth as a defenseless baby. Implausible, like a herd of wildebeest.

“The story of Christmas is the story of God’s relentless love for us,” writes Max Lucado in his book, Because of Bethlehem. “The moment Mary touched God’s face is the moment God made is case: there is no place he will not go. If he is willing to be born in a barnyard, then expect him to be at work anywhere—bars, bedrooms, boardrooms, and brothels. No place is too common. No person is too hardened. No distance is too far. There is no person he cannot reach. There is no limit to his love. When Christ was born, so was our hope.” (p. 134-135)

It is a hope that often doesn’t make any sense. But if Christ was willing to travel that distance for us 2000 years ago—to become our Immanuel—oh, how much we can trust in Him today!




 

From Fear to Faith

 

Tonight I draw inspiration from the sermon I heard this morning at church. One of the elders gave the message, and in it he compared the angelic visitation of Zechariah and Mary.

Scripture tells us that on both occasions, it was Gabriel who served as God’s messenger. We don’t often think about the thoughts of angels, but we know they had desires and aspirations. What a task to be given! To herald both the Messiah and his forerunner. I wonder that he could barely hold in the news—one of the first instances of the Gospel (the good news) spoken. But such different experiences. One took place in the hallowed and architecturally stunning halls of the temple. The other, somewhere in a dusty, small town. It’s no wonder Gabriel received different responses. But they probably weren’t what he was expecting.

Zechariah definitely wasn’t prepared to encounter an angel that day, “but at least he was ready for a deep spiritual moment.” Mary on the other hand, was going about her daily life when suddenly a terrifying warrior of light appeared before her.

Without a doubt, Mary was troubled. But not at the sight of him (that was what made Zechariah become “gripped by fear”).

In the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.” Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. (Luke 1:26-29)

Mary was troubled at his words. “The Lord is with you.”

These seem like comforting words, and maybe they were. But underneath that comfort, Mary was probably recounting the stories of God showing up to her ancestors. After hearing the words, “God is with you,” nothing would be the same again.

I understand that kind of fear. It is a fear of change. Even if the announcement is a wonderful thing, a life-changing and world-shaping thing, it’s only human be at least a little afraid of how different things will be from then on.

But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.”

“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”

The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. For no word from God will ever fail.”

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.” Then the angel left her.
(Luke 1:30-38)

“Nothing was safe about God showing up and declaring His victory”—indeed the Old Testament is filled with the results of such glorious military campaigns. But Mary seems to be stilled by Gabriel’s words. Maybe she sensed that this throne her baby will grow up to sit on is a different kind of throne. Maybe she really grasped the importance of the baby’s name, Jesus—"the Lord saves.” Regardless, even though she has shown fear at Gabriel’s first words (and is probably still reeling at the improbability of it all), she does not respond in fear. She responds in faith.

God used both Zechariah and Mary in powerful, yet humble ways. He knew their unique circumstances would give them a proclivity towards fear. But he allowed that fear to shape their humility and grow their faith. For Zechariah, it took nine months. We may never know why Mary said yes so quickly. But I imagine a radical transformation took place in her heart: from the fear of “God with you” to an utter hope that Immanuel was on the way. For no world from God will ever fail.

Welcome the Wind

As believers in modern times, we often take our salvation for granted. We don't tend to think about what salvation looks like; what it really means. But the prophets of old, as 1 Peter tells us, marveled at what salvation would look like, and who it would actually be for. Could they even picture us, living in the 21st century?

Here is the passage:

Concerning this salvation, the prophets, who spoke of the grace that was to come to you, searched intently and with the greatest care, trying to find out the time and circumstances to which the Spirit of Christ in them was pointing when he predicted the sufferings of the Messiah and the glories that would follow. It was revealed to them that they were not serving themselves but you, when they spoke of the things that have now been told you by those who have preached the gospel to you by the Holy Spirit sent from heaven. Even angels long to look into these things. – 1 Peter 1:10-12

These are not usual Christmas verse. In fact, they seem to direct our gaze towards Jesus’ suffering and glory (death and resurrection). But all of this is for us. The cross was not the first moment of Christ’s suffering. He lowered himself into our lives—full of pain, suffering, and loss. It is one of the great mysteries: that we share in his suffering because He first joined us in ours.

