Glory in Zion
On the night the Messiah was born, the heavens burst open—heavy with the weight of glory. This was no soft shimmer of stars, but the crushing nearness of heaven itself invading the earth.
This reflection is the conclusion of “A Messianic Advent,” a series exploring the first songs of the Messiah’s coming through the words of those who waited — and still wait — for Israel’s redemption.
Heavy with the Weight of Glory
On the night the Messiah was born, the heavens burst open, heavy with the weight of glory.
This was no soft shimmer of stars, but the crushing nearness of heaven itself invading the earth.
No wonder the shepherds trembled.
An angel’s voice thundered through the hills: “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you.”
Before the shepherds could even blink, the sky erupted. A multitude of the heavenly host appeared all around them—soldiers of light declaring victory before the battle had even begun:
“Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace to those on whom His favor rests.”
In the biblical mind, to find favor in someone’s eyes is to be seen with affection—to be chosen, welcomed, embraced. In the birth of Messiah, the favor of God had come to rest again on his people through the covenant child.
The angels declared that the glory of the heavenly Zion had become the glory of the earthly Zion.
Heaven touched earth, and for one holy night, the two became one.
Heavy under the Weight of Transgression
Two thousand years later, we live beneath another kind of weight. Christmas calls us to joy, yet the world outside our doors trembles.
The earth, Isaiah said, “staggers like a drunkard… it sways like a hut in the wind; its transgression lies heavy upon it.” The same creation that once rang with angelic praise still groans under the weight of its rebellion.
We celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace, yet we are surrounded by wars and rumors of wars.
We light candles for hope while violence and hatred spread across continents like wildfire.
We hang lights in our homes while nations sit in darkness and call it progress.
Our carols rise through tears and experiences that are anything but joy-filled.
This is the heaviness of Advent: holding the weight of transgression in one hand and the weight of glory in the other. We live between what has been promised and what has not yet come to pass.
Heavy with the Hope of Zion
The songs of the messianic Advent are about the Messiah who was, is, and will yet be. The birth of Jesus, told through the voices of those who first received him, is not merely the story of a baby born to bring us some measure of personal comfort, peace, or joy.
These four faithful Jews standing at the opening of Luke’s gospel testify of a story that reached far beyond them, one that is still unfolding toward its finale. It’s a story that stretches into our day, yet remains unfinished.
God does not ask us to hold the full weight of his glory—we have not yet been remade to bear it.
Nor does he ask us to carry the weight of our transgression—the one seated at his right hand has already lowered himself to bear that burden for us.
Instead, I believe the advent of Messiah asks us to hold the weight of hope—a hope heavy with the glory of Zion. The songs of Zechariah, Mary, Simeon, and Anna remind us that Advent is a joyful, painful, forward-reaching ache before renewal.
We live between two Zions: one above, blazing with glory, and one below, desolate and longing for light.
But each declares what the angels above and the shepherds below experienced that holy night—
that heaven and earth will one day sing in unison,
and that God himself will dwell among his people forever.
The songs of the Messianic Advent still echo across the sanctuary of eternity, calling every heart to join the same refrain:
“Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth, shalom, on whom his favor rests.”
The covenant has been remembered, the promise made flesh, the consolation of Israel in motion, and the redemption of creation has begun.
May we too join the song of heaven. The king has been born, and in only a little while, the weight of glory will rest again in Zion.
Anna’s Witness | The Redemption of Jerusalem
The priesthood must have grown familiar with her presence. An old widow, maybe wrapped in shawls, her eyes bright with unspent fire.
This reflection is part 4 of “A Messianic Advent,” a series exploring the first songs of the Messiah’s coming through the songs and words of those who waited — and still wait — for Israel’s redemption.
Luke 2:37-38
She never left the temple but worshiped night and day, fasting and praying.
Coming up to them at that very moment, she gave thanks to God
and spoke about the child to all who were looking forward
to the redemption of Jerusalem.
The Prophetess Who Refused to Leave
The priesthood must have grown familiar with her presence. An old widow, maybe wrapped in shawls, her eyes bright with unspent fire. Did they see her with reverence and respect like Deborah? Or did they assume she was drunk, like Hannah?
Anna, daughter of Phanuel, tribe of Asher—one of Israel’s lost tribes, scattered in exile—still waited, still prayed.
Luke tells us she was “very old,” that she had lived with her husband seven years and then remained a widow until the age of eighty-four. In truth, that is nearly all we are told. Luke devotes only a few verses to Anna, and she never even speaks. And yet he considers her presence essential to the birth narrative of Jesus. Why?
