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In New Delhi’s Chittaranjan Park, Mary David adjusts the traditional Christmas star hanging from her balcony. The fading remnants of her neighbors’ Diwali lights from last month create a gentle reminder of South Asia’s unique festival season. “It’s beautiful how the celebrations flow into each other,” she says, arranging her Advent wreath.

In other parts of India, like Chennai’s bustling Marina Beach area, carol singing fills the air where Diwali celebrations echoed just weeks ago. Churches prepare for midnight Mass while traces of their Hindu neighbors’ festival lamps linger in memories. And in Ahmedabad’s Maninagar neighborhood, Rachel Khristy, a schoolteacher, thoughtfully reflects on the season’s transitions. Last month, her family joined neighbors for Diwali’s lighting ceremony; now, amid Advent preparations, she’s planning Christmas dinner for these same friends.

Across South Asian cities, especially in India, this festival transition has become a familiar rhythm. Streets that recently buzzed with Diwali celebrations now pulse with Christmas preparations. Families who gathered to create intricate rangoli patterns (a colorful art drawn on the ground at the entrance of the house, with materials like powdered limestone, dry rice flour, or colored sand) and light diyas (clay lamps) during Amavasya (new moon)—celebrated as the darkest night of the month—now string Christmas lights and arrange Nativity scenes. The sweet aroma of plum cakes and Christmas treats fills the air just days after the smoke from Diwali fireworks has dissipated, while wreaths and garlands appear alongside fading rangoli designs.

Though emerging from different faith traditions, both these festivals celebrate the triumph of light over darkness. However, they reflect different understandings of divine intervention in human affairs. Christians, of course, celebrate the season as the time when God’s Son came to earth as a human. Hindus celebrate stories of their deities who appear on earth temporarily as avatars, a Sanskrit word for divine descent.

At times, Indian Christians have found this concept helpful in explaining elements of their faith to non-Christian audiences. For instance, 20th-century Indian Christian theologians like Aiyadurai Jesudasen Appasamy, Vengal Chakkarai and Pandippedi Chenchiah and several mainstream Syriac Christian songs use the term avatar as the translation for Immanuel.

Many maintain that Jesus’ incarnation significantly differs from the Hindu concept of an avatar. Diwali, for instance, commemorates the victory and return from exile of King Rama, the god Vishnu’s avatar. Another story celebrated during the holiday celebrates another of Vishnu’s avatars, Lord Krishna, defeating a demon. The avatars’ royalty and power contrasts with that of Jesus, who, though proclaimed as Messiah, is the son of a carpenter and describes himself as having “no place to lay his head” (Matt. 8:20).

The distinctive theological perspectives between Hinduism and Christianity become most visible in how each community celebrates its festivals. In a small church in Punjab, pastor Anujit Emerson helps children arrange a nativity scene. “We tell one story,” she says, “the story of God becoming human.” This stands in contrast to their recent experience, where just weeks ago, these same children watched their Hindu friends celebrate multiple divine victories: Rama’s triumph over Ravana, Krishna’s defeat of Narakasura, and Lakshmi’s bestowal of blessings.

Notably, Vishnu’s time as Rama and Krishna is limited, said Vijayesh Lal, who leads the Evangelical Fellowship of India. In contrast, Jesus’ embodiment as both God and human is an eternal merging of divine and human essence that persists beyond his death and return to heaven.

The contrasts extend to how these divine figures engage with humanity. In the Hindu tradition, Hindu deities and their redemptive or salvific actions are for Hindus. In contrast, the power of Jesus that defeats death is available for all who believe, a promise not limited by caste or culture, explained Samuel Richmond Saxena of the World Evangelical Alliance Theological Commission. He added, “His light was meant to illuminate every corner of the world.”

Christ’s light doesn’t just illuminate, explained Emerson, who is also a Sikh convert; it is “transformative and eternal” in nature.

Diwali’s theological claims mean Christians like Khristy try to exercise wisdom when determining how to engage with the holiday. While her children joined their friends in setting off firecrackers, her family politely declined participation in religious rituals like the puja (worship) ceremonies to the deities.

Lal sees these festival intersections as opportunities for religious communities to better understand each other’s faith. Many Hindu friends are genuinely curious about the meaning behind Christmas celebrations, he said. “When they see the Nativity scenes in our homes or hear carols about the birth of Jesus, they often ask questions about why God would choose to be born in such humble circumstances.”

The similarities between Hindu and Christian understandings of light overcoming darkness create natural bridges for dialogue while still allowing space to highlight Christianity’s distinctive message.

For instance, light for Hindus generally refers to individual, personal enlightenment, said Saphir Athyal, the former principal of the Union Biblical Seminary, who has guided Christian families through these cultural negotiations. For Christians, light looks like Matthew 5:16: “In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

The ancient Sanskrit prayer from the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upanishad—“Tamso ma jyotirgamaya” (“lead me from darkness to light”)—“resonates with this universal human longing for divine light,” Saxena pointed out. For Rajendra Prasad Dwivedi, a Christian apologist, these same verses “formed a solid foundation” to embrace Christ. Dwivedi recalled, “It brought me immense joy and excitement to realize that the prayers of Vedic rishis and munis (sages and ascetics) from thousands of years ago were answered in Christ Jesus.”

As Christmas Eve approaches, Khristy’s home buzzes with preparation—the aroma of fresh plum cakes baking, children practicing carols for the midnight service, and neighbors dropping by to admire her Christmas lights and decoration.

“We maintain our beliefs while building bridges of understanding,” she says, arranging fresh Christmas wreaths. “Besides, everybody loves Christmas cakes.”

The post A Greater Light than Diwali appeared first on Christianity Today.

You should read Religion for Realists: Why We All Need the Scientific Study of Religion. The author, sociologist Samuel Perry, will help you understand how social scientists think about religion. Most importantly, his work will improve how you think about religion too. 

I come by this evaluation honestly. I have been a member of the Society for the Scientific Study of Religion for 40 years and served as executive officer for 10 of those. I am certain social science supplies a lens on religious practice that corrects common misunderstandings about religion. This book clearly and concisely describes that lens and how to focus it.

Over the first decade of his career, Perry has written effectively on an impressive array of topics. It’s worth asking why he felt the need to champion the social-scientific perspective as a valuable tool for understanding religion. First, he is worried the most common mistaken assumptions about religion are not just untrue but actively dangerous. We are looking at the wrong things and failing to see what’s really happening, sometimes with very negative consequences. The first four chapters lay out the nature of the problem, offering three primary examples of the mistakes and their consequences.

Second, Perry is concerned that academia wrongheadedly dismisses the study of religion, either by ignoring it or actively resisting it. Chapters 5 and 6 make his argument that this should stop. To be honest, the first four chapters of this book will benefit people who want to know more about how religion works; the last two chapters are mostly insider baseball for professionals. They follow clearly from Chapters 1–4, but they shift the conversation from Perry explaining things for everyone to Perry pleading with, and sometimes admonishing, sociological colleagues. 

The book is so clearly written that I could very nearly summarize it for you here, but the full argument is important enough to consider in full. Here’s the gist: Western understandings of religion have been defined by the Anglo-Protestant tradition. Those of us who have taught about world religions know this by heart. Students who grow up within this tradition imagine everything is about beliefs, sacred texts, ideas, and individual choice. It is a long, hard slog to help them realize, first, that not all religions are doctrine-based, and second, that even their own religions are less about doctrine than they think.

The three “argument” chapters follow this idea closely. Argument one: The Anglo-Protestant tradition holds up beliefs as the cognitive force in religion. In reality, religion is primarily shaped by social identity and norms.

I’m convinced Perry is right about this; I’ve written about it myself. When my students imagine that people choose from a menu of beliefs, I ask them, “Do you really think most people in Italy, Ireland, and Mexico looked at the menu and chose ‘Catholic’?” As Perry points out, this is the hardest nut to crack, and he goes after it with a hammer. (An aside: If Perry manages to get everyone to read Daniel Kahneman’s Thinking, Fast and Slow, that alone was worth his time.)

Argument two: The Anglo-Protestant tradition proposes that ideas and doctrines drive growth or decline in religion. The truth is more mundane. Population dynamics drive religious growth and decline. By 2050, give or take, there will be as many Muslims in the world as Christians. Is this because Muslim ideas will vanquish Christian ideas? No. It’s because Muslims will have more kids and raise them to be Muslims.

Argument three: The Anglo-Protestant tradition suggests that individuals, and their obedience to their beliefs, are the principal agents of religious change. In fact, the real driver is social structure. This chapter gets the thickest. Those who aren’t social scientists may need to spend slightly more time here, but I can give you an overview. 

Why did religious institutions in America become steadily less influential over the 20th century? Because the state got steadily more influential. Authority, power, charity, justice, access to resources—the state came to provide these things much more than religion did. How could religion not become structurally less important? (Given this, is it any wonder then that conservative religious believers tend to distrust the state, or that many people now polarize around politics the way they once polarized around religion?)

