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In 2020, I typed two lethal words: F— God. With that, I resigned from Christianity.

As the world was falling apart from the pandemic, so was my faith. Some call it deconstruction, but for me, it was an all-out demolition.

I wasn’t carefully examining the seams of my faith in community; no, I was feverishly cutting each thread until my faith was no more. I stripped my vocabulary of the term God because it was soaked in the oppression of my past. I wanted no part of that religion, that control, that guilt.

I was angry.

I’d been introduced to ideas, theories, and beliefs that challenged traditional Christianity: Sexuality might be a spectrum. Original sin could be debatable. The Bible contradicts itself. Yet it wasn’t freeing to learn of affirming communities and nontraditional churches. As someone who’d wanted to explore sexuality but had suppressed the desire to do so, I felt like I’d been robbed of pleasure.

The rules I did not agree with but had to follow began to feel like a difficult yoke and a heavy burden.

The desires I had buried deep within me—to experiment, to question, to challenge—all clashed violently with the doctrines I’d preached privately and publicly for the past decade as a writer and youth leader. I was now caught between the God of my faith and the woman I feared I truly was. What if I couldn’t enjoy life and enjoy God? What if I could no longer deny myself for God—what would happen if I instead denied God for myself?

I chose myself.

For the next two years, I embarked on what I can only call a “world tour”—a tour of all that I believed the world had to offer: queer love, polyamory, sex, drugs, and the worship of other gods. I said yes to everything I had once denied myself. And in saying yes, I thought I had found freedom.

For a while, it felt good. There’s a rush that comes with rebellion, a thrill in doing the very things you once feared. No longer restrained by the looming gaze of God, I allowed myself to indulge. All those Friday nights I spent in Bible study instead of at campus parties seemed like a joke now. I had missed out on life, or so I thought, and now I was making up for lost time. I believed I was living my best life.

But soon, the high faded. The freedom that once tasted so sweet became bitter.

The relationship that I thought would be my safe haven began to crumble. Anxiety crept in like an uninvited guest and made itself at home. My mind became a battleground of racing thoughts, doubts, and paranoia, especially after I dabbled in psychedelics that I’d thought would expand my mind but only left me adrift, untethered from reality. The drugs, the sex, the defiance—none of it brought the peace I had been searching for.

Instead, I found myself floating, not on calm waters but in a vast, empty darkness, like outer space. There was nothing solid to hold on to. I looked free from the outside, but I knew the truth: I was lost. I was scared.

And more than that, I didn’t want to live anymore. Life had lost its meaning. What was once pleasurable had become purposeless, and without that pleasure, I saw no reason to exist. I had defined my purpose by my rebellion, and when the rebellion no longer satisfied, I had nothing left. No God, no faith, no love, no peace.

The thought of suicide became a quiet companion, a whisper in the back of my mind that grew louder with each passing day. It seemed logical, even rational, to end it all. If life had no meaning, why continue? I weighed my options: overdose on antidepressants or slip into a warm bath and let go. I prepared myself to vanish, to slip into nonexistence, because living in this confusion, this depression, felt unbearable.

But as I stood on the brink of ending it all, fear gripped me. It was the fear of eternal separation from anything good, anything warm, anything real. I had rejected the God of the Bible, but now, in my deepest despair, I found myself crying out to him.

God, help me! I hadn’t called that name in years, a name I had tried to erase from my memory. But it was the only word that seemed to fit in that moment.

And then, the phone rang.

It was a Christian friend who had kept up with me throughout my world tour. She called at that exact moment, as if she had known. She asked me if I was okay, and I allowed myself to admit the truth for the first time in a long time. No, I was not okay.

I spilled my heart out to her and told her everything I had been carrying. She listened, and her presence on the other end of the line pulled me back from the edge.

When we hung up, I collapsed onto the floor, weeping. What had just happened? I wasn’t supposed to be alive. I didn’t want to be alive. But I was. I had cried out to God—the God I had renounced—and he had heard me. In that moment, he showed up. The God who exists outside of time and space reached into my darkness and pulled me back into life.

