His Coming

The true light, who gives light to everyone, [has come] into the world. . . The Word of God became human flesh and took up residence in our midst. We observed His glory, the glory as the One and Only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.   

John 1:9 & 14

This morning wasn’t the first time we’ve invited Sherry and her girls to church with us. She has seemed nervous yet eager to join us. Always, at the last minute, she has wriggled out, fretting about her children’s shoes not being nice enough (she says) -- more likely fretting about being out of place, different, not-good-enough (she probably feels).

It’s hard to enter a new place, an unfamiliar context. You feel exposed. Uncertain. On guard. Even in a church where many will welcome you. Where the grace of God for needy people is preached. Where we sing to celebrate God’s goodness and mercy to us in Christ.

At Christmastime, more than ever, we are praying that she will come. Because we know that Jesus has already come. For her.

He has come to us, so that we may come to Him.    

God has held out His flesh-and-bones hand through Jesus, that we might place our hand in His.

. . .

We smile at the mental image of shepherds lifting tattered robes from ankles, coming quickly to the barn, wide-eyed, after a skyfull of angelic beings rocked their world.

We marvel that learned men travelled for months, maybe years, in search of the King that they discovered in the stars.

We love hearing people tell their stories of coming to Christ in faith.

But first, He came to us: an unassuming invitation wrapped in Jewish flesh, a glimpse of God that made Him real to us. The distance He travelled boggles the mind, making Dr Who’s adventures in the TARDIS look like a brief stroll in an itty-bitty park. Across the universe that Christ Himself created, all the way into the womb of a young girl in Galilee, He took his first human breath in a stable, beneath the night sky that He had formed.

From the beginning, His plan, with the Father and the Spirit, was to come to us, for us. To meet us in a way that would make sense to us. To speak our language and paint word pictures that we could understand. To touch us, and be touched by us. To live in “our” world for a brief while, to share our earthly everyday experiences. To be fully human, even as He has always been and always will be God.

This is how far He has come.

This is how close He has come.

To you. For you.

. . .

If Christmastime is a bittersweet time for you, shadowed in sadness or grief or regret, I bring you good news of great joy:

Jesus, “God with us,” has come! He has come to you and for you. He is as near to you as your breath, your next thought, your hand reaching for His open, outstretched hand.

Arise, shine, for your light has come,
    and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.…
And nations shall come to your light,
    and kings to the brightness of your rising.   

Isaiah 60:1 & 3

Flight Check

Hagar.

Her name means: flight.

Her story is told in two brief vignettes in Genesis.

Scene 1:  When Sarah loses hope and patience that she will ever conceive the child that God had promised Abraham, she cooks up her own plan involving her personal servant Hagar. Of course, Hagar complies (did she have a choice?!) and ends up pregnant. Relational fallout is no big surprise: Sarah’s scheme births not only a son apart from the promise, but jealousy and hatred to boot. And Sarah, wielding the upper hand, takes it out on Hagar.

So Hagar flees the conflict.

She runs into the desert, stopping near a spring.

And God comes to Hagar.

An angel of God gives her a glimpse into her son Ishmael’s future. Ishmael means: God hears.

God hears Hagar.

“You are the God who sees me!” Hagar exclaims, and she follows His direction to return to her home and her destiny – still rife with jealousy, conflict, drama.

God sees Hagar.

Scene 2: Some 14 years later, the promised child Isaac is born to Abraham and Sarah. The palpable enmity between the two mothers has not been lost on Ishmael; he mocks Isaac. Sarah turns on Hagar yet again, insisting that Abraham get rid of her and her outcast son.

Abraham reluctantly exiles his son and Hagar from the family. The last swallows of water gone, Hagar loses all hope of surviving in this barren place. And the thought of seeing her son die before her eyes is too much to bear.

So Hagar flees the grief.

She hides her son beneath a bush and turns her eyes and ears away from his whimpers.

And God comes to Hagar.

He has heard Ishmael’s cries, as well as the silent cries of Hagar’s despairing heart.

God hears Hagar.

Parched by the desert air, blinded by her own hopeless tears, God opens Hagar’s eyes to a well of water before her, which refreshes both her and her son.

