“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you by his poverty might become rich.” -2 Corinthians 8:9

This was the sermon text for the Christmas Eve service my family and I attended last night. The pastor suggested that this verse is perhaps the most succinct summary of the purpose of the incarnation in the whole Bible. It emphasizes especially the grace of the Son’s condescension in becoming human: the pre-existent one becomes poor by taking our frail humanity into personal union with himself so that through his poverty we might be lavished with the riches of redemption.

This text also includes Christ’s full appellation: “our Lord Jesus Christ.” Sometimes Paul abbreviates this formula (the Lord, Christ, Lord Jesus, Jesus Christ, etc.), but here we have the full title. And in this title, we have an entire Christology summarized in just a few words.

Lord: His Divinity

The Greek word kurios (Lord) was a divine title for Hellenistic Jews of the first century like Paul. Indeed, it was the word used to translate the divine name, YHWH, in the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible. The word could sometimes be used simply as an honorific for one’s superior (lord or master). But the New Testament usage makes clear that it has divine connotations when applied to Jesus. The title is also applied to the Father and in a few instances to the Spirit as well. New Testament scholar Kavin Rowe speaks of a “kyriotic unity” and a “triplicity in the life of God” that are implied by this threefold application of the divine name “Lord.” The New Testament, no less than the Old, teaches that there is and can only be one living and true God. And yet, this one Lord exists eternally (note that Christ “became” poor, implying his pre-existence) as three distinct persons in everlasting relations of origin and love. The person whose birth we celebrate this day is none other than God himself: the eternal Son of the eternal Father in the unity of the eternal Spirit. Indeed, the church fathers often spoke of two births of this one Son: his eternal nativity from the Father without a mother, and his nativity in time from a mother without an earthly father.

Jesus: His Humanity

Mary and Joseph didn’t have a book of baby names from which to chose the name for this remarkable child. His name was chosen for them by a word from the Lord through the angel Gabriel: “You shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins” (Matt. 1:21). The name Jesus (Joshua) means “the Lord is salvation,” and it was a fairly common name for Hebrew boys at the time. So, this name highlights Christ’s humanity, but it also indicates that he is something more than merely human: he is the unique embodiment of the Lord’s salvation in human flesh. The very same Son, who eternally exists with the Father and the Spirit, is the one who became poor, who became incarnate in the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary. There may be two births (his eternal generation from the Father and his earthly generation from Mary), but there are not two Sons. There is only one person in the incarnation. But this one person, who is necessarily and eternally divine, also became human in the fullness of time. To quote the church fathers once again: without ceasing to be what he was, he became what he was not. Without leaving heaven, he came down to earth. Without divesting himself of his divinity, he clothed himself in humanity. He was and is fully and truly human. On earth, he was born, he grew and developed, he suffered, died, and rose again. In heaven, even now, he intercedes for us as our Great High Priest, and from there he will return in his resurrected, glorified humanity to judge the living and the dead. Because he is truly human, Christ can serve as a representative and substitute for fallen humans like us. God knows what it is to weep, to bleed, to suffer, and to die. Therefore, he is more than able to help us in our weakness (Heb. 2:17-18; 4:15).

Christ: His Office

Christ is not Jesus’ last name; it is his title and office. “Christ” or “Messiah” means “the anointed one.” It is a term pregnant with Old Testament hope and anticipation. There were three offices in ancient Israel that were marked out by the anointing of oil: priests, kings, and (on at least some occasions) prophets. Christian theologians have thus spoken about Christ’s threefold office (munus triplex). As prophet, he not only teaches us the will of God but is the decisive embodiment of divine revelation: the Word and Wisdom of God made flesh. As priest, he makes atonement for our sins through the sacrifice of himself and through his ongoing priestly intercession for us. As king, he subdues our rebellion, lovingly rules over us, and defeats all of our spiritual enemies. In short, as the Christ, Jesus is the Revealer, the Redeemer, and the Ruler.

One Final Qualifier

I have yet to comment on the first qualifier in this full title for Jesus from 2 Corinthians 8:9: “our.” It is first person plural and possessive. The Lord Jesus Christ belongs to the church that he founded and for which he died. He is “our Lord Jesus Christ.” He is the King over his kingdom. He is the Elder Brother in his global family. But implied in that first person plural are many first person singulars. So, the question for us this Christmas Day, this Feast of the Nativity, is simply this: Is he my Lord Jesus Christ? Is this God-Man Messiah mine? Will my heart prepare him room this and every day?

