275 Sermon Illustrations on Christmas

Your worst days are never so bad that you are beyond the reach of God’s grasp; and your best days are never so good that you are beyond the need of God’s grace

THE MIRACLE: “Therefore the Lord Himself will give you a sign: The virgin will be with Child and will give birth to a Son, and will call Him Immanuel.” (Isaiah 7:14)

THE BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT: “But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; He is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’ Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests.’” (Luke 2:10-14)

THE PERFECT GIFT: “Every good and perfect gift is from above… “ (James 1:17a)

THE GREATEST GIFT: “… the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 6:23b)

THE PERMANENT GIFT: “For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

THE HOLIDAY LIGHTS: “Again therefore Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world; he who follows Me shall not walk in the darkness, but shall have the light of life.’” (John 8:12)

THE MUSIC: “Praise the Lord. Praise God in His sanctuary; praise Him in His mighty heavens. Praise Him for His acts of power; praise Him for His surpassing greatness. Praise Him with the sounding of the trumpet, praise Him with the harp and lyre, praise Him with tambourine and dancing, praise Him with the strings and flute, praise Him with the clash of cymbals, praise Him with resounding cymbals. Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.” (Psalm 150:1-6)

THE FOOD: “Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him.” (Psalm 34:8)

THE WREATH: “The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on His head… “ (John 19:2)

THE COLOR RED: “In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins… “ (Ephesians 1:7a)

THE CANDY CANE: “… by His stripes we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5b)

THE DOVE: “… and the Holy Spirit descended on Him in the bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven; ‘You are My Son, whom I love; with You I am well pleased.’” (Luke 3:22)

THE NUTCRACKER SOLDIERS ARMOR: “Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.” (Ephesians 6:13-17)

THE EVERGREEN TREE SYMBOLIZES EVERLASTING LIFE: “Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in Me shall live even if he dies, and everyone who lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?’” (John 11:25-26)

THE TRADITIONS CHANGE, YET GOD’S WORD IS ETERNAL: “Heaven and earth will pass away, but My words will not pass away.” (Mark 13:31)

THE BEST GIFT TO SHARE: “… for everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” (Romans 10:13)

Joseph's faithfulness speaks louder than the few words devoted to him.

________

Every January, a special pastry called Galettes des Rois appears in Quebec City’s grocery stores. It marks the time for Epiphany, the date that traditionally signifies the wise men’s arrival in Bethlehem. In each is hidden a half-inch plastic figurine of a king. Its lucky finder is crowned sovereign ruler for the day. This celebration also marks the official end of the Christmas season.

I delight in the children’s suspense and the party spirit of the day. But it seems odd to me that so little time that day, or throughout the holiday season, is given to remembering another man, one present from before Jesus’ first breath.

The Gospels reveal little of Joseph of Nazareth. As far as we know, he never sang anything resembling Mary’s Magnificat. Unlike Zechariah, he never remonstrated with an angel. Compared to Mary and Zechariah — and to the Magi who are remembered, at least in some churches, on Epiphany — Joseph appears all but forgotten, his actions mentioned, seemingly, only in passing.

Even at the Temple, where Joseph and Mary go together to present the newborn Jesus, Mary is the center of attention, the old man’s words for her alone. “Then Simeon blessed them, and said to Mary ... ‘This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel ... And a sword will pierce your own soul too’” (Luke 2:34-35).

Was Simeon implying that Joseph would somehow be spared the sword? Was he, indirectly, predicting a premature death for Joseph? Perhaps. Or is it that Simeon knew Joseph’s soul was already all too familiar with the blade? Even today, some people would shake their heads in disapproval at a cuckolded husband-to-be willing to raise, as his own, the proof of what would look like infidelity. It’s not a stretch to think this is the very thing the angel tells Joseph not to fear (1:20).

Instead of protecting himself, however, Joseph accepted this kind of sword and, through marriage, protected Mary. Later on, when told to move his family to Egypt to safeguard the child from Herod’s murderous paranoia, he immediately abandoned any plans to return to his hometown, his house, friends, and professional reputation. How much easier it might have seemed to keep silent about the dream and let Herod rid him of a family embarrassment.

If none of Joseph’s words are recorded, perhaps it’s simply because he rarely spoke. What could he have said, in any case, to erase the disdain from the eyes and lips of the townspeople — to stop the whispers and laughter he had to pretend not to hear as he went about his work? The Bible gives us very little access to Joseph’s inner world. Did his neighbors’ incredulity spark doubts in him? Despite the angelic visitations in his dreams, he could never know for sure this baby was of divine origin — not in the same way Mary knew for sure. Be that as it may, Joseph continued to shield and provide for Mary and her son, for Jesus “grew and became strong; he was filled with wisdom, and the grace of God was on him” (Luke 2:40).

If Joseph didn’t speak much, I suspect he prayed a great deal — conceivably prayers like this: “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.”

Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane is as gut-wrenching in its longing and pain as it is simple in its wording. We know that Jesus was obedient to the end, but his prayer suggests his obedience did not come easily. Hebrews 5:8 confirms this, saying that even Jesus had to learn obedience in spite of the shame he suffered.

But who modeled it for him? The obvious answer is that his heavenly father was the primary and perfect source of all learning and that Mary taught him a lot. But I can’t help wondering if Jesus didn’t also glean from the example of Joseph, his earthly father, who, rather than cling to a lesser plan of his own devising, lived his whole life in affirmation of a greater plan — however fleetingly glimpsed and incomprehensible.

To be sure, to try to discern what is going on behind the text of Scripture can be an uncertain exegetical path. But this January, as I savor my Epiphany cake and set a cardboard crown on one of my children’s heads, I will not only again commemorate the Magi, but also Joseph. I will be reminded that faithfully following the path set before you in a dream rarely makes you popular with your peers.

