The sun sets on Bethlehem’s horizon, dragging with it the heat of the day. The dark and the chill of the night creep in, spread across the land, find their way through open windows, cracks in walls, find their way into skin and bones, make themselves at home. A people living in darkness kneel in darkness, heads bowed by a weight they cannot shake, and beg God for mercy. Beg him for a miracle. Plant yet more tears in the poisoned soil of their lives.

The first Christmas day has risen and fallen. The wait is over. Jesus is here. But for every joyful shepherd or seeking wiseman, there are thousands who go to sleep that night still waiting for their miracle. Still unaware that God has not only heard and answered, but become. Immanuel. Redemption has arrived.

The wait is over, yet still they wait. Still they wake in the middle of the night, plagued by trembling heart and aching soul. They cry out in the all too familiar refrain: “How long, Lord, how long?” For all they can see, the promise of God is still unfulfilled. For all they know, there is nothing to believe in but silence and emptiness.

Across town, the promise lays asleep in a manger. The miracle sleeps. Light asleep in darkness.

 

This will not be the last time Jesus sleeps. This will not be the last time the power of Jesus underwhelms, delays, displays itself as apparent inaction. The storms will come and Jesus will sleep in the sinking boat. The dead will be buried and Jesus will sleep for three more nights. The cross will kill and Jesus will sleep.

If I am honest, sometimes I wonder if he is sleeping still. We wait and wait and cry and beg for mercy. For miracle. We hang all our hopes on him and wonder if he will ever show up. Jesus sleeps and we resign ourselves to our inevitable end.

Christmas tells a different story: Immanuel, God with us now. Jesus has shown up, though maybe not in the way we expected. The promise has been fulfilled, even if our eyes can’t see it. The miracle is a reality long before we ever see the proof. Jesus sleeps, but the storm will be calmed, the dead will rise, all things will be redeemed.

“Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
 yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in God my Savior.”

(Habakkuk 3:17-18)

“He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—

how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?”
(Romans 8:32)

Bridges and ships and safety nets,
long since left in ashes.

I find the edge again,
force broken bones to rise,
fall again.

-----------------------------------

 

As many of you know, I am not a big fan of most of what passes as CCM on the radio these days (or, for that matter, pretty much anything on the radio). But once in a while something comes out that strikes a chord in me, and this song struck me with this: defiance.

Yes, defiance. Don’t be fooled by appearances, or the way it sounds, or the fact that the Newsboys aren’t the Newsboys anymore. Listen to the opening lines:

“In this time of desperation

when all we know is doubt and fear
there is only one foundation:
 
We believe.
We believe.
We believe.”




Do you see it? Defiance against all that we see around us. And yet I couldn’t help but think: this is absurd. The song goes on to say all these different things we believe as Christians. Jesus. The Resurrection. The Second Coming. New life. These are things we believe in in spite of the fact that everything around us screams the opposite. The evidence we have, the facts we see cannot be ignored: desperation, doubt, and fear. And yet… we believe.

And yes, it is absurd. I understand why our critics scoff. It is as if we stand at the shore of the Red Sea with an Egyptian army bearing down on us and say, “We believe we can still escape… and defeat the enemy.” It is as if we stand in front of a fiery furnace and say, “We believe the flames will not burn us.” It is as if we kneel, crushed by the power of shame and sin, and say, “We believe grace is more than enough to raise us up again.”

Absurd… if we are wrong. But if we serve a God who performs last-minute rescues, if we serve a God who specializes in doing the impossible, if we serve a God whose love is the most powerful force in the universe… then absurdity becomes breathtaking power. All we see and know and can imagine is not the only reality. This is not as good as it gets. God is not done yet. He gets the last word.

“And the gates of hell will not prevail
for the power of God has torn the veil.
Now we know Your love will never fail.
We believe. We believe. We believe.”

So join with me and say: we believe.

If you are on the edge of something beautiful, say: we believe. If you are shattered in defeat, say: we believe. Wherever you are, whatever you face, say: we believe. Because there are blessings unseen in the hands of God just for you. It is terrifying, I know, but throw yourself into belief, fall into the unknown, and trust that Jesus will never fail you.

 We believe.

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (John 20:29).

I love you through a glass darkly,

dimly I perceive you in these pleasures –

light on my face, warmth on my skin.

Would I love you the same

under a cold and distant sun?

You shine nonetheless –

foolish, wasteful to my shaded eyes,

wasted as I love the love, leave the lover.

I cannot escape, cannot run far enough.

You pursue me with a thousand gifts –

glimpses of you just beneath the surface,

just behind the veil of your disguise.

Even in your shadow, I see you and know:

I do not yet see, do not yet know,

cannot comprehend and yet cannot deny.

All my blind stumbling, desperate grasping –

yours is the face I wish to find. 

I begin at the end.

Not because I can see it on the horizon. Not because I can see the path to it. Not because I can see, but precisely because I can’t.

If I am brutally honest, I do not even believe in this end. I look around at the rubble and ash, and think: impossible. There is no way from here to there.

Which is why I must write about the end now. Because at the end, there is redemption.

There must be.

It is the hardest truth to believe, but the only one I cling to when I doubt everything else: the redemption of all things.

Even now, I think again: impossible! There are some things too horrible, some wounds that cut too deep. Crushed beneath the weight of injustice, suffering, death… can there really be redemption at the end?

There must be.

The redemption of all things.

Yes, even that.

And not just a bandage. It is not enough for the past to be merely wiped away. We require redemption.

Strength from weakness. Life from death. A crown of beauty from ashes.

We require a love powerful enough to redeem us beyond mere restoration.

Impossible.

And yet…

• What was meant for evil, God used for good.
• Dry, dead bones coming to life.
• Lazarus hears the Voice of the Resurrection and the Life… of all things.
• All things work together for the good of those who are His.
• Restoration of all the years the locusts stole.
• Death swallowed up in victory.
• The God become man, who came to die, not just to destroy our curse, but to redeem it with His life in us – better off broken and redeemed than never lost at all.

Jesus, the Redeemer of all things.

Impossible, and yet there is no other hope. There is no other name.

Jesus.