CHRISTMAS — THE PROMISE THAT WOULD NOT LET GO

Christmas does not begin with a cradle; it begins with a covenant. Long before Bethlehem’s night air filled with angel-song, the Lord spoke in the quiet hours to a king who had finally found rest.

David sat in his house of cedar and felt the unease of comfort—“See now, I dwell in a house of cedar, but the ark of God dwells inside tent curtains” (2 Samuel 7:2). It sounded right, noble even. David would build God a house.

But the Gospel has always been God reversing the direction of our best intentions.

That same night, the word of the Lord came and gently overturned the plan. David would not build God a house; God would build David one.

The Lord reminded him that He had taken him from the sheepfold, had been with him wherever he went, and then spoke a promise that reached beyond stone and timber: “When your days are fulfilled and you rest with your fathers, I will set up your seed after you, who will come from your body, and I will establish his kingdom” (2 Samuel 7:12).

A son would come—yes—but more than that, a kingdom would be established, one that time itself could not erode.

The promise grew bolder as it unfolded. This coming Son would build a house for the Lord’s name, “and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever” (2 Samuel 7:13). Solomon would raise a temple of splendor, but “forever” was already pointing beyond him. God was speaking of a greater Son, a truer King, One whose reign would not depend on succession or strength.

Then the Lord spoke words that sound unmistakably like Christmas whispered centuries early: “I will be his Father, and he shall be My son…but My mercy shall not depart from him” (2 Samuel 7:14-15). Here is grace before the manger, mercy promised before sin finished speaking. Discipline is acknowledged, yet love is declared unbreakable. God ties His own faithfulness to this coming Son.

The promise closes—not with a period, but with an open horizon: “Your house and your kingdom shall be established forever before you. Your throne shall be established forever” (2 Samuel 7:16). Forever demands more than a mortal king. Forever requires Emmanuel.

God with us.

CHRIST.

At Christmas, this ancient word takes on flesh. The Son of David is born not in a palace but in a place for animals; not because the throne was forgotten, but because this King would conquer by humility.

The house God promised to David becomes the house God Himself enters. Centuries later, the angel’s words to Mary would sound like a familiar melody: “The Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David…and of His kingdom there will be no end” Luke 1:32-33).

Christmas is not God reacting to our plans—it is God keeping His own. We wanted to build Him a dwelling; He chose instead to dwell with us. The child in the manger is the covenant made visible, the promise that would not let go, the King whose mercy reigns forever.

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Faithful Lord—Son of David and Son of God—thank You that Your promises outlive our strength and outshine our failures. Let this Christmas anchor our hearts in Your forever kingdom, and teach us to rest in the mercy that came down to us. Amen.

BDD

CHRISTMAS AMONG THE RUBBLE

Christmas cards tend to show completion—finished houses, polished scenes, everything in its proper place. But the Gospel dares to speak of Christmas from a construction site, where stones lie scattered and hands ache from unfinished work. The word comes from the prophet Haggai, preaching not to dreamers but to weary rebuilders.

The people have returned from exile. They have laid a foundation for the house of the Lord—but progress has stalled. What stands before them feels small, unimpressive, almost embarrassing when compared to former glory.

God speaks into that discouragement:

“Who is left among you who saw this temple in its former glory? And how do you see it now? In comparison with it, is this not in your eyes as nothing?” (Haggai 2:3).

God does not scold their honesty. He names it. This—this pile of stone and half-formed hope—looks like nothing. Christmas understands this tension. When the Son of David finally comes, He does not resemble the kingdom people imagined. No throne. No army. No visible splendor. Just a child—and not even in the right kind of house.

But God is not finished speaking.

“Yet now be strong, Zerubbabel…and be strong, Joshua…and be strong, all you people of the land…and work; for I am with you,” says the Lord of hosts” (Haggai 2:4).

This is the heart of Christmas theology: I am with you.

Not after the work is done.

Not when the structure is complete.

But in the middle of the mess.

Christ does not wait for perfection—He enters process.

Then comes the promise that feels almost too large for such a modest setting:

“The glory of this latter temple shall be greater than the former,” says the Lord of hosts. “And in this place I will give peace” (Haggai 2:9).

How could that possibly be true? The second temple would never rival Solomon’s in gold or scale.

And yet—centuries later—into that very temple would walk a young couple carrying a child.

No shouting.

No announcement.

But God Himself had arrived.

The glory was not in the stones—it was in the Son.

Christmas teaches us that God’s greatest glory does not come through external splendor but through holy nearness. The former temple held the symbol of God’s presence. The latter would host God in flesh. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory” (John 1:14).

And then God adds one more word—quiet, steady, deeply personal:

“The silver is Mine, and the gold is Mine,” says the Lord of hosts (Haggai 2:8).

In other words: I am not limited by what you lack. Christmas confirms this. God does not need human wealth to redeem the world. He borrows a womb, a manger, a cross—and turns them into instruments of salvation.

So if this Christmas finds you staring at unfinished work—dreams half-built, prayers half-answered, faith still under construction—take heart. God does His finest work among the rubble. The glory is coming. Peace is promised. And the Lord is already present.

Not after completion.

Not after improvement.

But here—right now.

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Lord Jesus—glory among the broken stones—meet us in our unfinished places. Strengthen our hands, steady our hearts, and let us trust that Your presence is enough until the work is complete. Amen.

BDD

CHRISTMAS AT THE WIDOW’S TABLE

Christmas tables are supposed to be full—plates heavy, cups never empty, laughter spilling over the edges. Yet the Gospel dares to tell a Christmas story from a nearly bare table, in a house where hope has been reduced to a final meal.

It comes to us from the days of Elijah, tucked quietly into the Book of 1 Kings.

Israel is under judgment. The skies are sealed; the land is dry. And God sends His prophet not to a palace, not to a storehouse, but to the home of a widow in Zarephath.

“So he arose and went to Zarephath. And when he came to the gate of the city, indeed a widow was there gathering sticks. And he called to her and said, ‘Please bring me a little water in a cup, that I may drink’” (1 Kings 17:10).

She is gathering sticks—not for warmth, not for celebration, but for an ending. She tells Elijah the truth without embellishment:

“As the Lord your God lives, I do not have bread, only a handful of flour in a bin, and a little oil in a jar; and see, I am gathering a couple of sticks that I may go in and prepare it for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die” (1 Kings 17:12).

This is not a hopeful Advent scene. This is desperation spoken plainly. And yet—this is precisely where God chooses to act.