I will not go far into the chapters on academia here. Perry is right about the shoddy way that secular universities treat the study of religion. He notes that scholars who are personally religious are accused of “me-search,” studying things that are about themselves. These religious religion scholars are presumed to be conservative and, therefore, wrong. 

Perry mentions that “me-search” is common and unproblematic in other research topics. I’d go much further and say personal experience is considered a sign of authenticity in racial, ethnic, gender, and sexual-identity studies, but not in religion. Or, put another way, white scholars are often not trusted to study Blackness, and straight scholars are often not trusted to study alternative modes of sexuality, but nonreligious scholars are more trusted to study religion. 

On the whole, Religion for Realists deserves your close attention. But the book has two related problems, both of which stem from inadequate attention to broader intellectual trends shaping the study of religion.

The first problem arises from Perry’s description of the Western perception that religion is primarily about beliefs, which he terms a “folk understanding of religion.” This fits his argument. He wants the reader to “start thinking more in terms of unconscious bias and group loyalties than self-conscious beliefs; more about fertility rates, cohorts, and immigration than doctrines.” 

Perry surely knows, but doesn’t acknowledge clearly enough, that this change is never going to happen.I first read this book on my flight to the annual meeting of the American Academy of Religion and the Society for Biblical Literature. There, I was surrounded by around 10,000 scholars, many of whom have dedicated their lives to more careful readings of Scripture, to literary analysis (however postmodern), to ethics, and to writing and rewriting history. All of that effort is about ideas, and none of it amounts to folk religion. 

Perry is correct that other scholars don’t take religion seriously enough. Most sociologists will tell you that if you know ethnicity, race, social class, and gender roles, you can explain religion without referring to anything religious at all. Perry needs to come a little cleaner that this is not quite what he thinks. He is, after all, personally religious, as he discusses in the book. 

In reality, the relationship between ideas and social structure is not an either/or proposition. The great sociologist Max Weber said that while the material causes and social structure are hugely important, ideas are the “switchmen” that track and guide human action. Perry wants to add the more materialist social-scientific perspective as a corrective to the mistaken view that ideas determine everything, but this corrective runs the risk of not taking the ideas seriously enough. It is true that people wrongly think religion is primarily about beliefs, but it is also true that religion, especially Western religion, really is about beliefs. A helpful corrective cannot become the sole alternative.

The second, related problem is that Perry frequently uses conservative religious believers as examples of people who grasp the social-scientific perspective on religion and deploy it to their own advantage. In his view, they intentionally tie religious culture and traditions to ethnicity, nationalism, and notions of “blood and soil.” He is, again, totally correct. He and his colleagues have done impressive work on Christian nationalism, for instance. After all, once modernity is underway, an individualizing social structure does not go easily back in its box. Pushing back in favor of tradition requires something hard and forceful, like authoritarianism.

I think Perry is right that the current authoritarian push is a reaction against certain changes in the social structure over the past 60 or 70 years. However, the problem is that it is disingenuous to accuse conservatives, even authoritarians, of having a conscious, informed plan to place society on their doctrinal track while neglecting to acknowledge that this track is at war with an equally conscious, informed plan to remove religious culture and ideas from the marketplace of human endeavors altogether. 

It is no accident that the secular university is so opposed to studying religion. Antonio Gramsci, one of the most influential Marxists at the turn of the 20th century, proposed breaking the cultural hegemony of the ruling class by undermining its reigning ideologies in religion, among other spheres. In the 1960s, Rudi Dutschke called for a “long march through institutions,” with Marxist materialism working gradually through the state and public education to undermine traditionalist culture, including religion. What we are seeing now in liberal arts and social science departments is the success of this march.

There are authoritarians who use the same tactics as Marxists, consciously, to push back. But describing them as intentionally reactionary without noting what they are reacting against is simply inaccurate. I kept waiting for Perry to acknowledge the leftist tilt of sociology, but he is so committed to the discipline as a scientific enterprise that he talks about eliminating bias without acknowledging where the bias begins. All science must guard against bias, but sociology was invented to challenge traditionalist understandings of values and culture.

In the end, however, I believe Perry has done a great service by arguing persuasively for a social-scientific perspective to adjust and correct understandings of religion that focus too much on belief and doctrine. It is very important to see the social, material, and demographic factors that drive religious change. Seeing these factors will not convince a single reader of this review to regard ideas and beliefs as irrelevant to religion—and it shouldn’t. Western religion is about ideas and beliefs, but it is never only or even primarily about that.  

To understand the world around us, we must see ideas and the social forces in constant, interlocking motion. And we must understand that the most effective change agents use ideas and social forces, sometimes consciously and intentionally, to nudge society in their preferred direction.

Arthur E. Farnsley II is research professor of religious studies at Indiana University Indianapolis. He is senior research fellow for The Center for the Study of Religion & American Culture.

The post Studies of Religion Need the Corrective Lens of Social Science appeared first on Christianity Today.

Holidays have an uncanny way of exposing how messy our lives really are. The juggle of expectations from different family members, the tense conversations around politics or life choices, the pain of divorce or estrangement or death, the struggles of mental illness or the realization that a loved one is declining faster than we knew, the crush of extra events that fill the calendar—all these can leave us feeling breathless and broken.

But this year, I’m savoring the truth that life’s messiness is the optimal backdrop for the Christmas story. After all, isn’t the whole point that God sent his Son to earth to become one of us? To enter our strained families and renew our dashed hopes?

Not only did Jesus’ unconventional arrival complicate his family’s situation (initially threatening his mother’s safety and his father’s plans to marry her); he also arrived in the middle of a political scenario that was stretching the budgets and sanity of every Jewish family. But it’s precisely this climate that set the scene for the salvation Christ would eventually offer.

Aside from the holy family and the shepherds, the first people in Luke’s gospel to recognize that the Messiah had come were people who had spent years—decades even—longing for his arrival. The Gospels single out two people in particular: Simeon, a godly man from Jerusalem, and Anna, another prophet in the temple courts. Through their example, we see what it means to wait faithfully for Jesus amid life’s messiness, whether personal or political.

Anna and Simeon lived on the margins in a world controlled by Roman interests, which curtailed their freedom to live out their faith. Yet they both refused to buy into the imperial propaganda announcing that the Pax Romana,the “peace of Rome,” had come. Their discontent with the status quo drove them to the temple to pray and wait in hope for better days and a different king.

Worst of all, the rebuilt temple had never offered any proof of the presence of God. Unlike the tabernacle, which God’s glory filled (Ex. 40:34), and the temple of Solomon, where heavenly fire also came on the altar (2 Chron. 7:1), the rebuilt temple was a disappointment. At its dedication, there was no fire, no visible glory—nothing to signify that God dwelt there.

Yet Simeon and Anna both clung to the promise that God’s presence would be reestablished in their midst—and that yearning propelled them day after day.

Simeon’s most notable characteristics were that he was “waiting for the consolation of Israel” and that “the Holy Spirit was on him” (Luke 2:25). His singular focus was the restoration of his nation, which had been torn in two almost a thousand years before. That posture of longing made him a ready vehicle for God’s Spirit. Led by the Spirit, Simeon sought out the infant Jesus whose young family had come to the temple courts for ritual purification as torah-observant Jews. The Spirit revealed to Simeon that this was the child for whom he’d been waiting all his life!

Simeon held Jesus as he prayed and prophesied over him, blessing the family; and then he spoke directly to Mary: “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too” (v. 34–35).

I wonder if Simeon addressed Mary specifically because he knew how deeply mothers feel the suffering of their children—and that she would bear the grief of public opposition and ultimately the loss of her son.

Either way, Simeon recognized not just the joy but also the pain that Christ’s coming would provoke. Yes, salvation and light and glory would come through this child, but also division. Because of Jesus’ role as a light, he would expose people’s inner thoughts and attract criticism. His coming would not instantly tidy up the mess but initially complicate things further.

Now we turn to Anna, whose life had been marked by grief ever since her husband died just seven years into her marriage. The text tells us nothing of her children, so it’s possible she was also barren. After decades of living as a widow, 84-year-old Anna spent night and day at the temple worshiping, fasting, and praying. It seems she had no desire to be anywhere else.

Luke also tells us in passing that Anna was from the tribe of Asher. This is remarkable because Asher was one of the northern tribes, settled along the coast of Phoenicia, that had been taken into exile by the Assyrians in 722 BC. Although the people of Judah eventually returned to the land, the northern tribes did not—at least not collectively. Most of them had lost their Israelite identity as they assimilated to the nations where the Assyrians scattered them.

So, the fact Anna knew her heritage and lived in Jerusalem tells us she was a notable exception to the rule. Clinging to her ancestry, Anna kept the covenant faith alive, praying fervently for God to establish his kingdom and return to the temple.

The fact that Anna’s life was marked by loss meant she had far less stock than others in preserving the status quo. That yearning helped her recognize the Messiah alongside Simeon, a fellow discontented believer. Simeon and Anna were among a faithful remnant of a broken nation, gathering at an empty shell of a temple and waiting for God to fulfill his promises of a king from David’s line who could reunite their people and lead them back to obedience to God.