I will also remember that God used shameful circumstances to call Joseph. Far from being an obstacle, they were the very context in which God invited him to live out his calling. Desiring to follow in Joseph’s footsteps, I will seek to live out God’s calling for me, even when my role appears hidden and commonplace — believing that his is the greater, and better, story.

________

Kathy Berklund-Pagé is a freelance writer and, with her husband Ron, a community leader with the Navigators.

Copyright © 2003 Christianity Today.

Can we know what the REAL Santa Claus looked like? By tradition, no one is supposed to see the actual Saint Nick. Come Christmas night, as the song has it -- and even the Boss [Bruce Springsteen] sings it -- he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake. So you’d better be snoozing as well as pretty darned good, or else.

Besides, we all know what he looks like. Since the advent of Clement Clark Moore’s “Night Before Christmas” in 1823 and his invention of that “jolly old elf,” we have become so conditioned by the kid-friendly version of the roly-poly guy with dimples and cheeks like roses that we stopped wondering who the real Santa Claus was, much less what he looked like. From movies like “Miracle on 34th Street” to all those Santa stand-ins at the mall -- and his visage on every piece of Christmas kitsch you could ever sell -- the myth is so widespread and so good there seemed little reason to question it.

Until, that is, the invention of powerful computers and some fancy new software that uses “virtual clay.” The technology makes possible the reconstruction of a face from a skull, even one as old as that of Nicholas of Myra -- also known as Saint Nicholas, also known as Santa Claus -- who lived and died in the fourth century in what is now Turkey.

So holy was Nicholas that after his death his relics were carefully preserved, and through the vagaries of history -- basically a Muslim-Christian war a thousand years ago -- the saint’s skull and other bones were relocated (stolen or rescued, depending on your point of view) to Bari, a city on what would be the Achilles’ tendon of the Italian boot.

In the 1950s, the bones were removed while the crypt was spruced up. While they were out, the Vatican asked an anatomy professor at the University of Bari to take thousands of minutely detailed measurements and x-rays of the relics. Flash forward to the present day, and another University of Bari expert, forensic pathologist Francesco Introna, decided to commission an expert facial anthropologist, Caroline Wilkinson of the University of Manchester in England, to reconstruct the saint’s face and head using the new technology and the earlier measurements.

The wizards at Image Foundry in England then took the data, and presto! Arguments for the veracity of the face are strong. Every face has the same 26 muscles but each skull is different, and that underlying bone structure gives a unique form to each person’s face. Which is what happened when Wilkinson began laying the virtual muscles onto the 1,600-year-old skull of Saint Nicholas of Myra.

Moreover, this Nicholas is in many respects not so far removed from the Santa Claus or at least the Saint Nick who was long venerated in icons like the lineup the folks at the St. Nicholas Center have helpfully put together.

To be sure, he’s more olive-skinned than rosy-cheeked, and his eyes are more piercing than twinkly. But the white hair and beard, while a bit of artistic license, make sense: the beard is in the style of the time, and the white hair would fit a man who died in his 70s after a life a sanctity that prefigured the Santa Claus of our time.

Nicholas of Myra (AD 270-346) was born into a patrician family of some wealth, but as a devoted Christian he used what he had to help others (and to intervene on behalf of the falsely accused). The most famous story to come down to us is how Nicholas, hearing of the plight of a father who could not afford dowries for his three daughters, secretly left bags of gold coins at their home to provide a dowry and preserve the ladies from a likely fate as prostitutes. In one version of the story, the father lay in wait the third time the donor was to visit and thus discovered the identity of history’s first secret Santa.

But Nicholas was much more than a kindly, anonymous gift-giver. As a bishop in the fourth century, he was also deeply involved in the raging disputes of the day over core issues of church doctrine that we now take for granted, or ought to.

Back then, even three centuries after the death of Jesus, many beliefs remained unsettled. Chief among these was the true nature of Christ, and hence the nature of the Trinity. Was Jesus both God and man? Or was he just a man, a creation of God, albeit a special one? That was the line taken by followers of Arius, known as the Arians. So fierce was the divide over Christ’s nature that Constantine, the Roman Emperor who had only recently legalized Christianity and ended the persecution of the church, called all leading bishops together for a council at Nicaea in the year 325 to settle the matter.

The Council of Nicaea, which produced the Nicene Creed that believers still recite as the foundational expression of Christian belief, was hardly the somnolent discussion that one might expect of such angels-on-the-head-of-a-pin topics. Instead, there were nasty arguments and periodic fisticuffs, and at one point Bishop Nicolas of Myra -- who already had a reputation as a staunch defender of orthodox belief against the heresy of the Arians -- popped Arias himself in the face.

The new facial reconstruction certainly gives credence to Nick’s reputation as a battling bishop who gave as good as he got -- just look at that strong jaw and his broken boxer’s nose. “It must have been a very hefty blow because it’s the nasal bones between the eyes that are broken,” Wilkinson, who did the reconstruction, told THE GUARDIAN.

In the end, Nicholas and the other orthodox bishops carried the day, vanquishing the Arians and confirming the belief that Jesus was true God and true man -- the heart of the mystery of the Incarnation that is observed on December 25. (Ironically, Christmas was not widely observed in Saint Nicholas’ day, nor was there an agreement on a date to mark Jesus’ birth. Easter was the oldest and most important celebration, and its date was one of the other debates settled at Nicaea.)

There is some speculation that Nicholas may actually have had his nose broken during the persecution of Christians under the Emperor Diocletian, who reigned from AD 284-305.

Yet whatever the source of the broken nose, the reconstructed face of Nicholas of Myra reminds us that the real Santa Claus came from a time before Christmas, and from an era when the meaning of Christ was something worth fighting about.

In a famous Christmas sermon, the great reformer Martin Luther described how Mary had to give birth in a stable because there was no room in the inn. Then Luther turned to his congregation and said, “You think to yourselves, ‘I wouldn’t have turned the couple away. I would have given them my own place.’” To which Luther replied, “No, you wouldn’t. If you would have been so generous, so sacrificial, why aren’t you now? You meet Christ in your neighbor every day and you are not generous or sacrificial to him now.”