Not long after, my sister came home and found me lying on the floor, tears streaming down my face. This was the sister who’d once credited me with helping her grow in faith and who’d watched me walk away from that same faith, all while living under the same roof. She knelt beside me and asked, “Do you want to surrender?”

It was the invitation I’d been waiting for my whole life, and I hadn’t even known it. I said yes.

I said yes to surrendering my pride, my pain, my confusion, my frustration, my rebellion, my emptiness. She prayed over me, and my tears turned to smiles. For the first time, I felt alive.

The following day, everything was different. My life had changed in an instant. The God I had walked away from, the God I thought I had rejected, had never left me. He was there, listening, waiting for me to call on him again, perhaps in a way I never really had.

Since that day, I haven’t stopped talking to God. I tell him everything: my fears, my doubts, my questions, my pleasures, my weaknesses, my aches, my desires. Everything I once tried to hide, I now bring to him. I don’t pretend anymore. Instead, I let him into every part of me, and in return, he gives me peace.

Self-denial sounds oppressive to the self. It seems like saying yes to every thought and every feeling will lead us to discovering our true selves, but that will only lead to the soul’s decay.

I am convinced that I do not know what is best for me. I thought I did, but pursuing happiness apart from God led to disillusionment. I realized that if there is no God, then life has no meaning, so I’d rather opt out.

But God refused to let me die in my disbelief. And because of that, I now know that the only way to find your life is to lose it.

Caresse Dionne Spencer spends her days enjoying God, sharing her story, and breathing life into old things as the owner of an online vintage clothing shop, Revival.

The post I Demolished My Faith for ‘My Best Life.’ It Only Led to Despair. appeared first on Christianity Today.

Read Matthew 1:24-25

I CAN STILL REMEMBER our first trip home as a family after my daughter was born. I don’t know that I had ever driven as safely or as slowly as I did when we left the hospital. We had been anticipating this moment for nearly a year, but for all the appointments and books and classes and redecorating, nothing prepared me for the sudden and colossal change I had undergone. I was now a father. The safety net of the hospital was disappearing in the rearview mirror, and each creaking mile took me further into an entirely new reality.

The complicated thing about parenting is that you receive an identity change before you really know what to do with it. I became a father when I first heard my daughter cry. She’s ten now, and in so many ways I am still becoming her father. What might have felt akin to impostor syndrome early on has shifted into an indelible piece of who I am. Faithfulness through success and failure has yielded the fruit of that change.

I think about this experience often when I read about Joseph. Matthew describes him as a righteous man, who prioritized care for his betrothed and obedience to the law of Moses. When he sees that Mary is pregnant, before they were married and could conceive, his response indicates that he holds his righteousness even above his heartache, as he likely suspects infidelity. But as he moves toward a quiet divorce, saving Mary public shame, a messenger of God intervenes as Joseph is dreaming one night. The child in Mary’s womb is the work of the Holy Spirit, he is told, and this son will save God’s people from their sins. The dream ends, and Joseph rises to a new identity and with it, a new world. He might have gone to bed a heartbroken man, but he wakes up a committed husband and father.

Mary’s experience is the focal point of the other three gospel accounts, and they provide a vivid depiction of what it looks like for her to faithfully respond to the word of God. Our experience with the Holy Spirit operates on a similar trajectory. We are forever changed by grace at the core of who we are, and the new life inside of us is to be displayed as a tangible testimony. We nurture and care for what is within so that it might go out to serve the world around us.

In Matthew’s gospel, Joseph presents us with a different vantage point. While Mary nurtured life toward its external revelation, Joseph is called as a father to witness something outside of himself that will one day occupy the center of his heart.

After the message in his dream, Joseph’s whole life became an expression of waiting. The promise from God’s messenger carried no details or dates. Joseph is to be Jesus’ earthly father, but his choice to receive that calling is less a one-time acceptance and more a daily choice to follow through with his new identity and the responsibilities it entails.

I will not attempt to speak for the Bible in its silence, but we know the realities of parenting that Joseph would have experienced. We can faithfully imagine his heart swelling as he heard Jesus’ first words. We can picture Joseph hurting with Jesus, as the Son wept over his first cut or scrape. Joseph, righteous and obedient, called to fatherhood in a dream, was surely learning to be a father as he watched Jesus dream peacefully in his sleep. This humble man who followed behind a toddler clumsily racing through his home will one day follow proudly behind a triumphant, risen king.