Perhaps Anna’s presence was a sign to Simeon that all was not lost—that even the scattered northern tribes might one day return. Perhaps Simeon reassured Anna that she was not alone in her longing—that someone else refused to grow numb under imperial power. Their shared hopes overflowed in jubilant praise the moment they met Jesus. At last, they recognized the answer to their prayers and began proclaiming the good news of his arrival to all who would listen.

This year, when the empty place at your table ties a knot in your stomach or when things feel especially complicated personally or politically, remember this: Christmas reminds us that God sees our pain and has done something truly miraculous to bring about our healing.

To appreciate this truth, we first need to stare into the darkness and feel the full weight of the world’s brokenness. As theologian Fleming Rutledge writes, “Advent is the season that, when properly understood, does not flinch from the darkness that stalks us all in this world. Advent begins in the dark and moves toward the light.”

Which is why, like Anna and Simeon, those of us who find ourselves in messy circumstances are often best positioned to welcome and recognize the promise of Jesus. All the hardest bits in life can increase our longing for Christ’s second coming—and our ability to see it for the great gift that it is: a day when all will finally be made whole.

Carmen Joy Imes is associate professor of Old Testament at Biola University and author of Bearing God’s Name and Being God’s Image. She’s currently writing her next book, Becoming God’s Family: Why the Church Still Matters.

The post A Messiah for a Messy World appeared first on Christianity Today.

As the song says, there isn’t only one day of Christmas. There are 12. Christmastide lasts from December 25 through January 5, from the day we mark Christ’s birth until the eve of Epiphany, when we remember the visit of the Magi. These bookends are familiar, but in between, lesser-known events and people are celebrated in the liturgical calendar observed by many Christian traditions.

Some are obviously fitting, like the Feast of the Holy Family. Some are feast days like any other—say, John the apostle on December 27 or Pope Sylvester I on December 31. 

A few days, though, might strike us as odd. December 26 is the Feast of Saint Stephen, the first martyr who was stoned for the faith. December 28 is the Feast of the Holy Innocents, the babies of Bethlehem slaughtered by Herod in his attempt to kill a potential rival to the throne. And January 1, the eighth day of Christmas, celebrates the circumcision of Jesus.

Each of these ties bloodshed to Christmas—even the last one. This is not, however, how we usually mark the Christmas season, which is festive because it is a festival: a great party in honor of the birth of the King. Advent is for penitence; Christmas is for merriment (Matt. 9:15).

Yet there is a reason for the timing of these altogether bloody memorials. They are a stark reminder of the world into which Jesus was born, the world he was born to save. Even as we make merry, we will be less likely to trivialize the nativity of Christ when we remember that this child was born to die.

“Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness” of sins: so says Hebrews 9:22. Christmas may seem a long way from Calvary, but in truth it isn’t far at all. The Cross is already in view, whether for God (from eternity), for Scripture (as a narrative), or for us (who know the end of the story). Mary’s son is born to shed his blood for us. Even from the womb, this baby is bound for Joseph’s tomb. The circumstances of his birth and the saints honored during this season testify to that sobering truth.

Work backward with me through these three events: the stoning of Stephen (December 26), the slaughter of Bethlehem’s boys (December 28), and the circumcision of Jesus (January 1). I say “backward” because, although we are moving forward through the calendar, we are reversing the flow of the narrative: from Acts 7 (after Pentecost) to Matthew 2 (after Jesus turned two) to Luke 2 (when Jesus was just eight days old). By the end I hope the rationale will be clear.

The Blood of the Martyrs

The day after Christmas memorializes the first Christian martyr. His name and story may be familiar to many of us, but they are worth recalling to mind.

Quite soon after Pentecost the 12 apostles realize that they could not by themselves fulfill every duty necessary to maintain the growing Christian community. So they appoint Stephen and six other men to serve the nascent but growing assembly of faith in Jesus (Acts 6:1–6).

Already the young church has suffered opposition from without and within. Yet the number of Jesus’ disciples is “increasing,” expanding the circle of the young church (2:41–47; 4:4; 5:12–16; 6:7). Peter, John, and the other apostles have been placed in custody, thrown in prison, and beaten (4:3–7; 5:17–42), but no follower of the Way has yet been forced to follow it, as Jesus did, “to the end” (John 13:1). Until Stephen.

Stephen is a great debater. Wise and full of the Spirit, he engages in public disputations with fellow Jewish leaders and scholars (Acts 6:8–10). Angered by his speeches, false witnesses stir up trouble with rumor and gossip, and the high priest asks Stephen whether what they say is true (6:11–7:1). His answer is a sermon, and it proves to be his last. When he is finished, the mob is seething with rage. They drag him out of the city and stone him to death (7:54–60). A young man named Saul nods along in tacit approval (8:1).

Stephen is the first martyr for Christ, the proto-martyr and paradigm for all who would come after him. Why? And why remember him on the second day of Christmas?

We believers are meant to imitate Stephen because, in his life and death, Stephen imitates Christ. He boldly proclaims the word of God. He performs signs and wonders (6:8). His face shines with heavenly light (v. 15). Like Jesus, Stephen entrusts his soul to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob (7:32), confident that he is the God not of the dead but of the living (Luke 20:37–38). Confident, that is, in the power of God for salvation (Rom. 1:16)—which is only another word for resurrection (2 Tim. 1:10).

Finally, like Jesus, Stephen consents to his own death. He doesn’t will it, but he allows it to happen. He does not fight back; he turns the other cheek (Matt. 5:38–48). He even petitions the Lord for this sin—the lynching of an innocent man—to be forgiven (Acts 7:60). Having learned this prayer from Jesus’ own lips (Luke 23:34), he takes another as his dying breath: “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit” (Acts 7:59; Luke 23:46). As Jesus prayed to the Father, so martyrs and disciples pray to Jesus, reigning in glory at the Father’s right hand.

A martyr is not only, as Stephen was, a believer who dies for the faith. A martyr is a witness to Christ. That is what the Greek word martys means, and it is why every Christian is called to it. Following the apostles, who were eyewitnesses to the Resurrection, all of us continue to testify to the risen Lord in word and deed, in life and death (Acts 1:8, 22; 2:32). Fittingly, Luke notes the presence of certain “witnesses” at Stephen’s stoning (7:58).

Understood in this larger way, martyrdom makes sense at Christmastide. We celebrate Christ’s coming not because he saves us from death but because he shows us how to die—how to have true life in this dying life. He is born to give us life abundant, which is eternal life (John 10:10). Yet even as we grasp hold of this life here and now, in our mortal bodies, we know we will not possess it in full until we are, like Jesus, beyond death. “For we know that since Christ was raised from the dead, he cannot die again; death no longer has mastery over him” (Rom. 6:9).

So when we remember Stephen’s death on the day after we remember Jesus’ birth, we are, in effect, remembering our baptism: our death day and birth day at once. “Don’t you know that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life” (vv. 3–4). For “no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit” (John 3:5).

Every birth calls forth death; the two are inseparable. Birth is bloody, and what is birthed is mortal. The birth of Jesus at Christmas thus points simultaneously to the death he will die to give us life; to the baptism that is our second birth, through union in his death; and to the final end of the whole fallen cycle in his resurrection, ascension, and return.

Stephen is the first of Christ’s innumerable seeds sown in the earth. In the words of Tertullian, born about a century after the deaths of Peter and Paul, “The blood of Christians is seed.” Or as the expression is more commonly known, “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.” In the economy of Christ, death begets life. Christmas cannot help but remind us of both.

The Blood of the Innocents

If at first glance Stephen is difficult to place in relation to Christmas, the slaughter of the Holy Innocents is far less so.

The story is straightforward: When men from the East tell Herod about the child “born king of the Jews” (Matt. 2:2), Herod conspires to murder Jesus before he can become a threat. Enraged that the Magi then “outwitted” him to conceal the baby’s location, Herod orders “all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old or under” to be killed (v. 16). 

Through angelic intervention, Jesus escapes to Egypt with Joseph and Mary (vv. 13–15), but the lament of Rachel for her children cries out to God without consolation (v. 18). Only when Herod is himself dead does the holy family return from Egypt and settle in Nazareth (vv. 19–23), hometown of Mary (Luke 1:26–27) and now of the Messiah (Mark 6:1; John 1:46; 7:40–42).

Just as Stephen’s death replayed Jesus’ death, so Jesus’ birth replays Israel’s birth. Like Moses, he must be delivered from a tyrant’s mass infanticide (Ex. 1:8–2:10). Like Joseph, Rachel’s son (Gen. 30:22–24), he must seek protection from his own kin in the foreign land of Egypt (39:1–6). Like all the sons of Jacob, he must come out of Egypt and enter the land of Israel promised to Abraham (12:7; Hos. 11:1).

Every step is beset by danger, violence, and bloodshed, and nothing less than divine intervention is required to fulfill the Lord’s plan for his people’s salvation.