Though his work is almost universally known within the English-speaking world, Charles Jennens is virtually unknown. He was a brilliant librettist — a writer of texts to be put to music by others. Born in the year 1700, Jennens inherited his father’s vast estate and wealth, attended Oxford University, and became a gentleman scholar. He published a controversial interpretation of William Shakespeare and lived a life of extravagance and eccentricity. That could have been the end of his story, but it was not.

His emergence as a brilliant librettist was driven by a sense of theological and spiritual urgency. Jennens was greatly concerned to confront the deism that was then spreading so quickly among the educated classes in England in the wake of the Enlightenment. Deism rejected the self-revelation of God in the Bible, the need of humanity for salvation, the deity of Christ, Christianity’s message of salvation, and any divine judgment to come. Deists rejected the very idea of a personal God who can be known, the intervention of God into human history, and all of the Bible’s claims of miracles, prophecies, and divine promises.

Jennens was determined to defend orthodox Christianity, and he was driven by two great impulses — a sense of the threat to the spiritual health of the people by the encroachments of deism, and a profound sense of personal grief over the death of his own younger brother, Robert, who, as a young student, had committed suicide after falling into a deep depression. Robert’s depression was rooted in his having fallen into deep doubt about his Christian commitment, aided and abetted by correspondence with a professed deist.

Jennens went to work on a great project he called “another Scripture collection.” On the tenth of July, 1741, he wrote a friend, stating: “Handel says he will do nothing next Winter, but I hope I shall persuade him to set another Scripture collection I have made for him, and perform it for his own benefit in Passion Week. I hope he will lay out his whole genius and skill upon it, that the composition may excel all his former compositions, as the subject excels every other subject. The subject is Messiah.”

George Frideric Handel did agree to compose an oratorio based on Jennens’ great “Scripture collection.” He began composing on August 22, 1741, and completed the entire massive work in just twenty-four days of breathtaking intensity. Messiah was first performed in Dublin in 1742, and the work has been in continuous performance for over 250 years.

Jennens understood the Bible to reveal a comprehensive and unitary story of God’s salvation of his people. Messiah is arranged into three great parts. The first presents the promise of salvation, and focuses upon the birth of Christ as the fulfillment of God’s promise of a Messiah. The second part tells of the work of redemption, and looks especially to the cross and resurrection of Christ. The third part looks to the final consummation of God’s purpose of salvation in the future.

Every word of the oratorio comes from the Bible and is based mainly in the King James Version. The power of Handel’s majestic composition is evident in the fact that most of us cannot hear many of these biblical texts without hearing also the refrains of Handel’s greatest oratorio.

Where does this great work begin? How would one go about telling the story of God’s redemptive work? Messiah begins with a text from Isaiah in the great recitative, “Comfort Ye,” drawn from Isaiah 40:1-5.

Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that her warfare is ended, that her iniquity is pardoned, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins. A voice cries: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord; make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low, the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.”

Jennens began the story of our redemption with this prophecy of Isaiah, believing that it is ultimately fulfilled only in Christ. The message of comfort first addressed a future when Judah would suffer under Babylonian captivity, and was eventually fulfilled only in Christ, our Messiah, who rescued his people from captivity to sin and death. The promise of comfort is the promise of salvation, without which there can be no comfort. The good news is that in Christ our warfare is ended, our sins are pardoned, and in Christ the glory of the Lord is fully revealed.

Just as the prophet was to speak tenderly to Jerusalem, God spoke tenderly to all humanity in Christ. The voice crying in the wilderness would eventually be known as John the Baptist who did indeed call for the wilderness to be prepared for the coming of the Messianic King, and the way of the Lord was perfectly prepared. Like a causeway in the desert, in the fullness of time God sent forth his Son. And all creation, from mountains to valleys and everything in between, became the great theater for the revelation of the glory of the Lord.

All flesh — indeed, the entire cosmos — became one great witness to the revelation of the glory of the Lord. The people who dwell in darkness have indeed seen a great light. In Jesus Christ the glory of God is revealed.

And yet, how can we be assured of this great truth? On what basis do we make such a claim? How do we know that God has in fact made and kept the promise of our salvation? Isaiah declares the singular basis for our confidence in declaring this supreme truth — “For the mouth of the Lord has spoken it.”

That once sentence grounds all our hopes — “For the mouth of the Lord has spoken it.” Our knowledge of the Gospel is not based in human speculation, but in the revealed Word of God. We have not come to know Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord by means of syllogisms or rational calculus. We did not come to know salvation by induction or deduction, but by revelation. We know the great good news of the Gospel because the mouth of the Lord has spoken it.

In this great text from Isaiah, we are firmly established in the knowledge of God’s purposes for his people precisely because God has spoken and we have heard his Word. Of course, in the verses that follow this declaration, we hear the promise of the eternal power of that Word:

A voice says, “Cry!” And I said, “What shall I cry?” All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades when the breath of the Lord blows on it; surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever. [Isaiah 40:6-8]

The word of our Lord will stand forever. If so, we are saved. If not, we are doomed. This is exactly where all true Christian preaching and ministry begins. We begin with absolute confidence in God’s promises precisely because we have absolute confidence in God’s Word.

Our confidence is full because we have heard God speak, and we receive and trust his Word in all of its dimensions. We live by the Holy Scriptures because we know that they are the written Word of God. We trust in Christ the incarnate Word, who from the beginning was with God and is God.

The Christian ministry is deadly serious business. The preacher stands to preach — what will he say? People who dwell in deep darkness desperately need a great light. Souls soon to face the eternal judgment of God desperately need to hear the blast of a trumpet. Sinners utterly without hope desperately hold onto a hope for hope. What will the preacher offer?