Anna’s actions assume a whole world of Scripture, memory, and Jewish expectation that Luke does not stop to explain—because he assumes his audience already knows it. That world is essential to understanding why Jesus was born at all. It is also a world many of us were never taught how to enter. It has taken me many years of study to learn how to imagine Anna’s story faithfully within first-century Judaism, and to place her hope where it belongs: within Israel’s long and faithful waiting for redemption.
Anna never abandoned her post: “She never left the temple but worshiped night and day, fasting and praying.”
Others came and went. But Anna stayed in the temple.
The prophets had promised that one day the Lord would return to Zion, that comfort would come to his people, that redemption would rise again from Jerusalem. Anna believed that glory would burst right through the eastern gate. She wanted to be there when it happened. So she waited.
Waiting as Worship
Waiting, to Anna, was not wasted time. It was worship. She had learned that the God of Israel fulfills his word in his time. The same God who brought Israel out of Egypt, who returned them from exile, would send his Redeemer. For Anna, waiting was an act of faithfulness. It was her way of keeping the lamp burning, of guarding hope when the night was long.
Then, one ordinary day, her waiting ended.
A young couple entered the temple with their infant son—too poor to afford a lamb, offering instead two turtledoves. The Spirit stirred, and Anna saw what very few could see: the Redeemer had come to his temple.
Simeon had just spoken his blessing when she approached. Her fasting turning to feasting in a heartbeat. She gave thanks to God and “spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem.”
That phrase—the redemption of Jerusalem—was charged with prophetic meaning.
It echoed Isaiah 52:9: “The Lord has comforted His people; He has redeemed Jerusalem.”
It was the promise that God himself would return, restore his dwelling, and reign again from Zion.
A Hope that Looks Forward
Luke says Anna spoke of the child to all who were looking forward—the remnant within Israel who had not lost hope. My guess is their number was small. The remnant usually is. In what was probably a crowded, busy temple-complex, Anna recognized the baby Messiah because she had been looking forward.
She had studied and prayed; she had given her life to being a watcher on the walls, a guardian of the House of the Lord. Unlike Zechariah, who likely knew of her, Anna did not waver. She believed. She waited for the Lord to restore Jerusalem—and when she saw the child, she ran to spread the news.
It’s strange to me that our celebrations of Jesus’s birth is often the opposite of Anna’s. Where our messages are anchored in remembering the past—what already happened back in Bethlehem—Anna’s announcement is eschatological. She looked forward in this child to the dawn of Israel’s restoration and the beginning of the world’s renewal.
Today, Jerusalem still waits. Its stones and people still cry out for peace. The nations still rage, and creation still groans. Yet Anna’s testimony remains: the Redeemer has come once, and He will come again.
In his first coming, he entered his temple as a child; in his next, he will enter as King. The same eyes that looked up at Simeon in wonder will one day look upon Zion with great rejoicing. The same baby Anna beheld beside the pillars of the Temple will one day make her a pillar in his own.
Anna’s faith bridges those two horizons. Her witness reminds us that the story of salvation does not begin at the manger and end at the cross—it moves forward toward a coming kingdom.
The redemption she longed for was not merely for herself, but national restoration and cosmic renewal. This was the same hope the prophets foresaw:
the day when righteousness and peace would kiss,
when Torah would go forth from Zion,
when the nations would stream to Jerusalem to learn the ways of the Lord.
Advent Reflection: Waiting and Witness
Advent is about hope, joy, peace, and love. But it isn’t only those things. Advent is the spirit of Anna.
When the Messiah appeared, she testified to all who were already looking forward. In an instant, every year of patient waiting became prophetic witness.
In every generation, God raises up Annas—those who refuse to abandon their post, who intercede through long nights, who believe that the King of glory will return through the eastern gate. Anna’s story asks the question: do we have a faith that looks forward, too?
Anna’s story anchors our Advent in both patience and prophecy. She reminds us that worship is not only magnifying what God has done, but bearing witness to what He has promised yet to do.
The Redeemer has come—and the redemption of Jerusalem, and of the world, unfolds in His hands.
And so, as we light our Advent candles and trim our trees, Anna invites us to keep watch with her. To make our hearts a temple of waiting.
To pray for peace, to face the east, and to wait—
with Anna,
and with all creation,
for the final redemption.
This reflection is part of “A Messianic Advent,” a five-part series tracing the songs and voices surrounding the Messiah’s birth. Up next the conclusion to the series: Glory in Zion.