God sees Hagar. And He helps her to see His refreshing provision for her, too.

How tempting it is to run from conflict and from grief! Whether we literally flee the scene, or immerse ourselves in our comfort of choice (watching TV, shopping, eating, etc.), we imagine that our refuge will be found in escaping the pain of our reality.

But as daughters of God, we discover something about our flight instinct: any false refuge is an isolated, barren desert that cannot supply our need for hope, refreshment and companionship. We are parched for God, and nothing else will meet our need.

We also discover something beautiful about our God:

He comes to us, no matter how far we’ve fled.

He hears us and understands, even the deepest griefs that we can’t voice.

He sees us more clearly than we see ourselves and our circumstances.

He refreshes us, lifts us gently onto our feet, directs us back toward the conflict (!), rebuilds our hope. He walks with us and sustains us as we persevere in even the hardest reality that He has called us to.

And what if the pressure of reality mounts, and we flee yet again? Then God meets us yet again in the desert, and reveals who He is once more.

Where can I go from your Spirit?
    Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
    if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
    if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
    your right hand will hold me fast.

Psalm 139: 7-10

Leah's Legacy

(If you are not familiar with the account of Jacob, Rachel and Leah, read Genesis 28-29.)

Leah.

Poor Leah.

If you’ve read her story, you can’t help but feel for her. A conniving father sneaks her into a wedding night that was meant for her prettier sister, and the husband is none too pleased. After all, he’d worked – gladly! – for seven years so he could have Rachel (lamb).  Not Leah (cow). So he works seven more years for Rachel, each day a virtual slap to the face of this unwanted woman.

So what’s a neglected wife to do to win the love of her husband? Give him sons! Fulfill that promise God made to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob:

“I will make you extremely fruitful and will make nations and kings come from you.  I will keep My covenant between Me and you, and your future offspring throughout their generations, as an everlasting covenant to be your God and the God of your offspring after you” (Genesis 17:6-7).

God was all for that: “When he saw that Leah was unloved, He opened her womb.” Then He proceeded to give her sons ‑ all within one paragraph of Old Testament narrative.

Because the Lord loved Leah, His eye was upon her in her loneliness. Leah named her first son Reuben, which sounds like the Hebrew word for seen. Because Leah declared “The Lord has seen my affliction; surely now my husband will love me.”  This is the way, she must have thought, that God will take care of me: He will make my husband see that he loves me!

But Jacob didn’t.

She named her second son Simeon, heard, because “The Lord has heard that I am unloved, so he has given me this son.”  Maybe two sons would inspire Jacob to love her!

But Jacob didn’t.

When she gave birth to her third son, she named him Levi, which sounds like attached: “Now that I have given him three sons, my husband will become attached to me!”

But Jacob didn’t.

Certainly, Leah called the names of those three sons often every day, whether correcting them, praising them, or calling them to supper:

“Reuben, don’t speak so harshly to your brother!”

“Come, Simeon, join us at the table.”

“Levi, you are so dear to me.”

And with every spoken name, she would remember her longing for her husband’s love:

Seen. . .   The Lord has seen me; perhaps now my husband will see me for who I am.

Heard . . .The Lord has heard my cries; surely my husband will hear my cry and comfort me.

Attached . . . My husband will attach himself to me; I will no longer be lonely!

But Jacob didn’t.

Those names did not ring true of Leah’s husband, but they were (and are) always true of God. Not just for Leah, but for every wife, whether neglected, cherished, forgotten, esteemed, mistreated or anything else.

The Lord sees you . . .

The Lord hears you . . .

The Lord is attached to you . . .

. . . whether or not a husband ever is.

Before closing her womb for a time, God gave Leah a fourth son. She named him Judah, which sounds like the Hebrew word for praise. Leah declared, “I will praise the Lord” ‑ and there is no mention of her husband this time. For this name was about God alone, not her relationship with her husband. Leah saw her Lord, heard His love for her in the midst of her sorrows, and attached herself to Him in worship and praise.

When Leah named her fourth son Praise, she couldn’t have known that centuries later, through Judah’s lineage, a great shepherd king would come, who would govern God’s people as a man after God’s own heart.