Flesh like grass, soon to wither and die, awaits a word. Fading flowers call out for rescue and an unfading hope. What is your message?

This great text points us to the great comprehensive story of redemption that is our assignment as preachers of the Word and ministers of the Gospel. We know the only message that brings the promise of true comfort. We know that in the atonement accomplished by Jesus Christ we find our only sure hope for the pardon of our iniquities. In the Gospel of Christ we declare that our warfare is ended.

Every single one of you is to be, in your own ministry, a voice that cries in the wilderness, “Prepare ye the way of the Lord.” In the majestic glory of a faithful Gospel ministry mountains are laid low and valleys are raised up, even as rough places are made plain.

Our great prayer for each of you, and for all of you together, is that the glory of God will be revealed in your ministry and in your lives so long as you may live — in the churches you will serve, the sermons you will preach, the lessons you will teach, the lives you will influence, the mission fields you will reach, and the sinners who will come to know Christ as Savior and Lord through your witness.

May you pour out your lives in service to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the ministry of the Word, and the Church as the bride of Christ. Ground your ministry in the great story of God’s redemption of sinners through the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ. Declare comfort to the people of God, and feed faithfully by preaching and teaching them God’s Word.

On what authority do we know these things? Where do we find grounding for this knowledge? Isaiah settles these questions for all eternity with a singular sentence, and in this single sentence we find all we need to ground our hopes for this life and for the life to come:

For the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.

________

This is a commencement message preached Friday, December 10, 2010 by R. Albert Mohler, Jr., President of The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky.

For reading on the background of Handel’s Messiah, see:

Calvin R. Stapert, Handel’s Messiah: Comfort for God’s People (Eerdmans, 2010).

Richard Luckett, Handel’s Messiah: A Celebration (Mariner Books, 1995).

First Sunday in Advent

Reader: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness -- on them light has shined... For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” (Isaiah 9:2, 6)

Reader: Today we remember the prophets of old, who demanded to be heard, who dared to speak of a child to come, unexpected liberator of the people, vulnerable incarnation of the Holiest of Holies, a new name for God.

People: Today we give thanks for the prophets among us, who bring to us surprising new visions of hope, who challenge us to think outside the box, who show us a future we never anticipated.

Reader: On this first Sunday of Advent, we light this candle as a symbol of the prophets who renew our faith and remind us of what may be.

(Light a purple candle.)

Hymn: ”Light the Advent Candle,” Stanza 1, The Faith We Sing, 2090

Second Sunday in Advent

Reader: “In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for see -- I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people’” (Luke 2:8-10).

Reader: Today we remember the shepherds, workers for the common good, steadfast watchmen isolated and alone, far from the warmth of home, doing the job no one wants. And yet God saw them, God valued them, and God declared the greatest news of all to them alone.

People: Today we give thanks for the shepherds among us, back-breaking laborers on whom our economy stands, those we overlook or rarely see, yet rely on for our very survival, the ones who have much to teach us about watching for God in the darkness.

Reader: On this second Sunday in Advent, we light the second candle as a symbol of the shepherds, agents of the gospel and redeemers of the world.

(Light two purple candles.)

Hymn: “Light the Advent Candle,” Stanza 2, The Faith We Sing, 2090

Third Sunday in Advent

Reader: “And Mary said, ‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name’” (Luke 1:46-49).

Reader: Today we remember Mary, innocent and powerful, sacred and scared, worried and waiting as the Savior of all grows in her womb. She sings boldly when she might be meek; she bears her role in history with the confidence of a warrior; she is the beginning of a mighty revolution as the proud are brought down and the lowly lifted up.

People: Today we give thanks for the Marys among us, who step out of the roles society has planned; unintended pioneers determined to do as God asks; fearless and fearfully stepping out in faith, and beckoning us to do the same.

Reader: On this third Sunday of Advent, we light this candle as a symbol of Mary, mother of God, bearer of the Way.

(Light two purple candles and one rose candle.)

Hymn: “Light the Advent Candle,” Stanza 3, The Faith We Sing, 2090

Fourth Sunday in Advent

Reader: “In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David” (Luke 2:1,3-4).

Reader: Today we remember Joseph, worn-out traveler and worried husband, doing what was necessary for the sake of his family, the burden of poverty stifling his hope in the promise of God. There was no room for him, yet he knows to whom he belongs.

People: Today we give thanks for the Josephs among us, migrating far from home when there is no choice, fiercely devoted to the ones they love, unwavering in their belief that there is room for all in the “kin-dom” of God.

Reader: On this fourth Sunday of Advent, we light this candle as a symbol of Joseph, who knocks at the door, ready to take his place among royalty.

(Light two purple candles, the rose candle, and the last purple candle.)

Hymn: “Light the Advent Candle,” Stanza 4, The Faith We Sing, 2090

Christmas Eve

Reader: “While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger” (Luke 2:6-7).

Reader: Tonight, angels far and near sing tender lullabies; well-worn fabric full of years holds in the warmth of parental love; animals and shepherds crowd in tight, glowing with adoration, while a muffled cry squeezes out to greet the world.

People: Tonight we give thanks for every child among us. Each new birth -- regardless of circumstances -- reminds us of the preciousness of life, the potential of tomorrow, the promise of God.

Reader: On this Christmas Eve, we light the Christ candle for the child-King, the infant-Redeemer, the lowly-Lord. And now we know ... He is born and nothing will ever be the same!

(Light all candles.)

Hymn: “Light the Advent Candle,” Stanza 5, The Faith We Sing, 2090

The account of the shepherds in Luke’s nativity passage (Luke 2:8-20) continues to fascinate modern readers. Receiving an angelic message that the Messiah was born in nearby Bethlehem, these shepherds left their closely guarded flocks of sheep to seek the good news themselves.

Theologians tell us that the angel’s message represented God’s annunciation of his Son’s birth to the common people of Israel, but who were these shepherds?