When God answered the centuries-long prayers of Israel by sending His son, He was knowingly allowing his children to encounter a long list of hard things. Yet the hiccups in the Nativity story don’t often faze us. 2000 years later, they don't seem like a big deal. But if you've ever struggled with a season God has you in (raise your hand if you're human), then you know. The little things all matter. Zechariah's muteness; Mary's shame; Joseph's uncertainty; the long, hard journey to Bethlehem; nowhere to stay once they reached Joseph’s hometown; having to rest among smelly animals; no one to help Mary deliver her baby; having to receive unexpected guests; the Wise Men encountering an unfriendly King Herod; Mary and Joseph having to flee to Egypt, and the list could go on. Those are just some of the things that Scripture records. But every bit of struggle, inconvenience, and hardship is important to the narrative.

I don’t think the prophets would have been surprised. They served a God who didn’t wipe away calamity but walked through it with them. The people of the Old Testament—even having to rely upon priests and prophets—understood the concept of Immanuel much better than we do; much better than first century Israelites did as well.

But if we stop and think, each of our salvation stories (the big S salvation, and the daily act of “working out our salvation with fear and trembling”) reflects the road Christ took. Even before His birth, the road was fraught with both “suffering and glories.”

Sometime this past summer I listened to author KJ Ramsey speak on a podcast. She told the story of a biodome in Arizona, a man-made biosphere meant to research the possibility of sustaining life on a far flung planet. The plants were growing well and quickly, but one thing the scientists neglected to include: wind. You see, the trees grew so tall, yet their roots were under-developed. Trees need wind. The push and the pull, and sway and the rustle of leaves actually strengthens the tree’s root system. The struggle is necessary for a strong tree.

So too with humans. That is the beauty of the Nativity story. It reminds us to welcome the wind. And to trust that God knows and sees the gales He is leading us through. For His glory and our good.

The Insignificance of Bethlehem

But you, O Bethlehem Ephrathah,
    who are too little to be among the clans of Judah,
from you shall come forth for me
    one who is to be ruler in Israel,
whose coming forth is from of old,
    from ancient days.
Therefore he shall give them up until the time
    when she who is in labor has given birth;
then the rest of his brothers shall return
    to the people of Israel.
And he shall stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the LORD,
    in the majesty of the name of the LORD his God.
And they shall dwell secure, for now he shall be great
    to the ends of the earth.
And he shall be their peace.
- Micah 5:2-5a

Bethlehem.
A logical next step after talking about Ruth… and David.

Why was it so significant that Jesus was born in Bethlehem? Why wasn’t he born in Nazareth where Mary and Joseph were living at the time?

Throughout Scripture, we see that lineage is important. It was important to the patriarchs and remained so at the time of Mary and Joseph. Matthew even took great pains to accurately record Jesus’ ancestry at the beginning of his gospel.

An easy answer is that the prophecies said so. This passage, Micah 5:2, but also
2 Samuel 7:12-16, Jeremiah 23:5-6, and finally the familiar Isaiah 11—where it talks about a shoot from the stump of Jesse—all refer to a righteous king who will come from David’s line.

But why did God choose Bethlehem? I think one answer lies in the picture we see emerging from the beginning of Micah 5. Paula Gooder writes, “The word that Micah uses to describe Bethlehem literally means ‘insignificant’ or ‘youngest’ and seems to be a deliberate reference to David, who was himself the most insignificant and youngest of the brothers. True kingship, Micah seems to be saying, lies in the humble, insignificant roots of David, not in the arrogant, power hungry courts of the king (p. 70)

The Messiah, though a king, was to have humble beginnings, a Shepherd even. He was to be a ruler like David. But the Davidic line was tied directly to the lowly place of Bethlehem, the “house of bread,” not the royal courts of Jerusalem.

Paula Gooder concludes, “This prophecy is not so much a romantic reminder of the special place of Bethlehem in God's plan, as it is a radical proclamation of the unsettling truth of God's plan for the world; a plan that insists on justice, steadfast love, and on walking with God in humility” (p. 72).

Jesus could have been born on the side of the road between Nazareth and Joseph’s hometown, but God loves weaving a rich plan of redemption too much for the symbolism of Bethlehem to go to waste.

In Bethlehem we see the birth of a servant king. It is the manifestation of Immanuel—a Savior—that God had been planning since the beginning. And along the way, He handpicked “young” and “insignificant” players such as we, to join in the telling. Thanks be to God.

Expecting the Light

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:1-5)

These verses aren’t the Nativity narrative we are used to at Christmas time, but they are some of the most poignant interpretations of what we mean when we say “Immanuel.” Let’s focus on the second half—the image of light.