Nor could she have foreseen that a thousand years after David, the One True Shepherd King, the only One worthy of all praise in every age, would enter this world to fulfill God’s covenant promise.

For all the promises of God find their Yes in him. 

That is why it is through him that we utter our Amen to God for his glory.
(2 Corinthians 1:20)

David's One Thing

David was anticipating the throne of Israel, and fleeing jealous Saul. And when he cried out to God, what was the ONE THING he asked for? It was not physical protection, or leadership ability, or popularity within Israel, or even personal holiness.

“ONE THING I have asked of the Lord, and this is what I will seek:that I may dwell in God’s house all my days, to behold His delightful beauty,
and to worship in His presence.” (Ps 27:4)

David’s “one thing” was being close to God, no matter what. And how do we draw near to God, behold His presence, worship Him face to face? Through His written self-portrait, His self-revelation: the Bible. And through the Word-Become-Flesh, God-with-Us: Jesus.

In the Bible, God reveals His Being, His thoughts and desires, His intentions toward us, His character. And He reveals Himself most vividly in the person of Jesus Christ, whom we also get to know in God’s Word.

I’ve been told the Bible is “God’s Instruction Manual.” I’ve hunted for a “verse” just to make me feel better or give me specific direction in the moment. It can be tempting to read the Bible for the morality lessons, or to find “good examples” to follow. Or to read the Bible through the filter of our own soap box issues, to find proof texts for our theology of preference.

But when God speaks, it is not to give us a to-do list, or a band-aid for our hurts, or a human hero to emulate, or Three Steps to Successful Living. Instead, God gives us Himself.

The Pharisees missed this. They were so focused on the commands of Scripture that they missed the Messiah! Jesus confronted them: “You diligently study the Scriptures because you think that by them you possess eternal life. These are the Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life.” (John 5:37-40)

Our “one thing,” what matters most in life, is essentially the same as David wrote 1000 years ago: 

to dwell with God through faith in Christ

to delight in who He is no matter our circumstances

to worship Him in all that we do, say and think.

When He Came Down . . .

Peace on Earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled!

. . . . .

Pleased as Man with men to dwell,

Jesus, our Emmanuel!

[literally “God with us”]

What do you do when someone has offended you?

Neglected you?

Betrayed you?

Sinned against you?

My reflex is to turn away from the offender, the offense;

Withdraw. Take cover. Create distance: It’s a gut reaction.

Like touching a hot burner on the stovetop and recoiling, recovering, self-protecting.

Other temperaments have an opposite instinct: 
attack, lash back, respond in kind.

This Christmas month, the marvelous truth 
I’ve been turning over in my mind

(like a flawless diamond, radiant from every angle)

is this:

In Jesus’ coming to earth,

God moved toward His offenders.

He came to establish peace

with those waging war against Him.

Think of the scale of our offense:

The Creator of all made us in His image,

to be near Him,

to know Him intimately,

to love Him and be loved by Him –

But humanity – by the millions  –

rejected Him,

ignored Him,

offended Him,

betrayed Him.

His response to us defies human sensibility:

He did not turn His back, 
leaving us to our own foolish devices,

Letting humanity and creation spin out 
to its inevitable self-destruction.

Nor did he release His holy fire, destroying us

with the blaze of His (well-deserved) judgment.

Instead:

He entered our world, coming close to those 
who had pushed Him away.

He moved toward those who had rejected Him.

He ‘climbed into our skin and walked around in it.’

Think of the scale of His earthly entrance:

From a radiant throne at His Father’s side,

Where He enjoyed a perfect relationship with His Father,

In a perfect place, utterly pure,

He stooped down low . . .

into an animal barn,

a backwater town,

an occupied nation,

a sin-stained world,

To come face to face with His offenders.

He came in compassion, in gentleness;

He came not to shake His fist at us, 
but to reach out His welcoming arms.

He came, ‘God with us’

To live the life we could not,

To give us peace with God 
that we could not make ourselves,

To call us His friends when we were His enemies.

Even to die at the hands of mankind – 
the greatest offense imaginable –

So that He could rescue us 
by God’s strong and tender hand.