Elijah answers her fear not with abundance, but with a word:

“Do not fear…For thus says the Lord God of Israel: ‘The bin of flour shall not be used up, nor shall the jar of oil run dry, until the day the Lord sends rain on the earth’” (1 Kings 17:13–14).

God does not give her a warehouse. He gives her daily bread. Enough for today; enough again tomorrow.

Christmas knows this song.

The Son of God does not arrive with overflowing storehouses but with five loaves multiplied, with manna remembered, with a prayer that teaches us to ask for “our daily bread” (Matthew 6:11).

And the miracle unfolds quietly:

“So she went away and did according to the word of Elijah; and she and he and her household ate for many days” (1 Kings 17:15).

Notice the restraint of heaven. The flour does not heap; the oil does not overflow.

It simply does not fail.

Grace rarely shouts.

More often, it whispers faithfulness from one ordinary day to the next.

Christmas comes the same way. Not in spectacle, but in persistence. Not in excess, but in sufficiency. The Child in the manger grows, eats, sleeps, obeys. Redemption unfolds at the pace of daily trust.

And this story does not end at the table.

Later, Jesus Himself will recall this widow by name—not to highlight her poverty, but to reveal the wideness of God’s mercy:

“But to none of them was Elijah sent except to Zarephath, in the region of Sidon, to a woman who was a widow” (Luke 4:26).

A Gentile widow. An outsider. A woman with empty hands—and therefore hands ready to receive.

Christmas is God stepping into homes like hers—and like ours. Homes where resources feel thin, where faith feels stretched, where tomorrow is uncertain.

Emmanuel does not wait for the cupboards to be full.

He comes when the last meal is being measured.

So if your Christmas table feels sparse—if joy must be portioned carefully—remember the widow’s jar. Remember the flour that did not fail. Remember the Christ who comes not to overwhelm us with abundance, but to stay with us in faithfulness.

And that is miracle enough.

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Faithful God—who meets us at empty tables—teach us to trust You one day at a time. Be our daily bread; dwell with us in quiet provision; and let us recognize Your presence in every simple gift. Amen.

BDD

CHRISTMAS IN THE MIDST OF THE BURNING BUSH

Christmas often feels warm and familiar—candles, hymns, soft light falling across remembered verses. But the Gospel reminds us that God’s most decisive arrivals rarely happen in comfort. Sometimes they come in wilderness places, where sandals are worn thin and expectations have long since been surrendered.

One such Christmas text waits quietly in the Book of Exodus.

Moses is not looking for God. He is tending sheep—someone else’s sheep—on the far side of the desert. His life has narrowed; his ambitions have cooled. Egypt is behind him; promise feels like a rumor he once overheard and never quite believed.

And then God speaks.

“And the Angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire from the midst of a bush. So he looked, and behold, the bush was burning with fire, but the bush was not consumed” (Exodus 3:2).

Fire without destruction. Presence without annihilation. Glory wrapped in restraint. Christmas already knows this language.

The bush burns, yet remains. God is there, yet Moses lives. This is no small thing.

Throughout the Bible, fire often signals judgment. But here, fire reveals mercy—holiness that does not destroy the one who draws near.

In Bethlehem, the same mystery appears again: divinity clothed in gentleness; holiness swaddled; the fire of heaven housed within fragile flesh (John 1:14).

Moses steps closer, and God speaks again:

“Do not draw near this place. Take your sandals off your feet, for the place where you stand is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5).

Notice the shift. The ground itself does not change—what changes is who is present.

Christmas works the same way. A stable becomes a sanctuary; straw becomes sacred; the ordinary is transfigured by nearness.

When Christ enters the world, the ground beneath human feet is forever altered.

Then God reveals His heart:

“I have surely seen the oppression of My people…and have heard their cry…for I know their sorrows. So I have come down to deliver them” (Exodus 3:7-8).

This is Christmas before Christmas.

God sees.

God hears.

God knows.

God comes down.

Bethlehem is not a detour in God’s story—it is the pattern fulfilled. The One who descends into fire without consuming the bush will later descend into flesh without crushing humanity.

He comes down again—not merely to deliver Israel from Egypt, but to deliver the world from sin and death (Luke 2:10-11).

And then Moses hears a name.

“And God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM’…‘Thus you shall say to the children of Israel, “I AM has sent me to you”’” (Exodus 3:14).

Centuries later, in the quiet of a Judean night, that same Name lies breathing beneath the stars. “Before Abraham was, I AM” (John 8:58).

The eternal present steps into time.

The self-existent God enters dependency.

The great I AM becomes a child who must be carried.

Christmas, like the burning bush, invites both wonder and reverence. Draw near—but remove your sandals. Sing—but do not forget the weight of glory. Rejoice—but remember that this joy is holy.

And perhaps this is the deepest comfort of all: the bush burns, yet is not consumed. The world groans, yet is not abandoned. Your life may feel aflame—pressured, tested, stretched thin—but Emmanuel stands in the midst of it, present and preserving.

God still comes down.

God still speaks.

God is still with us.

That is Christmas—even in the wilderness.

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Holy Lord—great I AM—meet us in the ordinary places and make them holy by Your presence. Let the fire of Your love burn without destroying, and draw us near with reverent joy. Amen.

BDD

CHRISTMAS 2025 — HE IS NOT STANDING THERE WITH A CLIPBOARD

God is not hovering over your life with a checklist—pen poised, brow furrowed, waiting for you to fail. He is not measuring your steps to see where you stumble so He can sigh in disappointment.

Christmas settles that question forever.

“Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a Son, and shall call His name Immanuel”—which is, “God with us” (Matthew 1:23). Not God against us. Not God tolerating us. God with us.

He is in our corner.

This has always been the way of God.

Abraham did not earn righteousness by flawless obedience; he believed the promise—“And he believed in the Lord, and He accounted it to him for righteousness” (Genesis 15:6).

Moses did not stand before Pharaoh in personal adequacy, but with God’s presence—“Certainly I will be with you” (Exodus 3:12).

David was not chosen because of perfection, but because God looked past appearances and set His heart upon him (1 Samuel 16:7).

John the Baptist did not make himself great; he simply pointed away from himself—“He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30).

In essence, that is all they did. They trusted. They received. They stood where God placed them and believed that He was faithful.

Do you want to be in on the greatest work in the world? Then do not begin by striving; begin by receiving. “As many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name” (John 1:12). The kingdom of God does not advance by clenched fists, but by open hands.

Do you want to be thought of as Abraham was—God’s friend? You can be. Do you want to stand before God as David did—beloved, forgiven, restored? You can be. Do you want to live with the clarity of Moses, the courage of John, the nearness they all knew? You can—because none of it was earned. It was given.