This Advent, I’ve been reading Contra Nestorianos et Eutychianos by Leontius of Byzantium (485-543). Leontius was a sixth century theologian, who was instrumental in the development of the doctrine of the incarnation, especially in the controversies that led to the Fifth Ecumenical Council, the Second Council of Constantinople (553). As its title suggests, this book tackles the opposite errors of Nestorianism (which split Christ into two persons) and Eutychianism (which merged the two natures of Christ into one). Leontius argues that these two heresies are actually opposite forms of the same error: docetism (from dokeo, to seem or appear). In Nestorianism, Christ only seems to be divine, while in Eutychianism, he only seems to be human. In place of these errors, Leontius defends the Chalcedonian doctrine of Christ: Christ is one person (indeed, a divine person, one of the Holy Trinity) with two natures: the nature of God and the discrete human nature that he assumes and personalizes (enhypostasis) in the incarnation. These two natures are united in the one person of the Son and yet they retain their distinct properties.

One of the ways that Leontius seeks to explain this doctrine is by appeal to the unity of two distinct substances in an ordinary human person: body and soul. Leontius acknowledges, however, that this analogy isn’t perfect. After spending several pages exploring the analogy and its usefulness and limitations, he argues that all analogies simply give us “faint impressions of the truth that is above all examples.” He says his aim is “giving drink to all lovers of truth in a small container.” That, I think, is an beautiful description of all doctrinal apparatuses, terminologies, and analogies: they simply give us a little cup to hold what is ultimately uncontainable: the transcendent truth of the mystery of Christ.

The last few years I have compiled a list of my favorite book, album, and movie of the year. Here are the lists from 2022, 2021, and 2020. It’s a fun way to chronicle what really spoke to me over the course of the year. So, without further ado, here are a few of my favorite things from 2023.

Favorite Book:

Christian Philosophy as a Way of Life: An Invitation to Wonder by Ross Inman

This book is not an introduction to philosophy so much as it is a prolegomenon to its proper study in a Christian mode. Ross suggests that a Christian approach to philosophy is an invitation to wonder. He writes that wonder is “a window through which we can see reality in its proper light; what is genuinely good, true, and beautiful–and subsequently worth pursuing–tends to evoke wonder.” And as he demonstrates, philosophy is not the exclusive preserve of tweed-jacketed academics. We are all invited to take on the philosopher’s mantle, as we seek to live in light of the truth and to pursue the good life. Ross writes from a deep well of knowledge (he’s range is incredible), with wisdom and virtue to boot. The book is artfully written, intellectually enriching, and spiritually nourishing (and challenging!). It’s accessible too. Everyone from high schoolers to seasoned philosophers can benefit from this phenomenal book.

Honorable Mention: Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner

Favorite Movie:

Killers of the Flower Moon, directed by Martin Scorsese

This might be the greatest film from one of the greatest filmmakers of all time. I know that opinion will be disputed, because Scorsese’s corpus is filled with so many all-timers and fan-favorites. From one angle, it is classic Scorsese: it is an epic tale of organized crime, greed, and violence. But this time the canvas is spread wide on the flatlands and open skies of Oklahoma, and the themes are at the very heart of the American story: prosperity and opportunity on the frontier, but with the dark stain of racial injustice coloring nearly every brushstroke. The conflicted love story at the center of the narrative humanizes these sweeping motifs. Leonardo DiCaprio turns in a career performance as the ambitious Ernest Burkhart, but the subtlety of Lily Gladstone’s portrayal of his wife Mollie Burkhart steals the show. Plus country crooners Jason Isbell (see below) and Sturgill Simpson have cameos, and the late Robbie Robertson’s score was masterful.

Honorable Mention: Oppenheimer, directed by Christopher Nolan

Favorite Album:

Weathervanes, Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

Isbell has been one of my favorite singer-songwriters since his days with the Drive-by Truckers. He almost never misses. Southeastern (2013; a ten-year anniversary edition was recently released) and The Nashville Sound (2017) are generationally good in terms of song-writing. This album is true to form. It many ways, it feels like an homage to our shared homestate of Alabama (one track even centers on “Vestavia Hills”). His standard soundscape of Southern Rock and acoustic Americana is woven together with some Muscle Shoals soul on tracks like “Middle of the Morning” and “This Ain’t It.” The track commemorating the passing of Isbell’s erstwhile friend and collaborator Justin Townes Earle (“When We Were Close”) might be my favorite song from 2023 as well.