We remember the holy innocents, then, because they are the all-too-typical price that evil exacts when faced with the good purposes of God. We remember them because a world that murders children remains, somehow, the world that God loves—a world that does not lie beyond redemption, that needs the gospel of the child Christ more than ever. And we remember them in conjunction with Christ’s birth because, as believers’ prayers and songs have honored their sacrifice across the centuries, the holy innocents anticipate the once-for-all sacrifice on the cross. In the words of Ephrem the Syrian, composing hymns in the fourth century:

The babes were slain because of Your all-reviving birth.
But since the King, our Lord the Lord of the kingdom, was a slain [king],
slain hostages were given by that cunning tyrant.
The heavenly ranks received, clothed in the mysteries of His slaying,
the hostages whom earthly beings offered. Blessed is the King Who magnified them!

The Blood of Abraham’s Seed

On the eighth day of Christmas the church celebrates the circumcision of Christ. For Gentiles this is an odd thing to do; for moderns who relegate such procedures to the sterile corridors of hospitals and professionals, it is even odder.

Because so much of Christian history is weighed down by latent prejudice against the Jews, it is a wonder that, buried deep in the church’s memory, we have never forgotten the significance of this day. It is set on the eighth day of Christmas because God’s covenant with Abraham commands the circumcision of every Jewish male on the eighth day following his birth (Gen. 17:12). This is just what the Gospel of Luke records: “On the eighth day, when it was time to circumcise the child, he was named Jesus, the name the angel had given him before he was conceived” (2:21).

Circumcision anticipates baptism. Just as baptism is a new birth through death to the old self—a mortifying entrance into God’s covenant family—so circumcision wounds the flesh for the sake of covenant life with the Lord. It takes the symbolic measure of a man, his virility and power to beget earthly life, and cuts. It does not ask permission. It proclaims, through blood, that this child belongs to God because he is a child of Abraham, and he will be expected to live as one all the days of his life.

Thus God to Abraham: “My covenant in your flesh is to be an everlasting covenant. Any uncircumcised male, who has not been circumcised in the flesh, will be cut off from his people; he has broken my covenant” (Gen. 17:13–14).

Jesus is circumcised because he is Mary’s son, and Mary is a daughter of Abraham. Jesus is a Jew, subject to Jewish law. But Jesus, we confess, is not just a Jew but the God of the Jews. He is the Jewish God made flesh. He is the author of the Law. He is the friend of Moses. He is the voice who called Abram out of Ur and made extravagant promises to him. He is the source of the command to circumcise.

In Jesus, therefore, Abraham’s God submits to his own covenant. The circumcising God is himself circumcised. As Ephrem puts it in another nativity hymn:

Behold on the eighth day as a babe
The Circumciser of all came to circumcision. …
The sign of Abraham was on His flesh.

This is a great mystery. It is one reason the church does not pass over the eighth day of Christmas as an uneventful episode in Jesus’ infancy but honors it with a feast.

A further reason is that this is the first drop of blood shed by the Savior. In the same way that Stephen and the holy innocents bookend the story of Jesus with martyrdom, so in his own flesh Jesus begins and ends his life by shedding his blood. It opens with a Jewish blade and closes with Roman nails. Jesus is scarred from the beginning—and as we learn from Thomas, his scars are healed but not erased in the Resurrection (John 20:19–29).

Paul teaches us that the offspring (or “seed”) of Abraham is singular, not plural, because the promises of God come to their head in Jesus, the Messiah of Israel and Savior of the nations (Gal. 3:1–4:7). This is the gospel proclaimed at Christmas in hymns like “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing”:

Mild He lays His glory by, 
Born that man no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of earth; 
Born to give them second birth.

As we sing with joy this Christmastide, let’s not forget the cost of this second birth. If we have ears to hear, the story of Jesus won’t let us forget it. Nor will the church’s calendar.

Brad East is an associate professor of theology at Abilene Christian University. He is the author of four books, including The Church: A Guide to the People of God and Letters to a Future Saint.

The post The Blood Cries Out at Christmastime appeared first on Christianity Today.

Because of the complex sociopolitical realities present in wartime Gaza, we are using protective pseudonyms for “Ayman” and other Gazans.

Read Christianity Today’s Tuesday piece on a Gaza Christian.

The toll of war is particularly evident in Jabalia, a city in northern Gaza under double siege: The east-west Netzarim Corridor of the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) cuts Jabalia off from the south, and a military operation that began in October cuts it off from Gaza City. 

As the IDF pursues Hamas operatives in Jabalia, explosions blow up entire residential blocks. A Jabalia resident, Ayman, has small children who sleep fitfully and run to him, terrified and shaken, when bombs fall. The smell of gunpowder causes their eyes to swell and makes breathing difficult. Ayman reported that people shot in the street bleed to death because others are afraid to venture out to help. Dogs gnaw on the corpses left behind.

Ayman’s family could move south, as the IDF commanded at the beginning of their operation—and Ayman said they will if soldiers get close to their apartment. Until then, he believes that staying in their home—already damaged by shelling—is the safest alternative. At the end of November, the Hamas-run Gazan health ministry claimed that 1,410 families in Gaza have been wiped from the Palestinian civil registry. They died in their homes and in shelters in designated “safe zones.” Israeli media note that the ministry does not distinguish between civilians and fighters. 

In general, southern Gaza is quieter, though Palestinians there also face conditions that Husam, a Palestinian living in Khan Younis, describes as famine. Right before speaking with Christianity Today, he organized a meal distribution for an aid organization he has worked for this year. People crammed and jostled around enormous pots to receive portions of lentils prepared over wood fires. All around Gaza, people prepare meals this way, Husam said, using wood salvaged from smashed furniture and uprooted trees.

The number of aid deliveries entering Gaza plummeted in October, according to data published by Israel’s Coordination of Government Activities in the Territories. While Israel blames international aid agencies for not delivering resources lined up at the border crossings, the agencies said armed gangs and ruined roads make deliveries near-impossible.

Husam and his family fled Khan Younis in January. They first spent four days in a school near their home amid sounds of tank shells, quadcopters, and machine guns. Next, they fled about seven miles south to Rafah, which was then a designated humanitarian safe zone, where they lived on the sandy Egyptian border in a plastic tent. In the winter, rainwater soaked their mattresses, and in the heat, Husam felt as if they were living in a greenhouse. 

In Rafah, Husam began to partner with several organizations to distribute aid to fellow displaced Palestinians. Once, he was able to provide his neighbors with a chicken. Through the tent walls, he could hear them enjoying the first meat they’d eaten in a long time.  

When he distributes aid, Husam said, “I’m at the peak of happiness. I forget the suffering of war, the scarcity of food and absence of security, and danger in every place. I get tears of joy helping people—I live like I’m on a mission for the Lord.” 

In May, when the IDF began an offensive in Rafah, Husam’s family returned to Khan Younis, where they now live in a relative’s home. His days are mostly occupied with following the news and trying to find food for his family, searching social media groups to learn where food distributions will happen. His children, who have not been in school since the war began, stand in lines to get meals and clean drinking water and to power the family’s phones at a charging station. A 55-pound bag of flour, which used to cost $9.75, now runs more than $275. 

After living under Hamas’s governance for 17 years, Husam’s opinions about the group are cool and distrustful. He said their policies don’t benefit the average Gazan, just those in their party. Under current conditions, he sees them take more than their fair share when aid is distributed. They use civilians as human shields. He even sees a correlation between concentrations of Hamas fighters and the locations of food distributions—a pairing that sometimes leads to IDF attacks on distribution sites. 

Some accuse Israel of carrying out genocide—a charge Israel considers spurious considering the magnitude and intentionality of the Holocaust. Israel maintains that Hamas started the war and has used hospitals, schools, and apartments to shield its military bases, contributing to civilian casualties. Husam sees validity in both of these views: “If the question is whether genocide is being carried out, the answer is yes—but it is in partnership with Hamas.”

Still, Husam said his spirits run high, and he believes God is with him. Sometimes, he sits near his destroyed home and reflects. “When you see death with your own eyes and survive it, everything becomes easy after that,” he said. “One starts to say, ‘Thank God, we came out alive.’”

Meanwhile, in Gaza City, Fadi said he does not feel that he’s leading his own life. He said God gives him and Gaza’s other believers patience to endure. He is convinced that once a ceasefire is made, every Gazan will have mental illness, and a new kind of war will begin: one against unemployment, inflation, food scarcity, and severe housing shortages.  

“There is nothing in our hands to do but pray, honestly, and live with the situation we’re in.”

The post He Fled His Gaza Home. Now He Feeds His Fellow Displaced. appeared first on Christianity Today.

This piece was adapted from Russell Moore’s newsletter. Subscribe here.

Last Sunday, I took a break from the apocalypse to focus on Christmas.

By “apocalypse,” I’m not referencing the news cycle but, literally, the actual Apocalypse, the Book of Revelation, through which I’m teaching week-by-week Sundays at my church.