Advent shows us there is a burden and a beauty after awakening. Those who have seen a great light carry a responsibility to steward new life. But what is within us is at work around us, too. All things are indeed being made new. Joseph teaches us that those who wait will also witness.

Caleb Saenz is lead pastor of The Garden, a church planted in San Antonio in 2023.

This article is part of A Time for Wonder, a 4-week devotional to help individuals, small groups, and families journey through the 2024 Advent season. Learn more about this special issue that can be used Advent, or any time of year at http://orderct.com/advent.

The post The Eternal Testimony of Jesus’ Parents appeared first on Christianity Today.

Read Matthew 1:18-21

THE GENEALOGY at the end of Matthew chapter 1 is curious, isn’t it? After a long and, to many ears, boring list of begetting names and family lineages, the story ends with the news of Mary’s scandalous pregnancy and Joseph grappling with a miserable decision—publicly shame Mary (with the resulting possibility of her death!) or divorce her without a fuss, but likely to a life of misery and loneliness.

There are nights that I fall into my pillows with a mind full of restless and toxic thoughts that keep me staring at my white ceiling and from much-needed sleep. Nonetheless, what occupies my mind is nothing compared to what Joseph was dealing with upon the news that Mary was pregnant. His days must have been filled with a paralyzing sadness at this betrayal, and nights restless with their tossing and turning as he faced what seemed like only two options. Imagine: You’re excited about the prospects of marriage, you’re moving through the betrothal stage of the process—more than an engagement but not yet marriage— working diligently to ensure that all is lined up for a wedding feast that will include friends, family, and days of eating, drinking, and celebrating only to be told months before the big day(s) that you’re going to be a dad and, oh, by the way, the baby isn’t yours (of course!) or even another man’s!

When Joseph is finally able to sleep after stewing over the pain of his impending Solomonic decision, he is visited in his slumber, and the dream changes his life. A messenger from God appears to him and whispers, “Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins” (Matt. 1:20–21).

Here’s the thing: Joseph is a simple worker of wood; he is not any rabbi’s apprentice. Nonetheless, he is a faithful Jew—going to temple on High Holy Days, observing feasts and fasts, and having some understanding of the Hebrew Scripture from the training of his youth. The angel’s proclamation of the Spirit’s presence could possibly have made some sense to him. And yet, what he’s told in the depth of his REM sleep that night causes him to take massive action and redirect the entire course of his life. When Joseph wakes, he knows what to do. Does doubt linger? How could it not? Is he still confused? Probably. Does he begin to calculate the reputational cost of his obedience? Likely. But there is no wavering for Joseph.

The Spirit’s work—that which began at the creation of the cosmos, continued through the kings and prophets as told in the early scrolls, and that animates his ancient world—that work must continue. It must be birthed. And the child, “Jesus”—not a unique name of that generation or time, but one with the immeasurably important promise he will save his people from their sins—will be received and cared for by his earthly father and presented to the world.

After nights struggling under a shroud of doom obscuring his family’s future, Joseph rises that morning with a renewed call and a God-word that rests upon his shoulders. The dawn of a new day has begun. The dawn of a new life is promised. The dawn of a new creation is about to break through, and the dark of the night has been dispelled. Everything has been changed.

George Sweetman has served as the dean of student life at Tyndale University in Toronto for the past 25 years.

This article is part of A Time for Wonder, a 4-week devotional to help individuals, small groups, and families journey through the 2024 Advent season. Learn more about this special issue that can be used Advent, or any time of year at http://orderct.com/advent.

The post Restless Nights and Renewed Callings appeared first on Christianity Today.

Read Matthew 2:1–11

IN THE FILM CONTACT, there is an emotional scene where the astronomer Ellie Arroway, played by Jodie Foster, explains to her friend her decision to venture into outer space, despite the clear dangers. She says, “For as long as I can remember, I’ve been searching for something, some reason why we’re here. What are we doing here? Who are we? If this is a chance to find out even just a little part of that answer . . . I don’t know, I think it’s worth a human life. Don’t you?” 