And do you want to be thought of as Jesus is—righteous before God?

Here is the Gospel’s scandalous beauty: you can be. Not by imitation, but by imputation. “For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Corinthians 5:21). His righteousness is not a reward; it is a gift. Not loaned, not temporary, not fragile—given.

God is not standing there with a clipboard. He is standing with outstretched arms. He is not waiting to catch you doing something wrong; He has already caught you in Christ. “If God is for us, who can be against us?” (Romans 8:31). Christmas answers that question with flesh and blood.

God with us.

God for us.

God in our corner.

Love Him. Receive Him. Step into what He has already done. That is how Abraham walked, how David stood, how Moses endured, how John rejoiced—and how you may live as well.

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Lord Jesus, thank You that You are not distant or disappointed, but near and gracious. Teach us to stop striving and start receiving; to trust Your righteousness instead of our own. Let us live as those who know You are with us, and for us, always. Amen.

BDD

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

SCROOGE BEFORE CHRISTMAS — A KIND WORD ABOUT CALVINISM

Charles Dickens never set out to write a theological treatise—yet A Christmas Carol has done more to shape the moral imagination of the Western world than many systematic theologies. And in Ebenezer Scrooge, before grace breaks in, we see something strikingly familiar: a man who believes the world is divided, fixed, and finally sorted—and that he himself stands justified in withholding mercy.

Scrooge before his conversion would have made a fine Calvinist—at least in spirit, if not in confession.

He believes some people are meant to thrive and others are meant to perish. “If they would rather die,” he says of the poor, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.” The lines are drawn. The categories are set. The outcome feels inevitable. What is, simply is—and Scrooge feels no obligation to love beyond what he deems fitting.

That, in caricature, is the great weakness of Calvinism—not that it denies grace, but that it often confines it. Grace becomes selective, rationed, privately administered behind a curtain of decrees. God, we are told, loves—but not everyone in the same way, not with the same intent, not toward the same end.

Yet the Gospel insists on something far more scandalous.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life” (John 3:16).

Not the “elect” world. Not the “secretly chosen.” The world—messy, sinful, undeserving, and loved.

Scrooge’s conversion is not merely emotional; it is theological. He awakens to a universe no longer governed by cold necessity but by overflowing mercy. He discovers that generosity does not violate justice—it fulfills it. Love, once given freely, multiplies rather than diminishes.

Calvinism often assures us that God is glorified by control. Dickens suggests something truer: God is glorified by restoration.

The ghosts do not lecture Scrooge on decrees. They show him faces. Names. Tears. Laughter. The past he cannot undo, the present he is neglecting, and the future that need not be. Grace confronts him not as an abstract system, but as a living appeal.

“Do I have no refuge or resource?” Scrooge cries. And the answer is not a secret election—it is repentance.

The Gospel never presents salvation as a locked ledger already balanced before we arrive. Instead, it sounds like an invitation:

“Turn, turn from your evil ways! For why should you die?” (Ezekiel 33:11).

And again: “God our Savior…desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:3-4).

And again: “The Lord is…not willing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9).

Calvinism, at its most rigid, risks turning God into a cosmic Scrooge—generous to a few, unmoved by the many, satisfied with outcomes rather than hearts.

Dickens will have none of it.

Neither will Christmas.

After his conversion, Scrooge does not ask who deserves kindness. He becomes kindness. He does not inquire whether Tiny Tim is elect; he buys the goose. He does not speculate about destiny; he joins the feast.

He embodies what the Apostle Paul declared long before Dickens put pen to paper:

“Love suffers long and is kind…love never fails” (1 Corinthians 13:4, 8).

And that is the quiet silliness of Calvinism—it explains away the very love it claims to exalt.

The Gospel does not. The Gospel dares to say that God loves sinners before they change, invites them while they are still lost, and rejoices when even one turns and lives (Luke 15:7).

Scrooge wakes on Christmas morning to discover that the world is not smaller than he thought—it is larger.

And so is God.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN FILM: THE BISHOP’S WIFE

Some Christmas films dazzle with spectacle; others linger because they tell the truth quietly. The Bishop’s Wife (1947) belongs to the second kind. It does not shout the Gospel—it lives it. And perhaps that is why it may be the most underrated Christmas film of all time.

The story is deceptively gentle. A well-meaning but distracted Episcopal bishop, Henry Brougham, is consumed with raising funds for a grand cathedral. In the process, he neglects the very people the church exists to serve—his wife, his child, and the poor knocking softly at the door. Into this weary household steps Dudley—an angel sent in answer to prayer, though not in the way anyone expected.

Cary Grant’s performance as Dudley is nothing short of luminous. He is playful without being frivolous, wise without being severe, tender without sentimentality. Grant gives us an angel who does not roar from heaven but walks beside us, smiles at us, and reminds us—almost imperceptibly—of what we have forgotten. His Dudley is not impressed by stone cathedrals; he is interested in living hearts.

Grant understood something essential: grace is not loud. It is persuasive. It does not force; it invites. Watching him glide through the film is to watch love in motion—patient, observant, unhurried. One could argue that no actor has ever embodied “winsome goodness” on screen quite like Cary Grant does here.

The Gospel thread is woven everywhere. The bishop’s obsession with building mirrors our own temptation to substitute religious activity for love itself. Jesus warned of this long ago: “These people honor Me with their lips, but their heart is far from Me” (Matthew 15:8). Dudley’s quiet mission is to bring the bishop’s heart back—to his wife, to his child, to his calling.

Loretta Young’s portrayal of Julia Brougham is equally vital. She is not merely neglected; she is unseen. Dudley does not court her—he restores her. He listens. He notices. He affirms what has been worn thin by loneliness. In doing so, the film offers a gentle rebuke to every form of loveless piety. “Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor… but have not love, it profits me nothing” (1 Corinthians 13:3).

The film’s angelology is, of course, cinematic—but its theology is deeply Christian. Dudley’s presence reflects Hebrews: “Are they not all ministering spirits sent forth to minister for those who will inherit salvation?” (Hebrews 1:14). Yet the angel never draws attention to himself. Like John the Baptist, he must decrease. His success is measured by his disappearance.

And then there is the ending—quiet and restorative and almost sacramental. The bishop finally preaches the sermon he did not plan, speaking of love as the true architecture of the church. “Faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love” (1 Corinthians 13:13). Stone buildings may rise and fall, but love endures.

The Bishop’s Wife reminds us that Christmas is not about impressing God with our efforts, but about receiving His presence. Emmanuel does not arrive with blueprints—He arrives with Himself. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). Dudley’s final gift is not a cathedral, but a healed marriage, a restored vocation, and a reawakened soul.