The problem is that we are right in the middle of the book, which consists of bowls of wrath, boils and plagues, and a woman riding a beast while drinking the blood of the martyrs. It seemed a little anxiety-inducing to go through all of that and then end with, “So Merry Christmas, everybody!”

Instead, I turned to the Gospel of Luke, to the time of baby Jesus—and found myself right back in an apocalypse.

In the text, right after the account of Jesus’ birth, Mary and Joseph present the infant Christ in the temple. There, they are approached by the prophet Simeon, who takes the baby in his arms.

Some of what old Simeon then says sounds Christmasy enough for our expectations. The baby is “a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel” (Luke 2:32, ESV throughout).

But then he gets dark. Simeon turns to Mary and predicts, “Behold, this child is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is opposed (and a sword will pierce through your own soul also), so that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed” (vv. 34–35).

The word apocalypse, of course, doesn’t hold the same meaning biblically as our pop culture gives it (“scary dystopia”). The word means “unveiling,” a showing of what’s hidden to our perception, a revealing of the way the universe really is. What Simeon saw in that bustling outer court of the temple was that Mary was headed for heartbreak—the kind of soul-tearing heartbreak that would make visible what was really true.

It’s hard to follow “A knife is headed for your heart, lady,” with “Happy Holidays and a Blessed New Year!” The foreboding nature of that word had to be unnerving, if not terrifying. The more I think of it, though, the more I’m convinced that is exactly what we need, all of us, this year.

Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt argues that adolescents and young adults make up an “anxious generation,” driven by the limbic effects of smartphone and social media ecology. But he also asserts that the anxiety is not limited to any one generation. We all live and move and have our cultural being in a kind of acute anxiety.

By anxiety, here, I don’t mean the clinical, medical condition from which many people suffer. I mean instead the sort of generalized state of worry and tension that seems so heightened in the world around us and within us right now.

In his new book, Consolations II: The Solace, Nourishment, and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words, poet David Whyte argues that anxiety describes the way we try to avoid conversing with the things that scare us by worrying about them instead. This kind of constant anxiety, he writes, is actually a defense mechanism for what we are afraid can hurt us.

“Anxiety is the trembling surface identity that finds the full measure of our anguish too painful to bear; constant anxiety is our way of turning away from and attempting to make a life free from the necessities of heartbreak,” he writes. “Anxiety is our greatest defense against the vulnerabilities of intimacy and a real understanding of others. Allowing our hearts to actually break might be the first step in freeing ourselves from anxiety.”

A heightened state of worry feels like doing something, but that kind of hyper-vigilance is exhausting. And it often cuts us off from those things that require vulnerability—the risk of being hurt—to exist: love, affection, compassion, wonder, awe, curiosity, courage, giving of self. Maybe Whyte is correct that what is needed for us right now is not to protect ourselves from heartbreak but to embrace it.

That’s where I realized just how similar the warm, bright Christmas story is to the dark, scary middle of the Book of Revelation. Every Sunday, I remind my church-folk (and myself) that the “scary” parts of Revelation are actually good news. God is pulling back the veil so that what’s hidden is made plain.

The kingdoms of this world are shaky and tottering. The way of Caesar, the way of the Beast, seems right now to “work.” For the first-century church, the word from Patmos is a call to overcome: not by fighting like the Devil against the ways of the Devil but by remaining faithful, enduring through suffering, and waiting on the God of Israel to make all things new.

The Apocalypse doesn’t deny that dangerous days are coming, but it makes clear that they are limited—“a time, and times, and half a time” (12:14). On the other side of the sword that cuts through Mary’s heart at the cross (or those that cut off the martyr’s heads in first-century Rome), there’s a weight of glory that cannot be described adequately with words. We can free ourselves to risk heartbrokenness because a broken heart is the beginning of the story, not the end.

Simeon’s warning is in the context of blessing. He was waiting, by the Spirit, for the “consolation of Israel” (Luke 2:25). He never saw an overthrown Rome. He never saw the murderous house of Herod torn down. He never saw the promise fulfilled of the nations streaming to Mount Zion, with David’s throne occupied by David’s heir. And yet he could say that he could die in peace because he had, in fact, seen “your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples” (v. 32).

What he saw was this baby. And that was a hidden reality, except for the eyes of faith.

The people bustling through the temple courts didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Maybe one of them heard the infant Jesus crying and said, “Somebody should tell that woman to keep that kid quiet.” They saw a normal day, filled with the anxieties of life. But Simeon saw an apocalypse—and in it, a world blinded with light.

Every life is filled with anxiety, and every age is too. Sometimes that anxiety feels more acute than at other times, and the future seems more uncertain than before. This Christmas, let’s look beyond the days and years right ahead of us. Let’s see the Light that shines out of Bethlehem, the Light that shines in the darkness, the Light the darkness cannot comprehend or overcome.

Let your heart be broken, but rejoice. All is well in heaven and will be well on earth. Remember the good tidings of great joy. And have yourself a merry little Apocalypse.

Russell Moore is the editor in chief at Christianity Today and leads its Public Theology Project.

The post What Your Anxiety Needs This Christmas appeared first on Christianity Today.

 A California Christian college is vowing to stay open despite a state judge’s ruling that bars the school from enrolling new students and requires current students to be sent to other schools.

California is the second state to bar Olivet University, a small school with ties to South Korean minister David Jang, from operating a campus. In 2022, officials in New York state decided not to renew Olivet’s license to run a campus in Dover, New York, citing alleged financial mismanagement.

In 2020, the school agreed to pay more than half a million dollars in fines for improperly removing asbestos from its Dover campus, also home to the World Olivet Assembly, which claims to be a “global gathering of evangelical churches and para-church organizations.”

Olivet’s main campus in Anza, California, in the desert southeast of Los Angeles, says it has applied for a religious exemption to remain open, despite a ruling from California’s Bureau for Private Postsecondary Education revoking the school’s license to operate. (Olivet offers other select classes at sites in several other states.)

In a decision that takes effect in early January, Judge Debra Nye-Perkins of the Office of Administrative Hearings found that the school failed to educate to students properly and that it has not maintained adequate educational records, according to the Los Angeles Times.

“The only degree of discipline that would protect the public is the revocation of respondent’s approval to operate,” wrote Nye-Perkins, after hearings prompted by a complaint filed by California’s Bureau for Private Postsecondary Education.

In a statement posted on its website, the school said it would appeal the decision to revoke its license. 

“In addition to pursuing the appeal, Olivet University has made the decision as of December 11 to operate under religious exemption in California, and submitted its application same day,” according to the statement. “This step reflects the University’s commitment to continuing its mission and activities while upholding its core values and principles as a Christian institution.”

Jang has been a controversial figure in evangelical circles, with ex-members claiming his sect teaches that the Korean minister is the “Second Coming Messiah,” which the sect denies. Along with running the church and Olivet, sect members have started a number of online business, and for a time owned Newsweek magazine. The group also had close ties to the World Evangelical Alliance before the WEA reportedly severed the relationship last summer. 

In 2020, the college and former publishers of Newsweek and The Christian Post, which also has ties to Jang, pleaded guilty to fraudulently obtaining $35 million in loans. The loans were supposed to be used to purchase computers but were used for other purposes. The chair of the board of Olivet pled guilty and served no jail time but was banned from the school’s board. The school also agreed to repay $1.25 million. 

More recently former students of Olivet, many of them from countries in Asia, sued the college, accusing school leaders of forcing them to perform unpaid labor and controlling their movements.

“At all times while Plaintiffs lived at Olivet’s Anza campus, they were not permitted to come and go from campus unless they first received permission from an Olivet employee,” a complaint in the lawsuit alleges, the LA Times reported.

Olivet leaders did not reply to a request for comment, but have denied any wronging in the past. The school blames its current woes on a long-running feud with the current owners of Newsweek magazine, who have also had ties to Jang in the past. Though a lawsuit over the management of the magazine was settled in 2023, a spokesperson for Olivet has accused Newsweek’s owners of colluding with California’s post-secondary private education bureau to harm the college, according to the Gospel Herald, a Christian news site whose editor is an Olivet professor.

The Gospel Herald also published a redacted image of a Bureau for Private Post-Secondary Education investigative form purportedly showing that a writer from Newsweek made an initial complaint against Olivet.

“Since 2022, Newsweek has published more than 20 maliciously negative reports targeting Olivet University due to ownership disputes, even collaborating via email with BPPE to attack and manipulate the school,” the spokesperson told the Gospel Herald.

Olivet also claims to remain in good standing with the Association for Biblical Higher Education, its accreditor, though the college was placed on probation by the ABHE from 2021-22 and was on warning from the group at the time California officials were investigating Olivet.

“Respondent continues to show a cavalier attitude toward compliance with the BPPE’s statutes and regulations,” Nye-Perkins said in her decision.

The post Olivet University Loses Its License to Operate in California appeared first on Christianity Today.

Because of the complex sociopolitical realities present in wartime Gaza, Christianity Today is using protective pseudonyms for “Fadi” and other Gazans.