We may not have a yearning to venture into outer space, but at a conscious or unconscious level, we all want to know why we’re here—we long to discover the meaning of our existence. Despite this innate human longing, we discover something surprising in another story with cosmic proportions. In the story of the Magi, it is revealed that we are not the greatest seekers—God is. 

The Magi have been described across many centuries as the wise men. Were they wise? Yes, but not in the way we typically think of. They were experts in discerning the meaning of the stars. 

A Jewish person would have regarded the Magi— magicians, astrologers, and sorcerers—as idolaters, as Gentiles who were racial, cultural, and spiritual outsiders in the family of the one true God. 

So why does Matthew include these Gentiles in an account written primarily to Jews? It seems that Matthew wants to show us that God seeks outsiders and invites them to the birthday party of his Son. No matter what our racial or cultural background, regardless of what we have or haven’t done, or how we feel we’ve fallen short of our own standards or our Creator’s—God also seeks us out.

In Matthew’s account, we see that while the star leads the Magi to Jerusalem, it’s Scripture that ultimately leads them to Jesus. When King Herod heard about the star that announced the birth of the great king, he gathered all the high priests and religious scholars and asked where the Messiah was to be born. “In Bethlehem,” they answered. Then they quoted words of Scripture from Micah 5:

But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are not the least among the rulers of Judah;
for out of you shall come a ruler
who will shepherd my people Israel. (Matt. 2:6)

The star got the Magi to the “target” of Jerusalem, but it was Scripture that took them to the “bull’s-eye” of Bethlehem—to Jesus. God can use all kinds of things, including beauty and affliction, to draw us closer to Jesus, but the vehicle that God often uses to lead us most clearly to Jesus is Scripture.

However, simply being exposed to Scripture or knowing the Bible isn’t enough. The chief priests and teachers of the law knew that a star had announced the birth of the great king and that this anointed ruler, the Messiah, would be born in Bethlehem, yet they did not make the brief six-mile journey there.

It’s possible for us to be exposed to Scripture and yet not respond. Years later, Jesus would say to the religious elite, “You study the Scriptures diligently because you think that in them you have eternal life. These are the very Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life” (John 5:39–40).

This Advent, as we allow the wonder of the stars and the conviction of Scripture to lead us afresh to Jesus, we can know great joy like the Magi of old. And also like the Magi, as we bow down in adoration before Jesus, we will find in him the true meaning of our lives.

Ken Shigematsu is the senior pastor of Tenth Church in Vancouver. He’s the author of bestsellers God in My Everything and Survival Guide for the Soul.

This article is part of A Time for Wonder, a 4-week devotional to help individuals, small groups, and families journey through the 2024 Advent season. Learn more about this special issue that can be used Advent, or any time of year at http://orderct.com/advent.

The post An Invitation Written in the Stars appeared first on Christianity Today.

Read Luke 2:1-20

I’LL NEVER FORGET the first moment the nurses laid him on my chest. The sound of a cry that screamed of helplessness. His body shocked by cold air but warmed by the comfort of my skin. The way his lips opened and closed, rooting for his hunger to be satisfied. The way his eyes were looking for someone who was looking at him. It’s in this kind of utter need that unconditional love is found. This love is what I find my days filled with in this season; both the joy and chaos of caring for a newborn baby boy, dependent on me in almost every way. He relies on me for nourishment, for comfort, for help in the big and small; he is physically and emotionally helpless without the care of his parents. It is now more than ever, on Christmas Day as I stare into the precious eyes of my baby son, that I am struck by the humility of our Savior who chose this state of vulnerability as his marvelous entrance into the world. 

Luke 2:6–7 gives an account of this entrance, as “the time came for [Mary] to give birth. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn” (ESV). There was no palace, no red carpet rolled out for Jesus Christ. The Savior of the world, the king who is enthroned forever, was born of the virgin Mary and likely placed in a feeding trough used for animals. Our almighty God willingly chose dependence and weakness. He was subject to the full mortality of man in order that he might live a sinless life, and die a sinner’s death, to be our perfect substitute that we might be reconciled to the Father by grace through faith. It’s the greatest story of love and most radical expression of sacrifice in all of history. God became flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14) so that he might save us through his life, death, and resurrection. 