That is the Gospel in film form. And Cary Grant—smiling, listening, loving—may be its most unexpected evangelist.

BDD

YOU’RE NOT ALONE ON CHRISTMAS

Christmas can be loud—or it can be unbearably quiet. For some, the house is full; for others, the chair across the room remains empty. There are memories that ache, names that catch in the throat, seasons of life that did not turn out as hoped. And yet, into that very loneliness, Christmas speaks—not first of cheer, but of presence.

The heart of Christmas is not sentiment; it is incarnation.

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14).

God did not shout encouragement from heaven. He came. He entered time, space, fatigue, misunderstanding, sorrow. He took on days and nights. He learned hunger. He knew what it was to be unseen, uncelebrated, and later—abandoned. Whatever loneliness Christmas exposes in us, Jesus has already stepped into it.

He was born not in a palace, but in a borrowed space. Laid not in silk, but in a manger. The first witnesses were not the powerful, but shepherds keeping watch through the night—men accustomed to solitude, vigilance, and the long hours of quiet (Luke 2:8–12). Heaven chose them first, as if to say: this good news knows how to find you where you are.

Christmas tells us that God does not wait for us to feel whole before drawing near. He comes when we are tired, fractured, and unsure. “For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given” (Isaiah 9:6). Unto us—not unto the strong, not unto the settled, but unto the human.

Jesus Himself later said, “I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20). That promise did not begin at the resurrection; it began in Bethlehem. Emmanuel—God with us—was not a poetic title; it was a declaration (Matthew 1:23).

So if Christmas finds you alone, or feeling unseen, or quietly enduring—know this: you are not forgotten. The Child in the manger grew into the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3), and He did so intentionally. He came close enough to touch, close enough to hear, close enough to stay.

Christmas is not asking you to feel joy on command. It is reminding you that you are not alone—because Jesus has come, and He has not gone away.

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Lord Jesus, Emmanuel—God with us—meet me where I am this Christmas. Sit with me in the quiet, steady my heart with Your presence, and remind me that I am never alone. Amen.

BDD

MEN OF GOODWILL — AND THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO CHRISTMAS

In A Christmas Carol, Fred—the nephew—speaks one of the most quietly devastating lines in all of Dickens. He is cheerful, warm, reasonable; Scrooge is cold, sharp, transactional. And when Scrooge snarls at Christmas as a “humbug,” Fred replies—almost gently—that Christmas has always been a time when people “open their shut-up hearts freely, and think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.”

Then comes the phrase that matters here. Christmas, Fred says, belongs to “men and women of good will.” And Scrooge hears it as an insult.

Why?

Because “men of goodwill” is not a compliment to the self-satisfied. It is a quiet rebuke to the self-enclosed.

The language comes straight out of Luke’s Nativity account:

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men” (Luke 2:14).

Older English ears heard this not as God approving everyone, but as God announcing peace to those whose hearts are bent toward peace—those receptive to grace, not those proud of their balance sheets or moral ledgers.

Dickens knew this. Fred is not saying, “I am good; therefore I deserve Christmas.”

He is saying, “Christmas makes goodwill possible—if you will receive it.”

Scrooge bristles because goodwill costs him something. It threatens his solitude. It asks him to loosen his grip.

Scrooge believes himself upright, disciplined, efficient. He pays his bills. He owes no one mercy. So when Fred speaks of men of goodwill, Scrooge hears: You are not one of them.

And he’s right—though not for the reason he thinks.

Goodwill is not niceness. It is not temperament. It is not optimism.

Goodwill is a posture of the heart—a willingness to be interrupted by grace.

Scrooge’s problem is not that he lacks feelings; it is that he refuses fellowship. He does not wish peace with others if peace requires vulnerability. And so the angelic song excludes him—not by cruelty, but by truth.

The Gospel never says Christ came for the deserving. It says He came for the receptive.

“He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He has sent away empty” (Luke 1:53).

That verse is not about money. It is about fullness that cannot receive. Hands clenched around coins cannot open for bread.

“Men of goodwill” are not morally superior people. They are people who do not barricade themselves against love. They are the shepherds who go. The Magi who kneel. The tax collector who beats his chest. The thief who asks to be remembered.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 5:3).

Poor in spirit—empty enough to receive.

Christmas is gentle, but it is not neutral. The manger judges pride even as it saves sinners. God does not enter the world with force, but with an invitation—and invitations can be refused.

That is why Fred’s joy irritates Scrooge. Joy exposes what has been avoided. Light reveals what has been locked away.

And that is why Christianity still unsettles polite society. The Gospel insists that peace comes not through control, but surrender; not through insulation, but incarnation.

“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though He was rich, yet for your sakes He became poor, that you through His poverty might become rich” (2 Corinthians 8:9).

That kind of grace dismantles self-made men.

Not: Are you successful?

Not: Are you respectable?

But: Are you willing?

Willing to forgive.

Willing to kneel.

Willing to be changed.

That is what Fred means. That is why Scrooge flinches. And that is why the angels still sing—not to flatter humanity, but to invite it.

Peace on earth—to men of goodwill.

To those who will lay down their defenses long enough to receive a Child.

____________

Lord Jesus, make my heart soft enough for Your peace, open enough for Your grace, and willing enough to be changed. Let me be counted among those who receive Christmas—not merely admire it. Amen.

BDD

JESUS IN THE SONG OF SOLOMON

The Song of Solomon does not announce itself with a raised voice.

It does not argue, command, or explain.

It leans in close—and speaks of longing.

Many stumble here, unsure why such language belongs in Scripture at all. Yet the same God who carved Sinai also breathed poetry. The same Lord who gave commandments also revealed desire. And hidden within this ancient song is a portrait of Christ that cannot be sketched in straight lines.

The Bible tells us that God does not merely rule His people—He binds Himself to them. “I will betroth you to Me forever” (Hosea 2:19). The Song gives flesh to that promise. The beloved is not addressed as a subject, but as one cherished. This is how Jesus relates to His own. He does not keep His distance. He draws near.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth” (Song of Solomon 1:2). This is the hunger of communion, not spectacle. The soul wants closeness, not commentary. Christ offers more than instruction; He gives Himself. “Abide in Me, and I in you” (John 15:4). Faith, at its core, is shared life.

The beloved is described as incomparable. “My beloved is distinguished among ten thousand” (Song of Solomon 5:10). No argument is made—only recognition. When Christ is truly seen, explanation feels unnecessary. “To whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life” (John 6:68). The heart settles because it has found its home.