The shepherds of Bethlehem persisted in an honorable occupation that also claimed various Old Testament figures, including Abel, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Rachel, Moses, David, Job and Amos -- just to name a few.

They largely kept flocks of the broad-tailed sheep (ovis laticaudata) that can still be found in the Holy Land today. Allusions to the highly prized “fat tail” of these sheep can be found in Exodus 29:22 and Leviticus 3:9.

In terms of their daily and nightly chores, shepherds were responsible for grazing and watering their charges, protecting them from human theft and animal predation, shearing the sheep at the appropriate time, milking them for dairy products and providing them for ritual sacrifices and/or human consumption during important feasts. As a general rule, dairy-producing and wool-producing sheep were too valuable to be a daily menu item.

Although the Old and New Testaments ascribe great personal honor to the men and women of this occupation, the shepherds of the era of Christ’s birth appeared to be less honored in the Jewish tradition.

The rabbis who produced the Talmudic literature (written around A.D. 200-500 but containing oral traditions from before, during and after the earthly lifetime of Jesus) often regarded shepherds as dishonest and prone to violating Jewish law.

Likewise, Philo, a Jewish sage in Egypt and a contemporary of Jesus, wrote that shepherds “are held to be mean and inglorious” (On Husbandry, 61).

Nevertheless, God often uses unlikely vessels to further His will. According to the Jewish Mishnah (A.D. 200 but also containing longstanding oral traditions of previous ages), animals in the vicinity of Bethlehem (specifically Migdal Eder -- “Tower of the Flock”) could be offered for Temple sacrifices (Shekalim 7:4).

According to Eusebius, a Palestinian Christian leader of the fourth century in his work, “Concerning the Place-names in Sacred Scriptures” (Section B, 196), Migdal Eder was located one Roman mile east of Bethlehem (a Roman mile of 1,000 paces is a little short of our mile by 143 yards).

If the shepherds of Luke’s account were those who kept flocks potentially destined for the Temple at Migdal Eder, they especially would have been receptive to the angel’s message.

Both the geographical locations of Bethlehem and nearby Migdal Eder are mentioned in Micah’s prophecy of the Messiah (Micah 5:2 and 4:8). In regard to Migdal Eder, this locale too is linked to the coming of the King.

If the shepherds tending the flocks for the Temple stationed at Migdal Eder constitute the shepherds of the Luke account, then the annunciation to the shepherds would fulfill that aspect of messianic prophecy.

When the angel of the Lord appeared to these shepherds, accompanied by a great light (Luke 2:9), their first reaction was sheer terror. Nevertheless, the angel calmed them and told them that the Messiah had just been born in nearby Bethlehem.

While not revealing the exact location in the city for the child, the angel related that the child was the one swaddled in binding cloths and lying in a manger (v. 12). After the angel was briefly joined by a heavenly host that praised God, they left the shepherds.

The befuddled shepherds, however, decided to view the Christ child. They could not pass up the opportunity to view the “Lamb of God.” After a short walk to the city (only about one mile if Eusebius is correct), they found the child with his parents.

They not only praised God for both the angelic message and visit with the child, they shared this news with others (v. 17-20). Those hearing this account by the shepherds also were amazed.

The annunciation to the shepherds of Bethlehem demonstrated God’s love for the common people. Previous annunciations of the Lord’s birth had occurred only to family members like Mary, Joseph, Zechariah and Elizabeth.

The first annunciation to those outside of the family were not to the priestly establishment in Jerusalem or those of Herod’s royal house or to the rich landowners of Judea but rather to these common shepherds whom the rabbinic tradition had tarnished.

Indeed, the good news was not to be a respecter of persons. Simple shepherds, like the later fishermen and farmers among the disciples of Jesus, would be both the recipients and purveyors of the Gospel.

Today many shepherds in the Bethlehem area and in other parts of Israel/Palestine still seek and profess Christianity, and their stories can be located on the Internet and in the popular press. In the 20th and 21st centuries, many of them achieved some recognition from the evangelical Christian community in the United States.

For instance, Stephen A. Haboush chronicled his experience as a Palestinian shepherd in his work “My Shepherd Life in Galilee” (1927). The long tradition of shepherds seeking to follow God in faith extends from Abel, the son of Adam, to the present day. The shepherds located near Bethlehem on the night of the Lord’s nativity were a very important chapter of that long tradition.

Next week comes Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and, oh yeah, that Christian season of Advent.

You’ve no doubt heard of “Black Friday,” the day after Thanksgiving that features, along with countless sales, the more-than-occasional trampling of shoppers by their frenzied peers.

In many ways, “Black Friday” has become a bigger deal than Thanksgiving. So much so that many major retailers have announced that they are opening their doors on Thursday.

The hope is that the possibility of buying something you don’t really need for a little less than you would pay a few weeks later will help people work off the turkey and pumpkin pie and get down to some serious Christmas shopping.

The problem is that it isn’t Christmas yet — at least not for Christians.

The weeks leading up to Christmas day are properly called Advent in Western Christianity, from the Latin word adventus, meaning “coming.”[1]

Adventus was the Latin translation of the Greek word parousia, which the New Testament most often used to refer to Jesus’ second coming. In antiquity, parousia was usually associated with the arrival of royalty: the leaders of a city went outside the city gates to meet the Emperor and escort him back into the city.

Thus, for the Christian, Advent is about preparing to greet our King. And it is a time for both looking back to Jesus’ first coming and looking forward to His second coming in glory.

Like Lent, Advent is a penitential season, a time for reflection and repentance. If we’re honest with ourselves, what Titus 2 calls “our blessed hope — the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ,” — should provoke both joy and a bit of dread. It’s a time for asking ourselves whether we truly are “a people that are [Christ’s] very own, eager to do what is good.”

If this doesn’t put you in the mood for shopping, well, congratulations! You are starting to “get” Advent.

The other emotion associated with Advent is yearning. Specifically, yearning for God to fulfill His promises to His people and to set right what has gone terribly wrong.