Both in our current era, where leadership is equated with a big stage and a large following, and in the Roman Empire, where force and domination were the norm, Jesus’ incarnation is the most countercultural form of leadership we can imagine. Where we are way too easily impressed by worldly markers of success, and search for significance in our own independence, Jesus’ birth and embrace of utter dependence completely flips the script on how we ought to view influence. His leadership is service; he bends down low and draws near to us in gentleness; he forfeits his might to lay his life down, both through his entrance in a manger and his exit on the cross. 

As followers of Jesus and the way of life he offers his creation, the Christmas season offers an invitation to meditate on the humility of Jesus and seek to follow his lead. May we trade a craving for power for a craving for sacrifice. May we be marked by our patience with those who hurt us, our service to the least of these, and our unconditional love for our neighbor. And as we follow in his way, may we also assume a posture under his care as weak, needy, and dependent, for we are completely helpless without him. On Christmas Day, Jesus became weak in human form so that we might find life through him and his ultimate power.

Gabrielle McCullough is an evangelist and Bible teacher currently in Waco, Texas, eager about reaching all people with the gospel of Jesus Christ.

This article is part of A Time for Wonder, a 4-week devotional to help individuals, small groups, and families journey through the 2024 Advent season. Learn more about this special issue that can be used Advent, or any time of year at http://orderct.com/advent.

The post The Ultimate Wonder appeared first on Christianity Today.

Read Luke 2:9–11

“DO NOT BE AFRAID.” Each time an angel appears in Luke’s nativity story, they say these words. Mary hears them from Gabriel during the Annunciation; Gabriel speaks them to Zechariah, too, when he appears in the temple (Luke 1:13, 30). Now, in the breaking dawn of Christmas, we hear them a third time as humble shepherds witness an inbreaking of supernatural wonder in the unlikeliest of places. 

Angels represent God’s power and glory whenever they appear in the biblical narrative. Their holiness is otherworldly to us; they may be the closest thing in the Bible to aliens. Their appearance in the world initiates an overlapping of heavenly reality with earthly life so powerful and extraordinary that it causes those who see it to fall on their faces in awe and fear. Luke 2 details the terror that the shepherds felt as “the glory of the Lord shone around them” (v. 9). They were utterly overwhelmed by the sight. 

It seems odd that heavenly beings, messengers of the Lord in all their extraordinary glory, would rush to comfort those who are witnessing this power. Yet here, that is exactly what the angel does. “Do not be afraid,” he tells them, and goes on to share the news of “great joy for all the people:” the Messiah has been born (vv. 9–10). 

That God’s heavenly messengers speak words of reassurance, as they often do throughout their biblical appearances, points to the character of God and to the way the supernatural world is ordered under him. In this moment in Luke 2, the angel’s majestic glory points not to himself, but to the greater glory of the incarnate God; his words of consolation point to the Savior who, at that moment, had finally arrived to bring comfort to a hurting world. The moment of announcement to the shepherds juxtaposes the terrifying glory of the Lord with his loving purposes: using his power not to harm, but to comfort; not to scare, but to strike with wonder; altogether pointing to Jesus, in whom these seemingly diametric aspects of God’s character are perfectly united. 

As the shepherds heard the angel’s words of comfort and joy, awestruck—perhaps doing their best to comfort their frightened sheep—they witnessed only a sliver of the full glory of the Good Shepherd, the Great Comforter, the Sacrificial Lamb whose blood would redeem the world. 

Julia Bartel is a recent graduate of the University of St Andrews’ Institute for Theology, Imagination, and the Arts. She lives in Scotland.

This article is part of A Time for Wonder, a 4-week devotional to help individuals, small groups, and families journey through the 2024 Advent season. Learn more about this special issue that can be used Advent, or any time of year at http://orderct.com/advent.

The post Glory in the Eyes of the Shepherds appeared first on Christianity Today.