There is pursuit in the Song, and there is delay. “I sought him, but I did not find him” (Song of Solomon 3:1). Love is not always immediate; sometimes it is refined through absence. Christ does not abandon His people, but He does mature them. “Though He was a Son, yet He learned obedience” (Hebrews 5:8). Waiting, too, is part of knowing Him.

The voice at the door matters. “The sound of my beloved! He is knocking” (Song of Solomon 5:2). Love never forces itself. The knock is gentle, patient, insistent. So it is with Christ. “Today, if you will hear His voice, do not harden your hearts” (Hebrews 3:15). He comes close—but He waits to be welcomed.

The Song also refuses shallow sentiment. Love is costly. “Set me as a seal upon your heart…for love is strong as death” (Song of Solomon 8:6). These words find their answer at Calvary. “Having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end” (John 13:1). The cross is not an interruption of love—it is its fullest disclosure.

In the Song, the beloved delights in the bride’s beauty. Not because she is flawless—but because she is his. Christ speaks the same miracle over His Church. “That He might present her to Himself a glorious church” (Ephesians 5:27). What He loves, He restores. What He chooses, He cleanses.

The Song of Solomon teaches us that devotion is not cold. Holiness is not sterile. God is not embarrassed by affection. In Jesus, desire is redeemed, closeness is sanctified, and love is given room to breathe.

This is ultimately about Christ and His love for His people. This is a revelation written in the language of love.

BDD

CHRISTMAS REMINDS US OF WHAT IS IMPORTANT

Christmas comes to us quietly—often beneath the noise we ourselves create. Lights flicker, songs repeat, schedules fill; yet beneath all of it stands a Child, wrapped not in splendor but in swaddling cloths.

Heaven chose humility.

God chose nearness.

And Christmas reminds us, gently but firmly, of what truly matters.

“For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given; and the government will be upon His shoulder” (Isaiah 9:6). Not a general, not a philosopher seated in marble halls—but a Child.

The weight of the world resting on shoulders small enough to fit in a manger. Christmas tells us at once that power is not what we think it is; greatness looks like gentleness, and glory wears the face of love.

We are reminded that presence matters more than possessions. “And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn” (Luke 2:7).

No room.

Yet Heaven was not offended.

God did not wait for better accommodations.

He entered where He was least expected. Christmas exposes our priorities—how easily we make room for everything except the One who gives us life.

Christmas also reminds us that God keeps His promises. “But when the fullness of the time had come, God sent forth His Son, born of a woman” (Galatians 4:4). Centuries of silence, generations of longing, prophets who spoke and died without seeing the day—and yet, at exactly the right moment, God acted. What feels delayed to us is never forgotten by Him.

We are reminded that the Gospel is for ordinary people. “Then the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people’” (Luke 2:10).

Shepherds heard the announcement first—men whose hands smelled of sheep, whose lives were lived under open skies and quiet obscurity. Christmas declares that good news does not begin in palaces but in fields, not among the powerful but among the overlooked.

Christmas reminds us that love moves toward need. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son” (John 3:16). Love gives. Love crosses distance. Love enters darkness rather than shouting at it from afar. The incarnation is not merely doctrine—it is divine pursuit. God did not send instructions; He sent Himself.

And Christmas reminds us that peace is found not in circumstances but in Christ. “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men” (Luke 2:14).

Rome still ruled.

Poverty still existed.

Suffering had not ended.

Yet peace had arrived—because Jesus had come. The world did not change overnight, but everything was forever different.

So Christmas gently reorders us. It teaches us to slow down, to listen again, to treasure what cannot be wrapped or bought. “But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19).

In a season that urges haste, the Word invites reflection. In a world that measures worth by excess, Christmas points us to a manger and says, This is enough.

What is important?

God with us (Matthew 1:23).

Love embodied.

Promises fulfilled.

Sinners welcomed.

Hope born in the dark.

This is Christmas.

Lord Jesus, draw our hearts back to the manger—strip away what distracts us, quiet what overwhelms us, and teach us again what truly matters. Be our peace, our joy, and our treasure, this Christmas and always. Amen.

___________

BDD

THE HOLY HUSH OF CHRISTMAS EVE

Christmas Eve is not loud—at least, not at its heart. It comes to us quietly, like snow falling after midnight, like a candle flickering in a darkened room. The world may be busy—wrapping paper torn, ovens warming, children restless—but heaven pauses. Christmas Eve is the holy hush before God speaks Himself into flesh.

Scripture has always known this kind of silence.

“Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

That stillness is not empty; it is pregnant with promise. Christmas Eve stands between prophecy and fulfillment, between longing and arrival. For centuries Israel waited—sometimes faithfully, sometimes wearily—for the Seed, the Son, the Savior.

“Therefore the Lord Himself will give you a sign: Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a Son, and shall call His name Immanuel” (Isaiah 7:14).

“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are little among the thousands of Judah, yet out of you shall come forth to Me the One to be Ruler in Israel” (Micah 5:2).

On Christmas Eve, those words hang in the air like breath on a cold night. God is about to keep His word.

Luke tells us the story without embellishment, as though aware that adding too much would only diminish the wonder.

“And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn” (Luke 2:7).

No room—but heaven made room. No palace—but angels filled the sky.

“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men!’” (Luke 2:13–14).

Christmas Eve reminds us that God does His greatest work in the most ordinary places. A stable. A feeding trough. A teenage mother. A carpenter who trusts the word of the Lord.

“And Joseph also went up from Galilee… to be registered with Mary, his betrothed wife, who was with child” (Luke 2:4-5).

This night tells us something vital about the nature of God: He does not shout us into salvation—He whispers. He does not force His way in—He comes as a Child.

“For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given; and the government will be upon His shoulder” (Isaiah 9:6).

Christmas Eve is the doorway into the mystery Paul would later proclaim:

“And without controversy great is the mystery of godliness: God was manifested in the flesh” (1 Timothy 3:16).

Here is the wonder—God did not send a theory, a system, or a slogan. He sent Himself.

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory” (John 1:14).

On this night, before the shepherds arrive, before the wise men journey, before the cross casts its long shadow, we sit with the truth that love has come down. Grace has entered time. Eternity has stepped into a manger.

“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though He was rich, yet for your sakes He became poor, that you through His poverty might become rich” (2 Corinthians 8:9).

Christmas Eve invites us to wait—not anxiously, but expectantly. To listen. To kneel. To make room where we once said there was none.

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock” (Revelation 3:20).