This yearning permeates perhaps the greatest of all Advent hymns, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” It’s a paraphrase of parts of the liturgy dating back to at least the Middle Ages. Each verse invokes biblical titles for Christ — Emmanuel, Root of Jesse, Day Spring, etc. — and then rehearses why His people yearn for His presence among them.

Another Advent hymn, “Creator of the Stars of Night,” which dates from the seventh century, captures the season’s emphasis on both Christ’s first and second comings. After expressing the yearning at the heart of the season, it proclaims “Thou, grieving that the ancient curse, should doom to death a universe, hast found the medicine, full of grace, to save and heal a ruined race.”

Embrace the season! But whatever you do, do not let the culture define this most Christian of times for you. That would be a truly black Friday.

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[1] In Orthodox Christianity, the equivalent of Advent is called the “Nativity Fast.” It runs for six weeks instead of four.

Copyright (c) 2014 Prison Fellowship Ministries. Reprinted with permission. "BreakPoint" is a radio ministry of Prison Fellowship Ministries.

Can Christians make an impact for Christ and His Gospel during the Christmas season? We can, if we have what Mary had: commitment to God.

Mary has been too highly exalted by the Catholic Church and often devalued too much by the evangelical church. Yet she was chosen by God, empowered by God, blessed by God and obedient to God. She was a virgin, and likely a teenager.

Her task was overwhelming, frightening and awesome: carry and give birth to God’s Son, the Messiah of the world.

Mary is not the mediator between God and people. Scripture tells us, “For there is one God, and there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus” (1 Timothy 2:5). She gave birth to the mediator. She did the supernatural, although she was an ordinary girl.

The angel Gabriel came to her in Nazareth, a place of little importance by the world’s standards and held in even less positive regard by Jews in the area. Remember Nathanael’s response to discovering that Jesus was from Nazareth: “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” Mary’s greatness in world history is not because of who she was or where she was from, but because of the marvelous grace of God.

Mary never questioned God as far as we know, but she did ask questions. There is a big difference in the two: The former indicates skepticism or doubt; the latter implies the desire to know.

After Gabriel revealed to Mary that her relative was pregnant with John the Baptist (even though John’s mother was old and referred to as barren), the angel then delivered some of the greatest words of encouragement and hope to any person desiring to follow Christ in this world: “For nothing will be impossible with God” (Luke 1:37). Mary’s response is exemplary: “Behold the bondslave of the Lord; be it done to me according to your word” (v.38).

Mary was committing her life to two things that should characterize every follower of Jesus: One, I will be what you want me to be (bondslave of the Lord) and two, I will do what you want me to do (be it done to me according to your word). She surrendered her life to God and as a result found an overwhelming greater life.

There are so many good things about the Christmas season. It is a time for family, friends, travel, food, gifts and more. But, most importantly, it is the season in which disciples of Jesus Christ can meditate on the mystery of godliness (1 Timothy 3:16) and commit ourselves with gratitude to be who God wants us to be and do what He calls us to do.

We can make an impact for Christ and His Gospel this Christmas season if we follow Mary’s example. Her accomplishment was gloriously historic -- but it wasn’t her power, but God’s, that brought about the supernatural result. What she did will not be repeated. It does not need to be -- Jesus has come. But commitment like Mary exhibited can and should be real in our lives today.

This season, may we yield ourselves not to the babe in Bethlehem’s manger, but to the resurrected and living King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

Sometime back, MOODY MAGAZINE told the story of a guy named George Mason. His life was consumed by his work. He lived alone, which only contributed to his work addiction. Although he had few friends, each Christmas he received several invitations to spend Christmas Day with a family. He always declined the offers.

This particular Christmas was no exception. On Christmas Eve, after all his employees left, George Mason went into the office vault to get a little extra cash. To his shock, the heavy door of the walk-in safe shut behind him. Desperately, he pounded on the steel door, but no one was around to hear. Even the custodian had left early to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. The lonely miser consoled himself, "I can make it alright until morning." But suddenly he recalled, the next day was Christmas. No one would be coming in for TWO DAYS.

He panicked as he tried to figure out if there would be sufficient oxygen. Then he remembered: The vault had recently been installed and was supposed to have a safety air-hole built in somewhere. He felt around in the dark and eventually found the emergency feature in a corner near the floor.

On the day after Christmas, early in the morning, the chief cashier arrived. As was his routine, he unlocked the vault but didn't bother opening the door. George Mason, exhausted, faint, hungry, and thirsty, exited the human-size safe without being spotted. And by the time he went home, showered, dressed, and returned to the office, no one suspected a thing.

Life went on as usual - except for one thing: George Mason had missed Christmas. Can you believe it? He missed Christmas because the door to the safe closed on him. He's the only person I've ever heard of who had that happen. But do you know what is more common? People who "miss" Christmas year after year. You understand what I mean by that, don't you? People who buy and receive presents and decorate their homes and trees and make an appearance at the appropriate number of parties and church programs, but who miss the opportunity to savor the splendor and contemplate the mystery of God's love made visible.

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Rev. Greg Asimakoupoulos "The Man Who Missed Christmas," 1999 Advent Adventure #4 a, Mainstay Church Publishing. The original source is probably "The Man Who Missed Christmas" by J. Edgar Parks, December 18, 1976 (apparently he was a syndicated writer for newspapers).

The celebration of Christ’s resurrection stands in contrast to Christmas joy.

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Easter joy has been harder to come by this year. Between the growing ugliness of American politics and the acrimony within the church body, I’ve found it harder to anticipate looking up from the broken body of my Lord to rejoice this Sunday in the resurrected and ascended Christ.

When I shared my struggle with a good friend, he suggested I revisit a collection of sermons that the 19th-century priest John Henry Newman preached in Oxford in response to the challenges of his own day. After turning to Newman, I found a surprising insight: In his view, my tempered joy is not merely acceptable or tolerable but rather called for as a deeply Christian response to Easter.