Throughout Scripture, the presence of God is shown with light. Sometimes God wields His creation to display His glory; other times, the light is God’s very presence. With the Incarnation, God humbly wrapped the Light in a baby’s body, that He might show us the way. Yet before Jesus was born his relative, Zechariah, had more to tell.

In the first chapter of Luke, when the people were outside of the temple waiting for Zechariah to emerge, they were praying and anticipating a blessing. After lighting the incense on behalf of the people it was customary for the priest to bestow the ancient blessing passed down from Aaron:

The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; the LORD lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace. (Number 6:24-26)

But Zechariah was never able to speak those words. All he could do was gesture and point. The people surmised that he had seen a vision. How many people left that day wondering what that vision might be? They didn’t seem curious enough to ask Zechariah to spell it out. But fast forward nine months. Those near him on the eighth day after John was born finally got to hear a blessing from the priest:

And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
    for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people
    in the forgiveness of their sins,
because of the tender mercy of our God,
    whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
    to guide our feet into the way of peace.”
(Luke 1:76-79)

It says “fear came on all their neighbors. And all these things were talked about through all the hill country of Judea, and all who heard them laid them up in their hearts. . .” (Luke 1:65-66a)

Aaron’s blessing was a regular reminder that God was shining His face on His people. That His very presence (countenance) would give them peace. R.C. Sproul teaches on this idea in one of his sermons about the crucifixion. He says, “The Israelite understood blessedness concretely: to be blessed was to be able to behold the face of God.” It was a present truth. And it was a future promise.

On that day, Zechariah did not bless the people but instead showed them that God was turning His face towards them in the biggest way possible. Their prayers were being answered. A Light was coming to shine in the darkness.

As we look forward to the second Advent, the day when Christ returns, we are anticipating the fullest revelation of that Light. Sproul concludes, “someday [we will] experience the fullness of the benediction of Israel. We will look unveiled into the light of the countenance of God.” Until that day, we wait. Like the people outside the temple, we wait with expectation.

Promises and Preparing

Immanuel: God with us.

What made that moment in history perfect for God to come down in human form? Could the Incarnation have taken place earlier, during the exile in Babylon? Could it have been later?

In Galatians, Paul tells us, “But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.” (Galatians 4:4-5)

What does “fullness of time” mean? At my church we are going through an Advent sermon series named just that—“In the Fullness of Time.” It is a beautiful image, ripe for exploration. This morning, our pastor preached on Luke 1:5-23. However, it wasn’t a regular sermon. It was a message directed towards the children in our congregation. Just like any good children’s book can open the eyes and hearts of adult readers with a fresh perspective, the sermon gave new insight to a familiar story. With the children, we were asked to ponder, “What did God do in this story?”

5 In the days of Herod, king of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah,[a] of the division of Abijah. And he had a wife from the daughters of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. 6 And they were both righteous before God, walking blamelessly in all the commandments and statutes of the Lord. 7 But they had no child, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were advanced in years.

8 Now while he was serving as priest before God when his division was on duty, 9 according to the custom of the priesthood, he was chosen by lot to enter the temple of the Lord and burn incense. 10 And the whole multitude of the people were praying outside at the hour of incense. 11 And there appeared to him an angel of the Lord standing on the right side of the altar of incense. 12 And Zechariah was troubled when he saw him, and fear fell upon him. 13 But the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard, and your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you shall call his name John. 14 And you will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, 15 for he will be great before the Lord. And he must not drink wine or strong drink, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit, even from his mother's womb. 16 And he will turn many of the children of Israel to the Lord their God, 17 and he will go before him in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, to make ready for the Lord a people prepared.”

18 And Zechariah said to the angel, “How shall I know this? For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in years.” 19 And the angel answered him, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I was sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. 20 And behold, you will be silent and unable to speak until the day that these things take place, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time.” 21 And the people were waiting for Zechariah, and they were wondering at his delay in the temple. 22 And when he came out, he was unable to speak to them, and they realized that he had seen a vision in the temple. And he kept making signs to them and remained mute. 23 And when his time of service was ended, he went to his home.

In Luke 1:5-7, God hadn’t allowed Elizabeth to become pregnant.
In verses 8-11 At just the right time, God caused Zechariah to be appointed the priest who would enter the temple and burn incense. He also prompted the whole multitude of people to pray outside the temple.
In verses 12-17 God sent an angel to tell Zechariah His promise and we discover that He had heard Zechariah’s prayers, and Israel’s prayers for centuries.
In Luke 1:18-23 God made Zechariah mute.