The knock is gentle. The night is holy. Tomorrow, the Child will be proclaimed—but tonight, we adore Him in silence.

“Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!” (2 Corinthians 9:15).

___________

Lord Jesus, on this quiet and holy night, still our hearts. Help us to behold the wonder of the Word made flesh, to make room for You anew, and to rest in the grace that entered the world in Bethlehem. Glory be to God in the highest. Amen.

BDD

HAVE YOU EVER?

Have you ever been sad—and thought about Jesus? Not as an idea, not as a doctrine to be defended, but as a Person who knows sorrow from the inside out.

Have you ever written Him a love letter—not polished, not eloquent, just honest; ink stained with gratitude and need?

Have you ever spoken to Him the way you would your closest friend—no religious varnish, no careful phrases—just truth, spoken plainly, knowing He listens?

Have you ever shared a quiet moment with Him, where nothing spectacular happened, yet everything felt held?

Have you ever listened to Martin Luther King Jr.’s I’ve Been to the Mountaintop speech—given the night before he died—and felt the weight of courage pressed into words?

Have you ever read Letter from a Birmingham Jail and sensed the moral gravity of a conscience captive to truth?

Have you ever watched It’s a Wonderful Life and realized that redemption often hides in the ordinary, that a single life—faithful and unseen and persevering—can ripple farther than it ever knows?

And then—have you ever noticed how all these moments, so different on the surface, seem to express the same deeper longing?

Justice.

Meaning.

Love that costs something.

Hope that refuses to die.

They point, quietly but persistently, toward Christ—the Man of Sorrows who still walks with the brokenhearted (Isaiah 53:3), the Friend who draws near and does not let go (John 15:15), the Light that shines even when the night feels long (John 1:5).

Here are a few more moments that belong in this same family of longing—things you might recognize, things that fit the grain of the soul:

• Reading Ecclesiastes late at night and realizing someone else has already named the emptiness (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

• Hearing a hymn sung slowly—no instruments—and feeling truth settle deeper than argument ever could (Colossians 3:16).

• Standing at a graveside and sensing that death is real, but not final (1 Corinthians 15:26).

• Watching an old black-and-white film where sacrifice quietly wins the day.

• Reading a line of poetry that feels like it knows you better than most people do.

• Sitting alone in a church sanctuary when no one else is there.

• Listening to Johnny Cash sing about sin, grace, and mercy—with no pretense left.

• Reading the Sermon on the Mount and realizing Jesus is not offering advice, but a new way to be human (Matthew 5:1-12).

• Watching forgiveness happen where it should not be possible (Matthew 18:21-22).

• Reading the Gospels slowly, and noticing how often Jesus stops for the overlooked (Mark 10:46-52).

• Feeling the weight lift when you finally tell Him the truth about yourself (1 John 1:7).

Have you ever noticed that Christ seems to meet us most often not in spectacle, but in recognition—in those moments when the heart whispers, This matters?

He is there in the sadness, the courage, the quiet films, the jailhouse letters, the late-night prayers; present, patient, personal.

Not distant.

Not abstract.

Near.

BDD

THE STAR THAT LED THEM TO HIM

On a quiet night, beneath an untroubled sky, God hung a light where no one expected it. Not in the Temple courts; not over Caesar’s palace; but in the heavens—where shepherds watched, and where wise men studied, waiting for meaning. “We have seen His star in the East, and have come to worship Him” (Matthew 2:2).

The Star of Bethlehem was not given to dazzle the world, but to direct hearts. It did not shout; it pointed. It asked no one to admire it—only to follow. God, who once led Israel by a pillar of fire, now led the nations by a single star, quietly declaring that this Child was not for Israel only, but for all who seek Him.

Whether the star was a miracle beyond nature or God’s hand upon the natural order, Scripture leaves room for wonder. That is fitting. Christmas is not explained so much as received. Heaven came low; eternity entered time; light stepped into darkness. The star simply did what light always does—it led men out of the night and toward Christ (John 1:9).

And notice where the star led them. Not to a throne, but to a house. Not to a king crowned with gold, but to a Child held by His mother. The wise men bowed, not because the room was impressive, but because God was present. They offered gifts, but what they truly gave was worship (Matthew 2:10–11).

At Christmas, the star still shines—though not in the sky. It shines in the Gospel. It calls the weary, the searching, the distant, and the devout alike. It does not promise ease, but it promises Christ. And that is enough.

Follow the light. It will always lead you to Him.

___________

Lord Jesus, You are the true Light who came into the world. Lead our hearts again this Christmas; guide us through the darkness, and bring us to Yourself. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN LITERATURE: ET TU, BRUTE?

You know that moment in a story that stops you cold? Shakespeare gives us one in Julius Caesar. One minute, Caesar is the triumphant leader, surrounded by friends; the next, he’s dead, struck down by those he trusted most. And his words—“Et tu, Brute?”—hit like a punch to the heart. “You too, my friend?” Betrayal has a way of cutting deeper when it comes from someone you counted on.

This isn’t just a lesson in drama; it’s a lesson in reality. People hurt us—sometimes strangers, sometimes the closest companions—but the Gospel shows us the ultimate case of betrayal. Jesus, too, was betrayed. Judas, Peter, and the disciples themselves—those He loved and taught—turned away, denied, or abandoned Him in the hour He needed them most (Matthew 26:47-56; John 18:1-11).

Where Caesar’s story ends in despair, Christ’s betrayal leads to hope.

And here’s where it gets remarkable: Jesus meets treachery with forgiveness. The very hands that nailed Him to the cross were met not with anger, but with intercession: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). No human plan, no rational strategy could have achieved this. It’s both brilliant and divine: the ultimate response to human sin is not retaliation, but grace.

Literature teaches us about the human heart; the Gospel teaches us about the divine heart. Caesar’s fall warns of the fragility of trust and the danger of pride. Christ’s cross reveals that God’s love never fails and that even betrayal can be transformed into redemption. In every story of human weakness, there is a pointer to God’s steadfastness (Romans 8:38-39).

So when life cuts deep, when friends fail, when betrayal stings, remember the Cross. Human hearts are flawed, but God’s heart is perfect. Every wound can meet His mercy, every wrong can meet His forgiveness, every failure can meet His restoration.

And that is the kind of truth that even Shakespeare, for all his brilliance, could only hint at.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN TELEVISION — REDEMPTION IN A JUNKYARD: SANFORD AND SON, CHRISTMAS, AND THE AWAKENING OF THE HEART

On a December night in 1975, when television still gathered families into the same room and Christmas episodes were small cultural events, Sanford and Son aired its holiday tale—“Ebenezer Sanford.”

