CHRISTMAS WHEN THE FIG TREE DOES NOT BLOSSOM
Christmas usually arrives draped in familiar cloth—angels in the sky, shepherds in the field, a child wrapped in swaddling bands. We love those texts; we should. But there is another Christmas word, spoken far from Bethlehem, whispered not in a stable but in a field laid waste. It comes to us from the prophet Habakkuk.
Habakkuk does not write in a season of abundance. There are no lights strung across the streets of Judah, no songs rising easily from the lips. He looks out and sees loss stacked upon loss—failure upon failure. And yet, in that barren landscape, he discovers a joy that looks suspiciously like Christmas joy.
“Though the fig tree may not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines; though the labor of the olive may fail, and the fields yield no food; though the flock may be cut off from the fold, and there be no herd in the stalls—yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation. The Lord God is my strength; He will make my feet like deer’s feet, And He will make me walk on my high hills” (Habakkuk 3:17-19).
This is not the joy of a full pantry or a settled heart. This is not the joy that comes when everything works out just in time. This is the joy of a man who has learned that God Himself is enough—even when the world is stripped bare.
Christmas, at its core, is not about abundance; it is about presence. God does not enter the world at a banquet table but in a borrowed room. The Son of God does not arrive with overflowing barns but with empty hands. The fields of Habakkuk and the manger of Bethlehem speak the same language: God comes when we have nothing left to offer.
“Though the fig tree may not blossom.”
Christmas knows that line. There are Decembers when the tree is up but the heart is tired; when the songs are familiar but the grief is fresh; when the calendar says joy but the soul feels thin. Habakkuk teaches us that rejoicing is not denial—it is defiance. It looks the darkness in the face and says, God is still here.
“I will joy in the God of my salvation.”
Notice the grammar. Habakkuk does not rejoice in circumstances but in a Person. This is the same grammar Christmas teaches us. “You shall call His name Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21). Salvation is not an idea; it is Emmanuel—God with us.
“The Lord God is my strength.”
Christmas strength does not thunder; it whispers. It lies in a feeding trough. It sleeps beneath the watchful eyes of Mary and Joseph. It grows quietly, obediently, until the day it stretches itself out on a cross. Habakkuk’s strength and Bethlehem’s Child are cut from the same cloth—strength that does not conquer by force but by faithfulness.
“He will make my feet like deer’s feet.”
This is not escape; it is endurance. Christmas does not remove us from the hills; it teaches us how to walk upon them. Grace does not flatten the terrain—it steadies the steps.
So this Christmas, if the fig tree does not blossom—if the fields feel empty and the stalls bare—do not assume God has missed the season. He specializes in holy arrivals when hope looks scarce.
Bethlehem proves it.
Habakkuk sings it.
And Christmas still proclaims it: God is with us—even here.
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Lord Jesus—Emmanuel—when the fig tree does not blossom and joy feels costly, teach us to rejoice in You alone. Be our strength; steady our steps; meet us in the quiet places. Amen.
BDD