Honorable Mention: Echo the Diamond, Margaret Glasby

I was recently invited to write a post on the purpose of theological education for the Henry Center at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. My post focused on theological education as habitus formation. Here’s a bit:

In these perilous times (and all times are perilous before that great and terrible day of the Lord), we stand in need of a renewal of theological education that is centered on the word of God, interpreted and applied in the context of the church (both local and universal), with a view to the theological and moral formation of the minister and those to whom he or she ministers. In short, theological education exists to form a theological habitus, a virtuous disposition, in its students as they follow Christ and preach his word…

Theological education, then, is habitus formation in a Christian mode: it aims to produce in its students intellectual and moral virtue through certain curricular and extracurricular practices, both theological and spiritual, taught and modeled by faithful professors. Obviously, the means are not foolproof. Professors and administrators can only do so much. The students must bring to the equation their own studiousness, docility, and compunction. They must be willing to “study to shew thyself approved” (2 Tim 2:15 AV), and they must be open to having their minds shaped and their consciences pricked by the word of God.

But from the institutional side of the equation, what kinds of elements should be included in theological education in order to produce this theological habitus? Virtue formation in the Christian religion is ordered to the word of God. It especially employs the ear as the primary organ of religion through a humble and faithful listening to the voice of Christ in the pages of Holy Scripture. It invites students, with Mary of Bethany, to choose the “better part”: sitting at the feet of the Master, heeding his life-changing message. Only then can students, like Martha, rise to serve the faithful. The divinity school serves as a conduit for the word of Christ in several ways.

I then go on to describe four main ways a divinity school forms its students in the Word:

• Studying God’s Word
• Interpreting and Synthesizing God’s Word with the Great Tradition
• Teaching and Applying God’s Word
• Prayerfully meditating on God’s Word in corporate worship and private devotion

You can find the post and the others in the series here.

In the classic 1984 film rendition of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, starring George C. Scott, the Ghost of Christmas Past rebukes Ebenezer Scrooge for his failure to give careful attention to the world around him. She points out how Scrooge’s nephew looks so much like his mother, Scrooge’s sister. Scrooge replies, “Does he? I never noticed.” The Ghost responds with chastisement but compassion, “You never noticed? I think you’ve gone through life with your eyes closed. Open them. Open them wide.”

I think many of us go through life with our eyes closed. We are like the father in another cinematic masterpiece, Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life, who confesses: “I wanted to be loved because I’m great, a big man. I’m nothing. Look: the glory around us, the trees, the birds. I lived in shame. I dishonored it all and didn’t notice the glory. A foolish man.” I can sometimes justify myself by claiming, “Well, I’m just not a very observant person,” which my wife can attest is often true! But a failure to attend to reality is not just a character trait; it’s a vice. It’s folly. It’s a failure to live in prudence, a virtue that entails docility (docilitas, aptness to learn), a disposition of “open-mindedness which recognizes the true variety of things and situations to be experienced and does not cage itself in any presumption” of self-deception. Docility requires “the ability to take advice,” “a desire for real understanding,” and “genuine humility” (Josef Pieper, The Four Cardinal Virtues, p. 16). Virtue demands that we open our eyes wide and “notice the glory.”

In his excellent new book, Ross Inman suggests that a Christian approach to philosophy is an invitation to wonder. He writes that wonder is “a window through which we can see reality in its proper light; what is genuinely good, true, and beautiful–and subsequently worth pursuing–tends to evoke wonder.” And as Ross demonstrates, philosophy is not the exclusive preserve of tweed-jacketed academics. We are all invited to take on the philosopher’s mantle, as we seek to live in light of the truth and to pursue the good life. Wonder is not just about contemplating weighty metaphysical or epistemological questions (though it includes those, as well). It’s not even just about transcendent moments of rapture, say, at the expanse of the Pacific Ocean or the sheer granite walls of Yosemite Valley. It’s also about simply noticing the glory all around us: the wrinkles and flaws on the face in the mirror, the movements and shouts of children playing the yard, the music of the morning songbirds, the rustling of the water oak leaves under our feet, the smiles and grimaces of the faces we meet, the pleasures and pains of mundane human existence.

Christian spiritual masters have long recognized that the objects of meditation include, not only the truths of Scripture, but also the glories of the creation around us and the depths of meaning within us. The better part of communion with God is learning to open our eyes to awe: to the glory all around us in creation, to the beauty and dignity of the people right in front of us, to the sacred truths of Holy Scripture, to the presence of God within us, and to the being and attributes of God himself. So, open your eyes, friends. Open them wide.

Christmas starts earlier every year. It’s not unusual to see the candy aisle at the local supermarket well-stocked with Christmas confections the day after Halloween. Christmas music can be found on certain radio stations throughout November and December. The long-awaited red cups and gingerbread lattes show up just as early in Starbucks. Small wonder. We long for the joy and nostalgia of Christmas. We cling to it as long as possible. We lament the moment when the final present is opened or the last meal shared on Christmas Day. December 26 is perhaps the most dreaded day of the year on many personal calendars.