It came from a show already established as great; not polished, not sentimental, but honest. A junkyard comedy with a philosopher’s bite. A sitcom that laughed loudly while quietly telling the truth about people—about pride, pain, loyalty, and love. And it was so so so funny.

Fred G. Sanford was never meant to be admirable. He was sharp-tongued, tight-fisted, and stubborn as rusted iron. Yet beneath the bluster lived something recognizably human—fear of loss, fear of change, fear of needing anyone at all. Christmas, to Fred, was an intrusion; joy was expensive; generosity felt like weakness. And so the episode wisely framed him not as a villain, but as a Scrooge—a man asleep to grace.

The brilliance of the story is not in parody alone, though it is funny. It is in who becomes the messenger. Lamont—his son, his constant companion, the one who bears the weight of Fred’s selfishness—becomes the guide through past, present, and future. This is not accidental. The Word tells us that love speaks closest when it comes from the one who has endured us the longest (1 Corinthians 13:7). Grace often arrives wearing a familiar face.

As Fred is confronted with his past, he sees what hardened him. As he is shown the present, he sees what his bitterness costs others. And when he glimpses the future, it is not fire and brimstone that terrifies him—it is loneliness. A world in which no one comes. No songs. No son. No joy. That, perhaps, is the most biblical warning of all. Scripture does not always threaten punishment; sometimes it simply shows us what life looks like when love is refused (Romans 1:21).

Here is where the Gospel quietly enters the junkyard.

The Gospel is not merely that God forgives sinners; it is that God wakes the dead. Jesus does not come to negotiate better behavior—He comes to raise hearts that no longer beat with love (Ephesians 2:1-5). Fred’s transformation is not complete theology, but it is true to the pattern: awakening precedes giving; seeing precedes singing; repentance comes before joy.

And when Fred wakes, he gives. Not perfectly. Not eloquently. But genuinely. He joins the song. He opens himself, just a little, to the warmth he had kept at bay. That is always how grace begins—not with mastery, but with surrender. Not with understanding everything, but with finally saying yes.

Christmas, after all, is God’s own interruption. Heaven stepping into time; eternity knocking on a closed door. The incarnation is the divine refusal to leave humanity asleep. “The light shines in the darkness,” John writes, “and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5).

Even in a junkyard. Even in a sitcom. Even in a heart like Fred Sanford’s.

What this episode teaches devotionally is simple and searching: we may laugh at Scrooge while becoming him. We may quote Scripture while resisting its call. We may sing carols while clutching our lives tightly.

And yet Christ still comes—patient, persistent, merciful—showing us who we have been, who we are, and who we are becoming.

The Gospel says there is still time to wake up.

And sometimes, by the grace of God, the alarm sounds through a Christmas episode on an old television—reminding us that generosity is not loss, love is not weakness, and joy is not foolish. It is salvation taking root.

BDD

A SMILE I WAS GLAD TO SEE SUNDAY

My sister and I have lived with similar struggles of the mind for as long as I can remember. Long before there were search engines, forums, podcasts, or language for what we were experiencing—long before people knew how to name these things, let alone treat them well. If you have never walked this road, fall to your knees and thank God. If you have, no explanation is needed.

It has been rough—at times unspeakably so. Depths of despair that feel bottomless; moments when the soul seems to fold inward on itself. Some of those valleys were carved by my own hands; others arrived uninvited, unannounced, and merciless. But the truth remains: God brought me back. Again and again. Not because I was strong, but because He is faithful (Lamentations 3:22-23).

And my sister—my big sister, though she is older than me only by years—has borne her share of that weight too. Our illnesses have made us sick of things at times; sick of ourselves, sick of consequences, sick of apologizing for wounds we never intended to inflict. That is no excuse—but it is an explanation.

If this were merely rebellion, merely stubbornness, merely moral rot, we would not both stumble in such similar ways. Unless one believes we are uniquely and deliberately evil—people who simply want to do wrong—it must be admitted that something deeper has been at work, something beyond our control.

I am not asking for sympathy. I am explaining.

I have seen my sister cry far too much over her mistakes. Tears born not of defiance, but of grief—grief over what might have been, grief over words she wishes she could pull back, grief over being misunderstood. She has paid her dues in sorrow. She has carried regret like a second skin. Enough, I say, because grace says enough (2 Corinthians 12:9).

And then came Sunday.

I saw something I had not seen in a while—something quiet, almost fragile, yet unmistakable. A smile. Not forced. Not defensive. A real one. The kind that comes when the soul is being held, not judged; steadied, not scolded. She is being held, just as I have been held. By the same God. By the same mercy. By the same patient love that does not crush bruised reeds or extinguish smoldering wicks (Isaiah 42:3).

I saw her smile.

And in that moment, the past loosened its grip just a little. Life moved forward—as it must. Redemption rarely announces itself with thunder; more often, it arrives quietly, disguised as an ordinary smile on an ordinary Sunday.

It was good to see my sister. Good to see big sister. Good to be reminded that we are not the sum of our worst moments, nor are we defined by illnesses we never asked for. We are defined by the God who refuses to abandon us in them (Psalm 34:19).

Grace does not erase the past—but it redeems it. And sometimes, redemption looks like nothing more than a smile you were glad to see.

____________

Merciful God, thank You for holding us when we cannot hold ourselves; for grace that explains without excusing, and heals without humiliating. Guard my sister, strengthen her, and teach us both to walk forward in hope. Amen.

BDD

WHY FULL PRETERISM CANNOT POSSIBLY BE RIGHT — IN MY JUDGMENT

I want to begin carefully—and honestly. Some of my close friends are full preterists. They love the Lord Jesus Christ; they read the Scriptures reverently; they pray, worship, and seek holiness. This is not an attack on their sincerity, nor a questioning of their devotion. Error can coexist with earnest faith; Peter himself erred at Antioch while still belonging to Christ. The issue before us, then, is not motive—but truth.

Full preterism claims that all biblical prophecy, including the resurrection of the dead, the final judgment, and the coming of Christ, was fulfilled in the destruction of Jerusalem in A.D. 70. It presents itself as a bold consistency—but consistency achieved by force rather than fidelity. When the Scriptures are allowed to speak plainly, patiently, and canonically, the system collapses.

First, full preterism fails at the resurrection—fatally so.

The apostle Paul anchors Christian hope not in symbolism, but in reality. “If the dead do not rise, then Christ is not risen. And if Christ is not risen, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins” (1 Corinthians 15:16-17). Paul does not argue for a merely covenantal resurrection, nor a metaphorical rising of Israel’s fortunes. He ties the believer’s future resurrection directly to Christ’s bodily resurrection—one tomb, one body, one victory over death.