Read Luke 2:6–7

IF YOU’VE EVER HAD the enjoyable (and chaotic) experience of being involved in a children’s Christmas play, you probably remember the scene at the inn. Perhaps you were cast as the stern innkeeper whose first-century version of a Motel 6 was full for the night. Eventually, his reluctant generosity overtakes him and he makes space for the young couple out back with the animals. Or perhaps you were cast as a sheep. (“There are no small parts,” they said).

It’s almost a throwaway verse for Luke, helping to explain why the Savior of the world ended up in a feeding trough for his first night on the planet. But attentive readers of Luke’s entire gospel will see that he takes great care throughout his narrative to highlight the state of contrasts (rich vs. poor; proud vs. humble) that surround Jesus, and in particular the contrasting responses to Jesus. Luke 2:7, then, is no throwaway. 

Not only does it highlight the incredible humiliation that Jesus and his family endured (and which Jesus continued to choose throughout his life and ministry), but it hints at something else—something that would also be a continued theme throughout Jesus’ life: Rejection. 

Consider that Joseph and Mary were returning to their hometown, Bethlehem, where there no doubt would have been extended family still residing, and many more returning for the census. It would have been customary (if not an absolute given) for Mary and Joseph to be invited to stay with relatives. Most houses had guest rooms of some kind, for situations just like this. For context, Luke uses the word translated “inn” in the story of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10:3 when referring to an actual commercial inn, whereas the translation here seems to refer more closely to a guest room. Are we to assume that all the guest rooms in every home of any relative of Joseph’s were full? Wouldn’t priority have been given to a very pregnant relative? 

The answer would have likely been “yes,” unless there was a stigma associated with this pregnancy. Unless Mary and Joseph arrived in his hometown under the whispers and cuteye of a shameful situation. 

The fact that the Son of God was born in a cave set aside for animals instead of a warm, safe, and much more sanitary guest room, surrounded by a doting and loving family, is not simply a product of a busy night on the motel strip. We should read this as another prophetic foreshadowing of just how difficult life was going to be for Jesus and his parents. The stigma, shame, and resulting rejection by extended family and friends made clear in this manger scene is a recurring theme in the Gospels. 

The manger represents not only the humility of Jesus but also his humiliation. The manger in which he was laid is as much a symbol of rejection as is the cross on which he died. It tells us that from the beginning to the end, our Savior’s life was marked, scarred, and difficult. 

And yet, we cannot miss what immediately follows verse 7 in Luke’s account: At the same time that he was being shamed and rejected by the ones he came to save, all the hosts of heaven were declaring his honor, his glory and his reign. Indeed, the shepherds who also felt a sense of rejection and ignominy would come running to see and worship him, caught up in the great mystery, the great conundrum of humiliation and glory; of weakness and power. 

Vijay Krishnan is the lead pastor at The Well in the Greater Toronto Area. Vijay, Jennifer and their 3 boys love being a part of what God is doing through the local church.

This article is part of A Time for Wonder, a 4-week devotional to help individuals, small groups, and families journey through the 2024 Advent season. Learn more about this special issue that can be used Advent, or any time of year at http://orderct.com/advent.

The post Away in a Manger, Humiliated appeared first on Christianity Today.

Read Isaiah 9:2–6

MY DAUGHTER is afraid of the dark. So, as a rational adult who’s supposed to know there is nothing to fear when we switch off the lights, I try to abate her cries with reason. But no matter what I say, it doesn’t work. The only remedy that brings her peace is the assurance of my presence: “Don’t worry, I’m here with you.” So, as I settle in beside her and await her heavy breaths of slumber, I wonder what it is about the pitch of night that is so unnerving—not just for our children but for all of us. 

Mankind has feared the dark in its various forms since time began, as made clear in our ancestors’ fireside epics and the torrid arc of history. I, too, came to fear this darkness in the grip of a chronic illness, which nearly took my life in 2021, as sepsis raged through my frail body after a failed surgery. So, perhaps our children’s fear of the dark isn’t without merit; rather, it is the first pang of the dread we adults have come to know as the very real anxieties that keep us up at night. 

Children’s darkened rooms serve as a foretaste of evil they know little about, as shadows of their once familiar toys become harbingers of ruin. The day this imaginative void becomes something true is the day our children learn, like those of us who have gone before them, that there really is a flip side to the coin of life: good and evil, peace and war, health and sickness, life and death. 