As Fadi heads to work, surveillance drones hover overhead. Their presence is continuous. Sometimes their monotonous thrumming—combined with the sound of explosions—keeps him and other Gazan Christians at Holy Family Catholic Church from sleeping.

Fadi, a shadow of stubble on his face, wears one of the two sets of clothes he brought out of his home before it was bombed. He walks more than 30 minutes one way because in Gaza City, gasoline costs more than $250 a gallon. The streets are dangerous, he said, with gangs occasionally stopping people to demand their phones and money. Early in the war, the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) contacted residents if they were about to bomb an area, but now warnings are fewer. Fadi, who is unmarried, worries that a missile could fall at any time. 

Israeli shelling flattened Fadi’s apartment, and its loss grieves him deeply. Since his late teens, he had worked to build a foundation for his future. When the war began, he felt as if 11 years of preparation had disappeared. 

Before the war, when he was upset or angry, Fadi would buy himself a coffee, get in his car, and drive to sit by the Mediterranean Sea. Now, he said the beach is full of garbage and debris from destroyed buildings. “Our lives, for more than a year now, have been frustration after frustration. There’s no joy, really,” he said. “Nothing good has happened from the first day of the war until today.” 

In early October, the IDF faced a regrouping Hamas and began a new ground operation in Gaza’s northernmost governorate. On November 26, the IDF bombed a school that sheltered displaced Palestinians. Though reports do not mention the presence of Hamas in this particular school, their fighters often embed themselves among displaced citizens in similar locations. Fadi saw donkey-drawn carts and three-wheeled rickshaws, plus ambulances with seven or eight people packed inside each one, carrying the wounded to Al-Ahli Arab Hospital, which sits in the same region as Holy Family and currently sees around 700 outpatients per day. 

In the last two months, shelling has forced more than 130,000 Palestinians from the northern towns of Beit Lahiya, Beit Hanoun, and Jabalia south to Gaza City, where, according to a recent report, about 375,000 now reside. Among these are Fadi and hundreds of other Christians sheltering at Holy Family and the Greek Orthodox Church of St. Porphyrius. 

“We won’t leave the church,” Fadi said, “not because it’s giving us food and protection, but the opposite: We are the ones protecting the church.” Without their presence, the church could suffer break-ins and bombs. Though international law considers targeting of religious sites a war crime, this rule becomes void if a site is used for military purposes. The IDF has damaged hundreds of Gazan mosques this year, claiming them as terrorist hideouts, and twice Israeli missiles or shrapnel damaged Holy Family’s buildings.

The believers who remain in Gaza number little more than 700. In an interview released on October 8, Gabriel Romanelli, an Argentinian priest serving at Holy Family, said 1,071 Christians—Catholic, Orthodox, and Protestant—were in Gaza at the beginning of the war. He said 30 percent of the Christian community has been lost, with 43 dead and 300 leaving Gaza by way of Egypt. Escape through the border crossing—for a hefty fee of $5,000 per person—was possible until May, when the IDF captured the Philadelphi Corridor. 

Nearly all of those remaining now live in one of the two churches in Gaza City’s Zeitoun neighborhood. Fadi himself entered Holy Family five days after Hamas’s murderous invasion of Israel on October 7, 2023. After 14 months, life for the Christians has taken on a spartan sense of routine. The displaced sleep in the buildings of the Latin Patriarchate school, with two or three families occupying each classroom. Wooden shelters constructed in the compound’s open yards serve as school classrooms for the children. In addition to Sunday mass, morning prayers and evening mass take place in the church sanctuary each weekday. At these times, the steady clanging of church bells pours over the neighborhood’s rubble. 

Fadi said the church provides a hot meal to residents twice a week. The rest of the time, people rely on their own resources—canned goods like tuna, peas, beans, and chickpeas. Some staples like milk, bread, meat, and coffee are on store shelves, but few can afford them. Meat costs around $50 a pound and coffee close to $25 for a half pound. 

For months, the displaced Christians did not eat fruit or vegetables—until one day when a delivery of produce arrived, oranges included. As crates were unloaded, Fadi watched in disbelief, filled with a sense of euphoria, as if the war had ended.

“At the same moment I was very upset,” he said, “because the simplest thing—vegetables and fruit—we were so happy just to see them.”

To accommodate laundry needs, the church purchased ten washing machines with financial support from outside Gaza and created a sign-up schedule. It recently installed solar panels that provide several hours of electricity to each classroom—just enough for lighting each room and charging devices. Four hundred people share the church complex’s restrooms, but to bathe, they must heat water in pots over wood fires. Although diabetes, blood-pressure, and thyroid medications are extremely scarce at best, Fadi acknowledged that most of Gaza’s 1.9 million displaced face worse circumstances: “We have it much better than others.”  

Some of the “others” live in Jabalia, a city in northern Gaza. One Jabalia resident, Ayman, said he risks death whenever he leaves his home and family. Tomorrow, Christianity Today will tell his story and another’s.

The post Fadi Lost His Apartment. He Won’t Let the Same Happen to His Church. appeared first on Christianity Today.

When I was a child, my grandmother died three days before Christmas. We buried her on Christmas Eve. Years later, my little brother fell asleep at the wheel driving home from college to spend the holidays with family. He hit a tree and died instantly. And years after that, I miscarried my first baby in a taxicab passing the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.

The irony of so many goodbyes at a season reserved for celebrating the most important arrival ever was entirely lost on me. Despite being a wholly devoted follower of Jesus, I had never once celebrated Christmas as the birth of Christ.

This is weird. I know it’s weird because I’ve since made friends with Baptists and Presbyterians and Anglicans, and when I explain my dearth of Christmas praxis, they all look at me like I’m insane. But if it wasn’t explicitly laid out as a command in the pages of the New Testament, my childhood church didn’t practice it. And as the apostle Paul does not appear to have celebrated Christmas, we were definitely not celebrating Christmas.

This meant that my preacher didn’t call out Jesus’ birth in sermons except as a caveat: “And as we all know, the Bible doesn’t mention when Jesus was born.” We did not sing Christmas songs in church. When “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” played on the radio, my brother and I changed the lyrics from “Remember Christ our Savior / Was born on Christmas Day” to “Remember Christ our Savior / Wasn’t born on Christmas day.” Every time we did it, we felt like Martin Luther nailing his 95 theses to the Castle Church door.

Sometimes my family would get Christmas cards from well-meaning friends, with nativity scenes or angels on their fronts. Holding a card like that was like holding a dirty magazine, like contraband snuck in from a fallen world. We prayed these card-senders would come to their senses.

So no Jesus at Christmas. But Santa, reindeer, cookies, and Christmas lights were fair game.

We didn’t think God was less “with us” at Christmas than at other times of the year—just not especially with you. God is equally with us every day. No need to privilege one over another.

When life was easy, this understanding of omnipresence made sense to me. But losing all my people at Christmas made me wonder. Some days, God felt distinctly less with me than on other days. And some days (maybe not the days I’d most expect) God felt especially present.

In her book Thermal Delight in Architecture, architect Lisa Heschong writes that “our nervous system is much more attuned to noticing change in the environment than to noticing steady states.” Humans derive greater pleasure from novelty. It’s why we love the first few days of a new season (snow!) and abhor the lingering last days of that very same season (more snow). It’s why we like to sit by a fire after a day skiing. It’s why we jump in cold water before the sauna. As Heschong explains, “the experience of each extreme is made more acute by contrast to the other.”

And yet, she notes, modern people have chosen a “steady state environment” as preferable for everyday life: We’ve collectively decided that “any degree of thermal stress is undesirable ” and expend significant effort and expense to eliminate it.

I grew up thinking of God’s presence like central heating, a steady state environment, no special days because every day is special. It turns out, the quickest way to forget that something is special is to make “special” ordinary and expected. As psychologist Richard Beck writes of reclaiming enchanted faith, “God is everywhere, but when He is everywhere, He tends to be nowhere.”

When my grandmother died, when my brother died, when I miscarried my baby, God’s presence didn’t feel much like easy oxygen (I could barely breathe) or reliable gravity (I felt like I was floating in space). It felt more like a friend walking through the door, turning on a lamp. It felt personal, particular, located, new.

Even children can tell you the details of the birth of Christ. Where was he born? In Bethlehem. Where did they lay him? In a manger. Who was there? His mother Mary. Joseph the carpenter. Shepherds came to see him. Magi from afar brought gifts.He was wrapped in swaddling clothes. The king, a particular historical king, Herod the Great (not Herod Antipas or Herod Agrippa) sought to kill him. The story is full of specifics. Why? Because it actually happened. And real things happen not in general but in particular.

Theologians call Jesus’ arrival in the form of a particular person, in a particular place, at a particular time, and among a particular culture “the scandal of particularity.”

At Christmas, God is not everywhere equally at once, evenly distributed in a state of constant homeostasis. He’s “here”—a body in a woman’s arms, apparent in a way he wasn’t only moments before. The arrival of Christ marks a transition: Something was wrong and then was made right. Something was less and then more. En-wombed and then birthed.