What is God doing?
“God is unfolding things,” our pastor tells the children.

The last book of the Old Testament is Malachi. In Malachi 4, at the very end, God speaks through the prophet:
“Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and awesome day of the LORD comes. And he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers, lest I come and strike the land with a decree of utter destruction.” Malachi 4:5-6

And then Israel experiences 400 years of silence from God. For context, that’s the same length of time between now and when the pilgrims arrived on the Mayflower. The last thing the people of God heard was a prophecy, a promise, a message of peace. But life didn’t look peace-ful for the Israelites. It seemed exactly the opposite.

Although God was silent, He was still working. He was unfolding a plan to make a way for a Peace deeper than anyone could have imagined.

This is where we meet Zechariah. And God begins to speak. Only Zechariah can’t believe the words the angel tells him. Not only does he wonder at the chance of having a baby at his old age, but Zechariah probably knows prophecy backwards and forwards, so when he says, “how shall I know this?” he is so very doubtful that the deepest desire and the deepest desire of his people was actually going to come true, and that his son would play a major part in it.

This is a story we’ve heard time and time again. But there is something hidden here that the early readers would have understood. My pastor put it like this: “When God is unfolding a plan, He always does two things: 1. He always keeps His promises, and 2. He always prepares His people.

Since God has been unfolding the plan of “Immanuel” since the very minute sin entered the world in the Garden of Eden, that means the Old Testament is full of two very big things: promises and preparing.

The very last thing Israel heard God speak was, “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and awesome day of the LORD comes. And he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers…” (Malachi 4:5-6a).

400 years later, to a “random” priest fulfilling his once-in-a lifetime selected duty, God repeats His promise and says, “And he will turn many of the children of Israel to the Lord their God, and he will go before him in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, to make ready for the Lord a people prepared.” (Luke 1:16-17)

How amazing is that? If anyone was uncertain, this was surely a sign.

Only, Zechariah was uncertain, enough to verbally doubt the angel of the Lord.

But God was not done preparing His people, nor was he finished preparing Zechariah. So he stilled Zechariah. He muted his speech, slowed him down. For nine months, all he could do was ponder. Zechariah knew the prophecies. He knew the promise. He had been waiting for it his whole life.

The sermon this morning concluded with this truth: “God wants us to wait with Him while we wait for Him.”

We can look upon this story as God working through a series of impossible situations (Elizabeth’s age and barrenness, for example) or we can see that everything was exactly where it needed to be for the “fullness of time.”

Alongside Zechariah and Elizabeth, alongside each of us, Immanuel waits with us. He sees us and knows us as we wait.

Welcome to Advent 2021

Dear friends (and those who may have stumbled upon this blog),

If you've joined me for any of the past eleven years, then you are probably familiar with Advent. If you are a new reader, this will serve as an introduction:

In latin the word "adventus" means "coming." Within the context of western Christianity, Advent is the season of four weeks leading up to Christmas—the celebration of Christ's birth. It is a time of joyful expectation and preparation. The four weeks are marked by the four Sundays, on which the candles of the Advent wreath are lit.

The first candle is traditionally the candle of Hope, followed by Peace, Love, and Joy. However, with so many church traditions comes a variety of names for each candle. Usually they are organized around characters or themes as a way to unfold the story and direct attention to the celebrations and worship in the season. So, the sequence might be Prophets, Bethlehem, Shepherds, Angels; Expectation, Annunciation, Proclamation, Fulfillment; or Prophets, John the Baptist, Mary, the Magi.

Last year I chose to reflect on the themes of Longing, Preparation, Proclamation, and Joy. This year, I am trying something a little different and focusing on one all-encompassing word: Immanuel. I will explore the theme of “God with us” as it was perceived by the prophets and those who lived during the Old Testament, announced to the key players of the Nativity story, demonstrated by the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem, and remains a firm truth for us today.

For four short weeks every year, we stop and see—with amazing clarity—God’s miraculous hand shaping the trajectory of human history. I have a hard time seeing this kind of perspective in daily life. Even with God’s sustaining grace, I am so often numb to the repercussions of Christ’s advent in my own life. This blog is an attempt to peel back the layers of those truths and meditate on the everlasting love God showed humanity when he sent forth His son. And as we do that together, may our hearts be directed towards the greater Advent still to come.

Let us enter this season with expectation, ever blessed by those who have paved the way. I’m glad you have chosen to join me on the journey!