Isaiah, the messianic prophet of the Bible, knew about this darkness, but despite the black cloak of chaos and war that surrounded him, he anticipated a far greater flip side: a coming Light—with a capital “L”—because this Light would arrive as a baby and forever redeem the dark side of the coin. Isaiah prophesied, “For to us a child is born, to us a son is given . . . and he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isa. 9:6). This Light would bring justice, righteousness, and peace with “no end” (v. 7). Isaiah urges the people of God to take heart! I can almost hear him now, speaking into my own darkness and its aftermath: Dear soul, hold on! Hope for your suffering and light for your darkness are here! The Messiah is coming, and he will reign for eternity! 

Light is referenced in the Bible more than 250 times, and each time its symbolism is clear: Light represents the presence of God, Christ, and holiness. In his 2013 Advent sermon, the late Dr. Timothy Keller calls Isaiah’s prophecy of Christ “the unexpected, ultimate Light.” Christ is the Light that “came to overcome the deep darkness of the world,” Keller exhorts. Thus, Christmas is the birth of Light— the great panacea for all that plagues mankind in the shadows. This is why the Advent season brings with it great anticipation and is a time so many look forward to. But there is a “withness” in Isaiah’s prophecy that is for us all year round, in whatever darkness or suffering we face. 

I asked my daughter what it is about my presence that helps her overcome her fear of the dark, and she said, “It solves my loneliness.” We might not be so different from our children after all. If we face the darkness alone, there is reason for great fear. But if we believe in Christ’s “withness”—his promise, I am here with you—then we, too, can find a reason to breathe our own deep sighs of relief in the darkness, so that we might sleep to dream and then to anticipate the greatest coming Light of all. Alone in my hospital bed, I learned this hard and beautiful truth firsthand: We must endure great darkness in this world, but we also know the bearer of all light. For it is written in John 1:4–5, “In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

Kimberly Phinney is a writer and professor. She is founder of the literary community www.TheWayBack2Ourselves.com and has been published in Ekstasis.

This article is part of A Time for Wonder, a 4-week devotional to help individuals, small groups, and families journey through the 2024 Advent season. Learn more about this special issue that can be used Advent, or any time of year at http://orderct.com/advent.

The post A Promise in the Darkness appeared first on Christianity Today.

Read Mark 10:13–16

MY IN-LAWS LIVE on three acres in western New York. A creek runs behind their house, holding the memories of my wife and her siblings playing in it as children. Their laughter is now echoed by the giggles of our children. Rows of evergreens line the property, enfolding the highs, lows, and nuances of family life. One winter’s night, as I strolled through the snow piled on the path and in the branches, my mind drifted to a vision of the “age to come.” As millions of snowflakes with their unique expression of God’s creative genius fell around me, I was once again introduced to wonder. 

The French word inspirer, the source of the English word inspiration, is literally translated as breath. In the pause between our breaths, we are once in a while brought to a place of inspiration where we can observe what was previously hidden to us; our eyes glimpse the new that will one day be revealed. 

As we see through the eyes of children, inspiration and wonder are the original postures of the human soul—as Jesus says, “Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it” (Mark 10:15, ESV). The poet Dylan Thomas put it this way: “Children in wonder watching the stars / Is the aim and the end.” As mature, regulated adults, we often find ourselves neglecting everyday wonder and conserving it as a response most appropriate to the monumental and palatial. We compartmentalize our day-to-day living and can easily lose the sense of humble availability that allows children to engage with the world around them in wonder. If we’re not careful, our pride, pragmatism, and self-dependence can strip us of the essence that makes us most human, causing us to shut our eyes to the wonder that children see so easily. 

The story of God’s incarnation invites a childlike posture of wonder. Amid presuppositions of a kingly birth, Christ is born into unremarkable circumstances. Much like those who awaited the Messiah at the time, our modern eyes would have overlooked Bethlehem in favor of Jerusalem. We would have ignored the shepherds on the hillside as we do beggars on the streets, looking instead for the expected grandeur of glory. But when we come to the scene of the baby lying in the manger, we find the epitome of wonder. Redirecting our gaze back to the humble and wonderful, God meets humanity in the most mundane of ways. The Incarnation reminds us that as we pause, our ability to stand in wonder is no longer predicated on magnitude, but is available in monotony. 