But there is an older framing of the holiday season that gives space not only for mirth but also for mourning, and in the process places joy in its proper context, allowing it to shine with its full brilliance after the long night of darkness. The season of Advent, the four Sundays before the Feast of the Nativity (December 25), marks the beginning of the traditional church year. Originally, Advent was a time for remembering, not the first, but the second advent of the Lord: his appearing on the last day to judge the living and the dead (for more on this history, see this excellent book). The four Sundays of Advent often commemorated the so-called quattuor novissima, the “four last things”: death, judgment, heaven, and hell. The hymns and carols of the season carefully resisted the pull toward joy and celebration and focused instead on themes of longing, yearning, and hope. The famous “O Antiphons” are indicative, with the most well-known antiphon crying out, “O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel.” Another traditional Advent hymn invites us to “look from afar” and “see the power of God coming, and a cloud covering the whole earth.” This older liturgical tradition can seem jarring to our holiday sensibilities, and yet, if we are bold enough to be honest with ourselves, it rings truer to our experience.

The joyful mystery of the Nativity is set against the backdrop of pain. The coming of the Lord only makes sense to a people who know what it means to wait—to a “people prepared,” as Zechariah prays in his Benedictus (Luke 1:17). Advent invites us, like righteous Simeon and faithful Anna, to wait for the consolation of Israel and the redemption of Jerusalem (Luke 2:25, 38). Advent is not about sappy sentimentalism, gauzy nostalgia, and cheap grace. It is about a “weary world” in desperate need of rejoicing. The land of Advent is spotted with deep valleys, impassable mountains, and crooked paths (Isaiah 40:4). As the Lord himself would remind us, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners” (Mark 2:17).

And so, Advent welcomes our mourning. It has a place for our pain. It allows us the freedom to be honest about our losses, either through our own sins or the sins of others. It tunes our heart to sing, not only of God’s grace, but also of our sin and guilt and suffering. To be sure, we already live in the luminous reality of the first advent. No season of the year is entirely devoid of that joy. We need not pretend otherwise for some kind of pious effect. But we also live in the time between the times, in the overlap of the ages. The kingdom of Christ has been definitively inaugurated through the incarnation, birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, but it is not here in its full glory and felicity. We, too, wait for consolation and redemption. And in this liminal space between the two advents, we can welcome a third, “middle advent,” as many spiritual writers have articulated: the coming of Christ in our hearts through the ministry of the church and personal devotion.

The season of Advent invites us to a kind of delayed gratification. We mourn before we rejoice. We sing of our weariness and captivity before we herald “Joy to the World!” In some traditions, Advent, like Lent before Easter, is a penitential season of fasting and self-examination. Only after the long night of sorrow can we rejoice that “the dayspring from on high” has visited us (Luke 1:78). Advent reminds us that Jesus didn’t come to a people who had their stuff together. He came to a broken world longing for healing.

With all of this in view, I would invite you to craft your own spiritual rule this Advent, one that centers mourning rather than joy, longing rather than realization. Obviously, none of these things are binding. The church year itself is not binding. But it is a useful tool for framing our time as sacred and centered on the whole life of Christ.

• Limit your holiday music (as much as you can!) to Advent themed songs until Christmas Day. Sing “Come Thou long expected Jesus” before you get to “Joy to the World! The Lord is come!” Create your own playlist of Advent hymns and carols.
• Read traditional Advent texts from Scripture. Consider using a lectionary (a list of readings) like this one.
• Consider fasting for one meal or one full day each week. You might even consider abstinence from something you would otherwise enjoy during this season, as many do during Lent.
• Practice these spiritual disciplines with others. Even if you don’t attend a church that observes the church year, you can still practice these rhythms with your family, roommates, or friends.

The good news is, mourning eventually gives way to joy. In the church calendar, Christmas isn’t a single day but an entire season! We call it Christmastide, the famed “twelve days of Christmas” that we forgot actually existed! And Christmastide gives way to Epiphany, which expands the joy, as we celebrate the manifestation of the Lord to the nations. Epiphany is traditionally marked by a reflection on the Visit of the Magi, when the Gentiles first meet their Savior, and the Baptism of the Lord, when the Triune God is manifested in the Jordan. Lent follows Epiphany, as we once again enter into a season of repentance, fasting, giving, and praying before the sorrowful mysteries of the Passion and the glorious mysteries of Easter. After seven weeks of Eastertide, we move on to the Ascension and to Pentecost, which frame our “ordinary time” as life in the Spirit. And so, the whole church year takes us through what John Calvin called the “whole course of Christ’s obedience”: from his advent to his birth to his ephipany to his suffering and death to his resurrection and ascension to his gift of the Spirit and back again. What joy awaits us as we are set to begin a new church year! For those hidden with Christ in God, mourning never has the last word. “He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him” (Psalm 126:6).