This is the way God chooses to express His steady presence—hidden then revealed, shrouded then unveiled, silent then loud, faith then sight.

I was seven when my grandmother died. I still remember looking into the yawning mausoleum, watching the coffin be pushed into darkness, weighing the impossible possibility of resurrection. It was Christmas Eve.

One year later, on Christmas Eve, I stood in our driveway in St. Petersburg, Florida, watching snowflakes fall like stars from a generous sky. I opened my mouth wide to catch them on my tongue. Fat flakes melted on my eyelashes and cheeks. I’d never seen snow. I’d never see it in St. Petersburg again. It seemed like God had deliberately gone out of his way to prove what the angel said to Mary: “Nothing will be impossible with God” (Luke 1:37, ESV throughout).

When my brother Bobby died, I’d never felt so lonely. He’d been my best friend. Something like 500 people came to his funeral—several ex-girlfriends, a few of his bosses, his third-grade teacher, and the entire men’s basketball team from his college. We told stories. We laughed. We sang. It was beautiful. A beautiful funeral shouldn’t be possible. But here it was, because here God was: “Immanuel,” which means God with us (Matt. 1:23).

And then the baby. We told that story to our church one year at Christmas, about how we’d waited for seven years to have a baby and then we lost him and all seemed lost. But even so, God was close and kind. Telling that story brought God close again, this time for people in the room who’d never heard another person tell a story about miscarriage. Sharing it felt like unzipping the sky and testifying, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy” (Luke 2:10).

Christmas reminds us of the breaking-in nature of divinity, of the way God steps into particular moments, making himself known in new, personal, special ways—like arriving in the City of David during the time of Herod the Great to a virgin mother. Like St. Petersburg on Christmas Eve, love carried on snowflakes, or in New York City in a taxi cab, Christmas lights reflecting on the hood of the car, or at the Church of Christ on Park Boulevard, the grieving saints singing all together, “They sing in heav’n a new song…”

Yes, God is everywhere. He “fill[s] heaven and earth” (Jer. 23:24). But Christmas is teaching me that God also comes to specific people at specific times in specific ways, sometimes in increased materiality or intensity. I’m learning it’s okay for some days to feel more special than others, because some days are—not because God’s here on some days and absent on others, but because, for whatever reason, God has chosen certain moments to find us with announcement, revelation, or adventure. They may not be the days we expect him. They may be when we least expect him: at funerals, in a hospital bed, on the anniversary of a loss, or in a manger.

I didn’t grow up celebrating Christmas as the birth of Christ, but I do now. I celebrate with candles and Nativity scenes and carols and Advent prayers. And I celebrate by leaving the door open, expecting Immanuel’s particular arrival.

J. L. Gerhardt is a Storytelling Partner at Hazefire Studios, author of The Goodness, and creator of the audio memoir The Happiest Saddest People. 

The post All My People Died at Christmas appeared first on Christianity Today.

Some 20 years back, a remarkable resurgence of care for orphans began. It united believers across the US and beyond who longed to renew the age-old Christian commitment to children on the margins, from international adoption to local foster care. The movement arose eager but green.

In May 2004, 29 leaders gathered in Little Rock, Arkansas. Some led venerable ministries, others startups. Some were pastors and business leaders. Many were also adoptive or foster parents. “There were all kinds of opinions in the room,” recalled Andy Lehman, then vice president of a new orphan-care nonprofit. “But we all loved Jesus and longed to see more Christians stepping up for orphans.”

Interest in orphans seemed to be sprouting in many corners of the church. Technology and travel were shrinking the world. The global AIDS crisis spotlighted the reality of orphaned children. Just a year before the Little Rock meeting, President George W. Bush had launched the largest health initiative by any nation in history, including a special focus on children orphaned by HIV. Countless private efforts also flowered, from massive organizations like World Vision to mom-and-pop nonprofits.

International adoption was surging, too. Respected Christian leaders like Steven Curtis and Mary Beth Chapman, who welcomed a daughter from China in 2000, showed believers that adoption wasn’t just a last resort for parents who couldn’t conceive. It was also a beautiful way to provide a child with a family.

This energy appeared novel, but its roots ran deep. Christians have always paid special care to children the world discarded. Even as a persecuted minority in the Roman empire, the first believers earned a reputation for seeking out children left to die and welcoming them as sons and daughters.

Christians have been known for similar efforts ever since, from early saints like Afra of Augsburg to George Müller, Pandita Ramabai, and Charles Spurgeon. Their efforts varied from orphanages to adoption to aid for widows and more. But all acted with a strong sense that God cares deeply for orphans and calls his people to do the same.

The eclectic bunch in Little Rock wanted to reignite this ancient commitment. Dennis Rainey, founder of Family Life and an adoptive father, gave the group a charge that would define their work together. Rainey observed that despite their shared values, most organizations worked in isolation or even competition. He asked a bold question: “Can we leave our logos and egos at the door to accomplish far more together than any of us could alone?” The participants pledged to find out.

“Unity isn’t easy,” Rainey warned. “It doesn’t happen without serious effort.” He added another caution: “This call to care for orphans, adoption, foster care—that’s not easy either. It may be one of the hardest things a person can do.”

Looking back now, Rainey admitted that many of those present seriously underestimated the challenges ahead, himself included. “We didn’t know the half of it,” he said.  

Today, many who began this journey are still at it but are markedly changed. Most bear invisible scars. Their early enthusiasm has been humbled, their idealism chastened. Yet many also evidence surprisingly buoyant hearts and spiritual depth. How did they get there? And what can fellow believers committed to justice and mercy learn from the passion, pain, and perseverance of this movement? 

Courtesy of CAFO / Edits by CT

Fresh enthusiasm and big dreams

When the group next gathered, enthusiasm ran high. A volunteer observed that participants “were making plans to change the world before they even got to the first meeting.”

On some issues, realism held sway. Participants agreed that bad actors in the field needed to be confronted. At the time, virtually anyone could raise money “for orphans” with zero accountability. One of the group’s first steps was to adopt shared standards for fiscal integrity and governance.

But other elements of their plans were thick with idealism, even naiveté. Phrases like end the orphan crisis and bringing hope to millions echoed in plenary talks and hallway conversations. Solutions now viewed as flawed—including large, impersonal orphanages—went largely unquestioned. Perhaps most of all, it was taken for granted that the right blend of faith and elbow grease could fix just about anything. Love would heal the hurts of any child, no matter how severe.

Like others in the room, Andy Lehman and his wife, Jill, not only desired to spur others to action. They wanted to answer God’s call personally, too, whatever that might mean.

Even as the organization Andy Lehman was helping build worked to support orphan care on a larger scale, the Lehmans began the process of adopting a boy from Korea. “We had two little ones already,” explains Jill. “But we knew so many kids out there were growing up without families.”

International adoption meant a long, costly, and uncertain journey. The Lehmans were not deterred. “We had plenty of questions,” Andy recalled. “But it also felt straightforward. As it says in Psalms, ‘God sets the lonely in families.’ That’s exactly what he did for us in Jesus, welcoming us into his family. If we could do that for a child, why wouldn’t we?”

The fruits of unity

In 2007, the growing community incorporated as the Christian Alliance for Orphans (CAFO). Their work together began to spill beyond annual summits, including stronger accountability standards and a joint advocacy campaign.

Organizations with media reach—including Focus on the Family, FamilyLife, and Shaohannah’s Hope (now Show Hope)—synchronized their messaging. Others pitched in. The group even sent a delegation to the White House, securing a PSA from First Lady Laura Bush.  

The Bush campaign was a smashing success, tabulating millions of media impressions. People who visited a redirecting website were guided to trustworthy organizations that matched their sense of calling, from foster care or adoption to ministries worldwide.

That’s when I first encountered CAFO. I served as a special assistant to President Bush, and the meeting request for a CAFO delegation was funneled to me. Eventually, I joined the organization full-time and have served as its president for 15 years.

In 2004, the same year as the first CAFO summit, a Colorado pastor named Robert Gelinas learned that 875 kids waited in the state’s foster system for adoptive families while more than 3,000 churches gathered weekly. Gelinas was confident that, working together, Christians could end the waiting.

Gelinas met with state officials, listening and forming friendships. He engaged fellow pastors, too. His message was simple: “The body of Christ needs to come together to make sure there are no children waiting for homes in Colorado.”

In time, Gelinas and his friends formed a nonprofit, Project 1.27, to spearhead the charge. Focus on the Family and other Colorado partners also threw in their weight. Pastors preached on God’s special love for orphans. Congregations launched foster care ministries.  

Within five years, the number of children in Colorado waiting for adoption had been cut to fewer than 300. Sharen Ford, a senior state administrator at the time, said, “Project 1.27 and their partners turned things upside down. So many kids who’d have spent their whole childhood in the system were welcomed to loving homes. We estimated they saved the state at least $5 million.”  