As we gather with our loved ones and enter into the season of lights and holly, sleigh bells and nativity, it is good to gaze at the elementary; to stand in wonder during a snowfall, to delight in the taste of freshly baked pastries, to laugh along to the sound of children playing, and to answer the door to childlike faith that wonder can open. Not only do we find Christ there, but we find him inviting us to share in the way he sees the world he has created. 

Isaac Gay is an artist, worship leader, and writer at the crossroads of creativity, spirituality, and contemporary thought.

This article is part of A Time for Wonder, a 4-week devotional to help individuals, small groups, and families journey through the 2024 Advent season. Learn more about this special issue that can be used Advent, or any time of year at http://orderct.com/advent.

The post Christmas Beckons Us with Wonder appeared first on Christianity Today.

Read Luke 2:33-35

THE PROPHETIC VISIONS splintered through Simeon’s mind in a fraction of a second as a teenage girl and young man walked up the temple steps with their child. The images of what had been and would come, contained within this bundle coming to meet him.

War and rumors of war.
Peace and a marriage feast.

A scrap of linen swaddling cloth.
Linen temple drapes torn in half.

The groans of a Jewish girl laboring in a stable.
The tear-stained cheeks of a mother kneeling at a cross.

Each image pointed to the completion of the promise he’d waited for his whole life: a Messiah who would usher in a world turned upside down on itself, a world where the meek were strong and the rich became poor. He might have laughed at the irony of the sight before him. A tiny baby with the strength to snuff out death, and an impoverished couple witnessing the greatest coronation in history. This is the blessing Simeon would give the God-child as his calloused hands held the infant: the blessing of paradox, for he will be the rise and fall of many Israelites.

Luke doesn’t write much about Simeon beyond describing him as a “righteous and devout man” (v. 25). We aren’t given the detailed story of the day Simeon met Jesus, and the gaps leave ripe room for imagining what Simeon experienced during those long-awaited moments. What did it feel like to wait all those years? Was he ever tempted to speed up the process, to look for the Savior another way?

As we peer through Simeon’s ancient eyes, we realize that the promise of Advent is both slow and mysterious. It requires both waiting and wondering. Personally, I’m not very good at slowness. I tend to sprint through Advent with the rest of the world, dutifully ticking away the days on my December calendar; hurry through the mysterious and confusing bits; get to the candlelit “Silent Night” and festive presents. I rush though as if the less I think about the grit of Bethlehem, the more I can enjoy the twinkling lights and Christmas trees and gingerbread houses. My impatience is a way to resist the lingering questions.

But then I remember Simeon. Simeon waited. And waited. Along with many of the other prophets in the Bible, Simeon dwelled in the paradox of Advent for years. Unlike me with my chocolate calendar, Simeon didn’t have the luxury of a countdown or the ease of knowing how the story would end. He just got comfortable with the one thing he knew: God would fulfill what he had promised.

We, like Simeon, are waiting in the afternoon shadows of the in-between between Jesus’ saving work on the cross and the ultimate redemption of his second coming. The scandal of the Christmas story is that it flips our vision of the world upside down and gives us a new way of seeing. In doing so, it demands that we surrender our tendency to rush and to rationalize. How would the Christmas story change for us if we allowed ourselves to be wrapped up in the radical profundity of it all—of a child that causes both “falling and rising” (v.34)? Of divinity intermingled with the gritty, ordinary chaos of humanity? If we paused long enough, what pains, questions, and promises would bubble up to the surface? Advent offers us the gentle invitation to model Simeon’s posture, waiting patiently, pondering, and wondering.

Lily Journey is a non-profit professional, poetry enthusiast, event creative, and writer.

This article is part of A Time for Wonder, a 4-week devotional to help individuals, small groups, and families journey through the 2024 Advent season. Learn more about this special issue that can be used Advent, or any time of year at http://orderct.com/advent.

The post To See a Prophecy Fulfilled appeared first on Christianity Today.