In a sermon titled “Keeping Fast and Festival,” Newman begins with a comparison of Christmas and Easter. At Christmas, he says, we rejoice with the “natural, unmixed joy of children.” Easter joy, however, is not the same. This joy is experienced as “a last feeling and not a first.” It grows out of tribulation, as Paul writes in Romans 5, emerges from the harvest (Isa. 9:3), and comes after (and out of) Lent and Good Friday.

In other words, if living through Lent teaches us even a little about how Christ bears the world’s suffering, then our Easter enthusiasm should look different from our response to God’s arrival as a baby at Christmas. It should feel more seasoned, more aged, and more worn. Easter joy isn’t the joy of children, says Newman, but rather of convalescents who have received the promise of healing, who are starting to get well but still regaining our strength after a Lenten season of confronting our weakness and sorrowing over our sin.

Newman’s image of Christians as convalescents brings to mind the story of healing at the end of The Magician’s Nephew by C. S. Lewis. At the culmination of the book, Diggory, the young hero, watches Aslan plant a magic apple in the newly created Narnian soil. A tree immediately grows from it. In Narnia, the apples have immense power of healing and strengthening. Aslan then gives Diggory a fruit from the tree and sends him back to our world to help heal his sick mother.

When Diggory gives his mother the magic apple, he doesn’t see immediate recovery. In our world, filled with the vigor of redemption, not creation, her healing is slow and gradual. Diggory first notices that her face looks a little different. Then a week later, she’s able to sit up. Finally a month later, she’s well enough to sit in the garden with her son. In the midst of this process, Diggory struggles to believe that her healing is really happening. But “when he remembered the face of Aslan, he [does] hope.”

We, too, should often (although not always) expect our healing to look more like Diggory’s mother’s — one marked by a tempered joy that doesn’t preclude struggle. As George Herbert writes, even as we grow in faith and rest in God, we still often feel “thin and lean without a fence or friend ... blown through with ev’ry storm and wind.”

Like many exposed to various stripes of evangelicalism, it’s easy for me to place a high premium on subjective experience, emotiveness, and outward expression. As such, it’s easy for me to fear that my perceived lack of joy at Easter — or any other time of year, for that matter — is due to weakness and sinfulness. While that may be true at times, Newman challenges the belief that it is always true, rejecting the lie that “since it is the Christian’s duty to rejoice evermore, they would rejoice better if they never sorrowed and never travailed with righteousness.”

However, worrying about my own lack of “appropriate” emotion is not the solution and, in fact, may be part of the problem. When I refuse to let go of disappointment with my own brokenness and that of the world, I fail to recognize not only “the languor and oppression of our old selves” that persists this side of heaven but also the reality of the new life given to me. The solution is not to emote more or blot out the sorrows of this world but rather to turn in prayer, not inward, but upward.

“We must beg Him who is the Prince of Life, the Life itself,” says Newman, “to carry us forth into His new world, for we cannot walk thither, and seat us down whence, like Moses, we may see the land, and meditate upon its beauty!”

Easter joy does not require us, then, to leave this present hour behind or to be unbruised by the events of this world. Instead, it comes when, like Diggory, we return to the brokenness around us (including our own brokenness) with the comfort of Christ’s presence and the instruments of grace that he provides for us throughout the paschal season.

In this act of return, joy comes wearing a different, darker guise, but it also appears deeper, better, and more miraculous than anything we could ever expect.

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Elisabeth Rain Kincaid is an assistant professor of moral theology at the Aquinas Institute of Theology. Her research focuses on questions of moral formation, the development of virtue, and the intersection of law, business, and theology.

A different version of this piece originally appeared at Covenant, the weblog of The Living Church magazine.

Every year, millions of people visit the Western Wall of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. The exposed surface where people tuck prayers between the stones is only a fraction of the original wall that bordered the Temple before its destruction in A.D. 70. Much of the rest sits underground, where visitors gain access only through a series of tunnels.

At one spot, where part of the original Second Temple wall sits exposed, Jewish women are allowed to gather and pray. Some come every day and stay for hours. They’re praying, in large part, for the Messiah’s coming.

As Christians who live more than 2,000 years after Jesus’ birth, it can be difficult to understand that kind of waiting. Even in the midst of our Christmas celebrations, the coming of Jesus into the world can seem mundane, a less than historical event, or even worse, just another cultural ritual with a vague sense of religion attached.

For devout Jewish people, hope in the salvation of the Lord has meant thousands of years of waiting for one singular event, promised first to Adam and Eve in the garden. There, in the wake of their sin, God promised to “put enmity” between the offspring of the serpent and the offspring of the woman. This very first Messianic prophecy was repeated and clarified throughout the Old Testament, with increasingly rich detail. Isaiah, for example, said that a “virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel,” meaning “God with us.”

Mary knew these promises. So, when the angel Gabriel told her that her unexpected baby was to be the “Son of the Most High,” would sit on the “throne of his father David,” and would “reign over the house of Jacob forever,” she clearly understood, at least to some degree, what it all meant. Elizabeth and Zechariah did too. Along with Mary, after receiving word that they would have a son, they responded with worship to God for fulfilling His promises.

“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,” Mary sang. “For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me. ... He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring forever.” Her song is called “The Magnificat,” which in Latin means “my soul magnifies.”

The incarnation of Jesus was no mere historical blip, or some rare interference in the “real” world by an otherwise remote and otherworldly God. This was, as C.S. Lewis once put it, “the central event in the history of the Earth — the very thing the whole story has been about.” Mary’s understanding of the world, like that of all devout Jewish people, was centered around waiting for this event to happen. This was no metaphor, no sign of a coming salvation, as Jewish rites and feasts were understood to be. This was it. This was the salvation to which so much of Israel’s history pointed.