For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God

through the death of His Son, it is much more certain,

now that we are reconciled, that we shall be saved

through His resurrected life. (Romans 5: 10)

 

Why Jesus?

In Christ, 
God lives, 
by His Holy Spirit. 

And God's call to Jesus is:
to preach the Truth to us,
to heal our brokenness,
to free us from our prisons,
to comfort our griefs.

We give him our dust and ashes,
our broken dreams and misguided expectations,
burnt down to nothingness;
He gives us in return His eternal Beauty.

He covers our sorrows with His holy Joy;
He strips away our heavy spirits;
He dresses us in His rich praise!

Why?

So that our roots will sink deep into the richness of His life,
so that we will grow in Him,
so that we will bear fruit that delights Him,
so that the fragrance of our lives will lift Him on high,
so that our lives will be a song for His glory.

(Isaiah 61:1-3, my paraphrase)

From Leadfoot to Cruise Control. By Grace.

I’ve blamed it on being a Boston native.

On living in the boonies ‑ with a long straight highway my only link to civilization.

On perpetually running 5 minutes late, while being unwilling to actually ARRIVE late.

But the bottom line is the same: I am a serial speeder. (And I’ve got the tickets to show for it.)

Sometimes, years pass without a ticket. Other times, I’ve gotten 2 or 3 in a short timespan, much to the chagrin of my husband – who, with affection and exasperation, has nicknamed me “Leadfoot” and “Danica.”

With each offense, I’ve gone to court. I’ve used my birthday money or sacrificed some personal luxury in order to pay the fine. In other words, I’ve done something that would help me feel the sting and the shame of my law-breaking.

Did that convert me from speed demon into law-abiding driver? Well … no. All it produced in me was an eagle eye for police cars; I was more careful about getting caught.

But last October’s ticket was different. This time, something happened that provided me with a far different, far more powerful incentive (no, I am not presently incarcerated). I was having dinner with a friend who actually works at the court where I was slated to appear, and laughingly told her I’d be stopping by her office soon. Immediately, she offered to take the ticket, in spite of my hesitation to relinquish it. (How would I ever learn if I didn’t pay?!) She insisted, then called me a few days later to report that the fine AND the points had been removed. Why? Because I was her friend. And to the officer who had pulled me over, that was enough.

This unexpected gift and its beautiful result rings with the melody of the gospel. I don’t speed anymore. Not from a sense of shame that I’ve done wrong, but from the glorious realization that God’s love for me overcomes my every offense against Him (even my driving ones).

The law tells me what’s right and wrong; yet it cannot create in me a positive desire to obey. Instead, it creates shame and a fear of punishment, followed by a sense of having paid my own debt, once I’ve written that check.

But grace — my due punishment wiped away by a merciful God, without a court appearance or payment — begets love and joy and obedience. (In this case, it also begets a heartfelt commitment to use my cruise control.)

Can we just be honest here? Grace isn’t fair! It’s counterintuitive. It’s offends our sense of “if-then.” I mean, if I “get away with” speeding, won’t I just do it again? Even my sons recognize the audacity of my unexpected pardon. “But Mom, how are you ever going to learn if you don’t have any consequences?” one son asked me, apparently concerned for my speedster soul.

Many Christians believe ‑ and teach ‑ a qualified, watered-down grace; a lukewarm substitute that pales in comparison with the radical, extravagant, all-encompassing grace that God has shown us in Christ. Perhaps our hesitation to embrace God’s immense grace is from the same heart as my son’s: concern that we’ll never be motivated to change if we are truly and fully freed from our debt. 

All I know is this: I no longer speed. I don’t want to trample on the grace that God has shown me. Romans 2:4 tells me that it is God’s kindness that leads me to repentance. And this repentance is joyful!

So, driving the speed limit has become yet another way that I worship my Saviour.

His grace has forever changed my “leadfoot” ways.

His grace has forever changed me.

But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy,

made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—

it is by grace you have been saved.

Ephesians 2:4-5

Recommended Reading:

http://thegospelcoalition.org/blogs/tullian/2012/03/06/one-way-love/

Holiness by Grace, by Bryan Chapell