The CAFO Summit continued to grow, topping 1,000 attendees in 2010. Models like Project 1.27 spread quickly in a setting like that, along with contagious enthusiasm. The coordinated initiatives owned jointly by CAFO’s growing membership continued to expand.

Courtesy of CAFO / Edits by CT

Inspired by an Orphan Sunday service held by a small church in Zambia, CAFO created resources to help local churches all over the world do the same. By 2010, hundreds of churches were joining in. Diverse expressions ranged from Sunday sermons on God’s heart for orphans to evening concerts, from foster-family recruiting lunches to fundraisers for projects worldwide.

The July 2010 cover of Christianity Today captured the moment. “Adoption Is Everywhere,” the editor’s note declared, adding that nearly “every conference we’ve attended recently devoted attention to orphans … with calls to establish foster-care ministries [and] support adoptive families.” A subsequent edition described “the burgeoning orphan care movement.”

Christians were giving, too. The 2011 ECFA State of Giving Report found that donation growth in the field notably outpaced almost every other area. This category included orphan care (up 21%), adoption (up 15%), and child sponsorship (up 24%). To many, this offered further evidence of the power of Christian unity and coordination.

Adoptive families like the Chapmans and the Lehmans were no longer exceptions. A 2010 Wall Street Journal article described churches becoming filled with fostered and adopted children of differing backgrounds and races. Russell Moore’s 2009 book Adopted for Life freshly expressed the gospel foundations of adoption.

By 2014, Barna Research confirmed that practicing Christians were twice as likely to adopt as the general population, including in the adoption of children with special needs, sibling groups, and older children. Evangelicals were five times as likely to adopt.

“It was great to see so many believers adopting,” Jill Lehman said. After their own adoption of a boy from Korea, they had welcomed a daughter from Ethiopia as well. “We had often felt like outliers. Not anymore.” 

Orphan fever

Progress like this doesn’t go unchallenged, however. For years, critics had complained of Christians’ engagement in the field. Some faulted believers for not doing enough. Others suggested the opposite—that Christian enthusiasm for orphan care was overkill. At best, they said, this newfound enthusiasm represented bumbling good intentions. More likely, it sprang from self-aggrandizing hubris, exacerbating the very problems it tried to solve.

Among the most potent of the critics was Kathryn Joyce, an advocate-journalist who’d written exposés on other Christian endeavors, from homeschooling to pro-life efforts. In 2013, after a number of hard-hitting magazine articles, Joyce released a magnum opus of critique, The Child Catchers.

The book offered a damning portrait. Page after page detailed the errors, excesses, and devious intentions of what Joyce described as orphan fever. No facet of the Christian movement was exempt. Readers encountered adoptive parents who treated their children “like slaves.” Nonprofit leaders appeared utterly inept in crosscultural interactions. Joyce argued that even “seemingly heroic” actions—like the adoption of children with special needs—were shot through with “commercialization” and “corruption.”

At times, Joyce seemed to struggle with the remarkably sacrificial choices she observed. Virtually all her subjects, whatever their faults, had upended their lives for the sake of children who bore no biological claim on them. This couldn’t be merely for love, she concluded. Darker motives ranged from “proselytizing” to “making their antiabortion activism seem more truly ‘pro-life.’”

For the people giving their lives to this calling, the ugly caricatures cut deep. What hurt most, though, was that many criticisms held partial truths. Orphan advocates did often use statistics sloppily. The movement had underestimated the complexity and hazards of the work. Christians had not always done enough to support birth mothers or to prevent kids from entering orphanages.

At the same time as critics brought deeper awareness of the movement’s shortcomings, countries that had previously allowed large numbers of international adoptions were increasingly closing their doors. Some did so in response to actual or rumored improprieties, including Guatemala. Others, like Russia, used the orphan care system as a diplomatic pawn.

Amid all this, the most aching realities never made the news. Families that had welcomed children from the most painful of places now shared in that pain, sometimes profoundly. Parents discovered that the effects of abuse and severe neglect ran deeper than they’d imagined. Those who ministered through adoption and foster care couldn’t retreat from a hard day. Home was ground zero.

Meanwhile, even as some US states expanded their faith-based partnerships to serve foster youth, others moved in the opposite direction. Illinois and Massachusetts ended work with Christian agencies that wouldn’t place children with unmarried or same-sex couples. New leadership in Colorado—where churches had made such dramatic progress—pulled back sharply from faith-based partners as well. The number of waiting children in the state began to tick steadily upward again.

For some, the struggles were difficult but bearable. For others, they were crushing. The stress test on marriages sent some couples to counseling and some to divorce. While church communities rallied around weary families in many cases, other congregations seemed fearful or oblivious. Parents often felt abandoned by the very communities that had cheered when they’d first brought children home.

Like many others, Andy and Jill Lehman’s adoption journey wove together seeming extremes. It included hard-earned growth and moments of pure joy. Andy’s work also provided vivid reminders of what their kids might have faced without adoption—heartbreaking realities of life in orphanages or on the streets.

But what had felt like manageable challenges in the early years grew larger, more complex and sharp-edged. Jill and Andy’s relationship persevered, but at times their home felt like a combat zone. Nothing seemed to help, even out-of-home care in a residential program.

Andy admitted his prayers were often tearful. “Those years held many of the hardest things we’ve ever faced,” he said. “As much as we’d thought we were prepared, we weren’t.”

I’ve heard similar words from countless others. Some carry the deepest pain imaginable. It’s a lament over a prodigal child, still profoundly loved despite countless hurts. It is also grief over a family portrait that appears irredeemably distorted. For some, it has all been too much. Little but disillusionment remains of the enthusiasm they once felt.

But a remarkable number of advocates are still at it. They bear scars, some deep. But there’s a light in their eyes and a weightiness to their words that wasn’t there before. They’ve walked through fires, and not all of them are yet on the far side. Still, they’ve persevered. They continue to take on new challenges, both in organizations where they serve and at home.

“Some of what we’ve faced are things you’d never choose,” Jill Lehman said. “It’s probably a good thing we didn’t know everything the future would hold. But we have zero regrets. There’s so much we would’ve missed out on if we’d taken a safer route.”

In many of these families, children who struggled deeply as teens have made positive turns as young adults. As one recent study confirmed, while adoptees are more likely to face certain challenges in childhood, they generally do quite well in the long run. Narratives that cast adoption or childhood trauma as destining a person to a miserable life are not only statistically inaccurate but also deeply unfair. David Brodzinsky and Jesús Palacios, two experts in adoption and child welfare, concluded, “Not pathologizing adopted people is as important as not minimizing their problems.”

“There were a lot of tears in our home in the years after I was adopted,” described a young man, Trent Taylor, who had experienced severe abuse before being adopted out of foster care at age 10. “But my parents were rock solid. They made it clear they’d never, ever give up on me. I’m so glad they didn’t.” Now in his early 20s, Taylor leads a ministry called Watch Me Rise to help current and former foster youth.

Wisdom for the future

There are no quick fixes to the deepest struggles. Veterans in the adoption and foster care field affirm that professional intervention for families can sometimes be a lifeline to stabilize chaotic situations. Yet healing requires more than medication or therapeutic visits alone. Parents and family life must play a central role.

True healing involves the whole person, including physical elements like sleep, diet, exercise, time outdoors, and boundaries for screen use. As many studies now affirm, age-old practices of the Christian life, like thanksgiving, forgiveness, prayer, and community, contribute powerfully to well-being. Amid the self-focus of therapeutic culture, habits like these lift our eyes toward God, his world, and the needs of others.

Courtesy of CAFO / Edits by CT

As Taylor put it, “There’s certainly a time for introspection and dealing with your past. But ultimately, a person will never truly flourish just by looking deeper at themself.”

The CAFO community continues to grow too. What started with 29 leaders now includes more than 290 member organizations and a global network of churches—still trying to leave “logos and egos” at the door. The most recent CAFO Summit conference, the 20th since that first gathering in Little Rock, drew over 2,400 people from more than 40 countries. Year-round, members work together in jointly owned initiatives, harnessing the strengths of the whole community. These span from US foster care to global best practices and research, church-based ministries to locally led networks in developing countries.

Meanwhile, even as international adoption remains limited, locally led expressions of the movement are expanding worldwide. Perhaps not coincidentally, many of the most vibrant national movements are growing in countries that saw the most international adoptions—from Romania to Ethiopia to the Philippines. Efforts rising from these countries—including World Without Orphans from Ukraine and Alianza Cristiana para los Huérfanos (ACH) in Guatemala—add tremendously to the global movement. 

But no amount of growth, however impressive, is enough to keep a person from toppling when trials come. That kind of staying power comes only from a vibrant life rooted deep in Christ. The many who’ve persevered, including Andy and Jill Lehman, testify to that foundation.

Despite all they’ve faced, the Lehmans continue to pour into the movement both at work and at home. When I asked if they’d do it again, Andy didn’t hesitate. “No question,” he said. “Our family’s story is still being written, but we are so very thankful for it, for all of it. In the Christian life, the hardest things and the best things often come together.”

Jedd Medefind is president of CAFO.

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