Paul presses the point further: “For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed” (1 Corinthians 15:52). This is not the language of Jerusalem’s fall; it is the language of mortality swallowed up by life. Death itself is the enemy to be destroyed—not Rome, not the Temple, not Judaism’s age—but death (1 Corinthians 15:26). Death still reigns. Graves still fill. The enemy remains. Therefore the event has not yet occurred.

Second, full preterism empties Christian hope of its future substance.

The New Testament consistently points believers forward. We “wait for His Son from heaven” (1 Thessalonians 1:10). We “eagerly wait for the Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body” (Philippians 3:20-21). Hope, in Scripture, is not nostalgia for something already completed; it is expectation anchored in promise.

Peter writes decades after the cross that believers are looking for “new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells” (2 Peter 3:13). This is not merely covenantal rearrangement; it is cosmic renewal. Fire, dissolution, restoration—language far too large to be confined to one city’s judgment. Jerusalem’s destruction was severe; it was not the end of the created order.

Third, full preterism redefines the coming of Christ beyond recognition.

The angels at the ascension did not say Jesus would return invisibly, spiritually, or metaphorically through Roman armies. They said, “This same Jesus whom you have seen depart into heaven will so come in like manner as you saw Him go into heaven” (Acts 1:11). He ascended visibly, bodily, historically. The promise is symmetrical. To flatten this into a providential judgment event is not interpretation—it is reduction.

John reinforces this clarity: “Behold, He is coming with clouds, and every eye will see Him” (Revelation 1:7). Not every eye in Judea. Not every eye within a generation. Every eye. The text resists confinement.

Fourth, full preterism fractures the unity of the Church across time.

If the resurrection is past, then the apostles spoke falsely to generations who lived—and died—expecting it. If the Parousia is over, then the Church has been mistaken for nearly two millennia, confessing, “He shall come again with glory to judge the living and the dead.” The faith once delivered to the saints (Jude 3) becomes a historical misunderstanding corrected only by modern insight. That is not reformation; it is revision.

Even the earliest post-apostolic Christians—those closest to the language, culture, and context—expected a future resurrection and judgment. Full preterism requires us to believe the Church immediately lost the very hope it was born proclaiming.

Finally, full preterism misunderstands judgment itself.

Yes—Jerusalem’s fall was judgment. Jesus said it would happen, and it did (Matthew 24:34). Partial preterism rightly sees this. But Scripture distinguishes between a judgment and the judgment. The latter is universal, final, and irrevocable. “For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ” (2 Corinthians 5:10). Not merely first-century Jews. All.

History still groans. Creation still waits. The Church still prays, “Come, Lord Jesus.” And Christ Himself teaches us to live watchfully—not because everything is finished, but because everything is moving toward its appointed end.

So I say this with conviction and love: full preterism cannot possibly be right—not because it lacks cleverness, but because it lacks room. Room for resurrection bodies; room for restored creation; room for the visible return of the King; room for the long hope of the saints. It compresses eternity into a moment and calls the silence afterward fulfillment.

Christ has come—gloriously, savingly, decisively. And Christ will come again—visibly, bodily, finally. Between those two comings, the Church lives, suffers, hopes, and waits.

BDD

JESUS THE CHRIST

“Jesus” is the name given at birth; “the Christ” is the truth revealed through eternity. One was spoken by Mary with trembling lips; the other is confessed by heaven with thunderous joy.

To say Jesus the Christ is not to repeat a surname—it is to declare an office, a mission, a cosmic certainty. He is not merely a teacher among many, nor a savior in a crowded pantheon; He is the Anointed One—God’s chosen King, Priest, and Prophet, converging in one flesh-and-blood life.

The word Christ means Anointed One—the Greek equivalent of the Hebrew “Messiah.” Israel waited for Him through centuries of silence and song, through exile and expectation. Kings were anointed with oil; priests were consecrated with sacrifice; prophets were seized by the word of the Lord. Jesus fulfills them all without remainder.

He wears no borrowed crown, offers no repeated sacrifice, and speaks no uncertain word. “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God” (Matthew 16:16).

He is King, yet His throne is a cross before it is a crown. “For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given; and the government will be upon His shoulder” (Isaiah 9:6). His reign is not enforced by sword but established by truth; not expanded by conquest but by conversion.

When Pilate asked Him if He were a king, Jesus answered without hesitation or bravado—“My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36). And yet, it rules this world still.

He is Priest, standing not between God and man with trembling uncertainty, but with settled authority. “Seeing then that we have a great High Priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God” (Hebrews 4:14).

Unlike the priests of old, He does not bring the blood of another—He brings His own. Once. Completely. Forever. “By one offering He has perfected forever those who are being sanctified” (Hebrews 10:14).

He is Prophet, not merely foretelling the future but revealing reality as it truly is. “The law was given through Moses, but grace and truth came through Jesus Christ” (John 1:17). He does not speculate about God; He unveils Him. “He who has seen Me has seen the Father” (John 14:9). No prophet ever spoke like this—because no prophet ever was this.

Yet the wonder deepens: the Christ is not only Israel’s hope but creation’s hinge. “All things were created through Him and for Him. And He is before all things, and in Him all things consist” (Colossians 1:16-17).

History does not wander aimlessly; it orbits Him. Time itself bends around Bethlehem and Calvary. He steps into the universe He authored, subjecting Himself to the laws He wrote—gravity holding its breath as its Maker learns to walk.

And still, this Christ kneels to wash feet. Still, He weeps at tombs He knows He will soon empty. Still, He calls fishermen, tax collectors, doubters, and the broken by name. “The Son of Man has come to seek and to save that which was lost” (Luke 19:10). Not to improve the lost—but to resurrect them.

To confess Jesus the Christ is not mere theology; it is allegiance. It is to say that Caesar is not lord, chance is not king, and death is not final. “For there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved” (Acts 4:12). The name is humble enough for a child’s prayer and mighty enough to shatter graves.

One day, every argument will fall silent. Every knee—willing or unwilling—will bow. Every tongue—believing or broken—will confess what has always been true: “Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” (Philippians 2:11). Not because force demands it—but because reality finally permits no denial.

He is Jesus.

He is the Christ.

And the universe is still learning what that means.

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Lord Jesus Christ—Anointed King, faithful Priest, living Word—draw my heart into glad submission. Teach me to confess You not only with my lips but with my life; and let every thought, breath, and hope find its center in You. Amen.

BDD