Mary accepted her role in this event with a particular grace and humility. Her expression of worship is amplified by her example of radical self-sacrifice. Not only did she consent to the shame of an unexpected pregnancy or the challenge of an unexpected baby, the prophet Simeon told her that “a sword will pierce through your own soul.” Still, she said yes.

Today, we do not wait for the Messiah to bring salvation. We wait for the Messiah to return, when He will reveal Himself fully as King and restorer of all creation. Like Mary’s understanding of His first coming was shaped by the larger story of God’s promises, so too our Advent disciplines and Christmas celebrations can only be properly understood in light of a bigger story. Soon enough, like Mary, we’ll burst into song at the news of Christ invading this world.

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Copyright (c) 2022 Prison Fellowship Ministries. Reprinted with permission. “BreakPoint” is a radio ministry of Prison Fellowship Ministries.

Jesus didn’t just come to earth to save us from our sins, but to invite humanity to participate in the divine life.

More than two centuries before the Reformation, a theological debate broke out pitting the premier theologian Thomas Aquinas against an upstart Scottish Franciscan priest, John Duns Scotus. The heart of the debate circled around the question “Would the event we celebrate at Christmas have occurred if humanity had not disobeyed God?”

Like most theologians, Aquinas viewed the Incarnation as God’s remedy for a fallen planet, a rescue plan that God first prophesied in Genesis 3. Aquinas pointed to Scripture passages that highlight the Cross as God’s redemptive response to a broken relationship with humanity.

Duns Scotus, nicknamed “the Scotsman,” saw much more at stake. To him, the Word becoming flesh, as described in the prologue to John’s gospel, must surely represent the Creator’s primary design — God’s original goal — and not a plan B. Duns Scotus cited passages from Ephesians and Colossians on the cosmic Christ in whom all things have their origin, hold together, and move toward consummation.

The evangelical tradition often emphasizes the atonement and Christ living in us. We urge children to “accept Jesus into your heart,” an image that can be both comforting and confusing. More pietistic strains speak of “the exchanged life” in which Christ lives in the believer. Yet far more often — 164 times in Paul’s letters, according to one author — the New Testament speaks of us being “in Christ.” At a time when theories of the atonement seem mystifying to moderns, we could learn from the Christ-centered view of Creation once expounded by a Scottish theologian from the high Middle Ages.

Did Jesus only come to earth as an accommodation to human failure? Was the Incarnation a humiliation God had to endure, or was it the center point for all creation? Duns Scotus and his school suggested the Incarnation was God’s underlying motive for Creation, not merely a correction to it. God spun off this vast and beautiful universe for the singular purpose of sharing the divine life and love with humanity, intending all along for us to participate in eternal fellowship with him.

Ultimately, the church fathers decided that both approaches had biblical support and could be accepted as orthodox. And although most Western theologians followed Aquinas, prominent Catholics like Karl Rahner have since taken a closer look at Duns Scotus.

Imagine a time before the creation of matter. What did God have in mind with our planet, one of trillions in the universe? One answer to that question is Jesus: that he came to show us earthlings what God is like and what we should be like. The history recorded in the Old Testament serves as a prelude for God’s supreme act of incarnation. And as the Gospels’ genealogies stress, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Judah, David, and others provided Jesus a family and a culture into which he would be born.

When Mary gave birth to Jesus in Bethlehem, she participated in an act of divine creation that continues to this day. Paul’s recurrent phrase “in Christ” hints at a reality made vivid in his metaphor of the church as the body of Christ, which extends the Incarnation through time. And when Jesus ascended, he turned over this grand mission to his followers.

Hang on — am I suggesting that the miracle of Christmas is somehow replicated and carried out in the lives of those who identify as Jesus’ followers? Some immediate objections arise, such as how fallen human beings such as ourselves could possibly be entrusted with this divine mission.

In the words of Eugene Peterson: “Friends, we are immersed in great and marvelous realities. Creation! Salvation! Resurrection! But when we come up dripping out of the waters of baptism and look around, we observe to our surprise that the community of the baptized is made up of people just like us: unfinished, immature, neurotic, stumbling, singing out of tune much of the time, forgetful, and boorish. Is it credible that God would put all these matters of eternal significance into the hands of such as we?”

In a sermon to his theology students at Oxford, Austin Farrer articulated this question in a different way: “What are we to do about the yawning gulf which opens between this Christhood of ours and our actual performance ... between what Christ has made us and what we make of ourselves?”

His answer is simple: We do the very thing Jesus’ disciples did. On the first day of the week, we gather to “reassemble the whole body of Christ here, not a member lacking, when the sun has risen; and have the resurrection over again.” We remind ourselves, to borrow Paul’s words, that there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, that we are dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus, that if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come (Rom. 8:1, 6:11, 2 Cor. 5:17)!

In short, we confront the stunning truth that God gazes at us through the redemptive lens of the Son who became incarnate and dwelt among us.

Then, assured of that new identity, we go forth to revitalize God’s world. Duns Scotus called his approach the doctrine of the Absolute Primacy of Christ in the universe. Those who root their identity in Christ have a holy mission to advance his kingdom. Christians minister to the poor and suffering not out of humanistic motives but because the least of these also express the image of God. We insist on justice because God insists on it throughout Scripture.

And we honor nature because it is God’s work of art and the backdrop for Christ’s incarnation. As Simone Weil put it, “The beauty of the world is Christ’s tender smile for us coming through matter.”

Some time ago, I had a conversation with Makoto Fujimura, an esteemed artist who founded the International Arts Movement to encourage Christian artists to look to their own faith for inspiration. “So many contemporary artists turn to other religions, like Buddhism,” he said to me. “I remind them that God is about Creation from the Book of Genesis to the Book of Revelation, in which God promises to make all things new.”

Among Jesus’ final words in Revelation are these: “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End” (Rev. 22:13). In this light, Christmas represents God’s masterpiece, the as-yet-unfinished act of cosmic restoration.