Simeon’s Blessing | The Consolation of Israel
I had a beautiful Advent reflection on Simeon’s blessing ready to share today. Then I woke up and saw the headlines. Blood crying out from the sand on Bondi Beach. I could not post my original devotion on the consolation of Israel while Israel lay slain among the nations.
This reflection is part 3 of “A Messianic Advent,” a series exploring the first songs of the Messiah’s coming through the songs and words of those who waited — and still wait — for Israel’s redemption. I write it in the shadow of fresh violence, when Jewish lives were taken, reminding us that the consolation Simeon longed for is not a distant idea, but a hope still fiercely needed.
Luke 2:25–32
“Now, Sovereign Lord, You may let Your servant depart in peace,
for my eyes have seen Your salvation,
which You have prepared in the presence of all peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles,
and for glory to Your people Israel.”
The Consolation of Israel
I had a beautiful Advent reflection on Simeon’s blessing ready to share today. Then I woke up and saw the headlines.
Men and women gathered to celebrate Hanukkah. Eleven of them lay dead. Dozens more wounded. Blood crying out from the sand on Bondi Beach.
I could not post my original devotion on the consolation of Israel while Israel lay slain among the nations.
The Great Temptation of Advent
One of the great temptations of the Christian season of Advent is to reduce it to something personal and private: my longing, my peace, my comfort, my joy.
Its easy to tell the story of Jesus’ birth as though it exists primarily to soothe individual pain, offering encouragement for hard times, reassurance of forgiveness, or a quiet refuge from the “Christmas hustle” we’ve brought upon ourselves. Advent becomes inward, detached from history, severed from the suffering of real people, and insulated from blood and grief.
Simeon’s words do not allow that.
Yes, Simeon experienced deep personal joy. Yes, he was ready to die in peace. But his blessing was never merely private. He rejoiced because what he held in his arms was “prepared in the presence of all peoples.” The birth of the Messiah was a public, world-altering event—unfolding in history, aimed first at the healing of a people and land who had endured centuries of oppression, humiliation, and violence at the hands of jealous empires.
Simeon had waited for the consolation of Israel—not as an abstraction, but as the long-promised act of God to draw near again, lift his people’s shame, and end their exile.
Those who died today—celebrating Hanukkah, a celebration of rededication, God’s faithfulness, and light in the darkness—were living in exile, in dispersion. Australia may have been their home, but it is not the land of safety and abundance God promised to their ancestors. And today, with tragic clarity, we saw why: they were not safe. They were targeted. They were attacked because they are the rightful inheritors of the holy promise.
This is what antisemitism is: hostility toward the Jewish people, the land of Israel, and the covenant that marks them. Hatred not merely of individuals or of a religion, but of a divenly chosen people bound to the eternal promises of the Creator God.
A Light for the Nations and the Glory of Israel
Yet Simeon did not believe hatred in the shadow of death would be the perpetual fate of Israel.
The tiny child placed into his aging arms would be “a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for Your people Israel.” The two hopes were not in competition. They were inseparable. The revelation to the nations would rise from Israel’s consolation—consolation we are still, with unceasing sorrow and deep anguish, waiting to see in its fullness.
Simeon carried a stubborn hope that refused to die, even when the promise seemed buried beneath centuries of bloodshed and delay. He was not waiting for comfort in general. He was waiting for the Comforter himself—for God to return to his dwelling place among his people.
In his day, he knew the time for Messiah was near. So when the child was placed in his arms, Simeon could speak shalom—right there in the Temple courts. Courts ruled by Rome. Courts marked by corruption. Courts standing at the crossroads of occupation and longing, while many Jews still lived scattered among the nations.
Simeon was ready because he had been watching.
As the prophet once wrote:
“Walking in the way of Your laws, we wait for You;
Your name and renown are the desire of our hearts.”
(Isaiah 26:8–9)
Simeon’s life embodied that waiting: righteous, devout, eyes fixed on the promises of God. And years later, the grown rabbi he once held as a baby would echo the same truth to his own disciples:
“Blessed are those servants whom the master finds watching when he comes.”
(Luke 12:37)
Advent Reflection | Eyes that See
As we watch with horror and lament, joining Rachel as she weeps for her children, we who trust in the Lord must ask ourselves:
Are we prepared to be watchers like Simeon too?
Are we waiting for the consolation of the people through whom the light of salvation has come to us?
Or has our Advent grown disconnected from the world and people God is still redeeming?
Jesus was not born into a sanitized story. He was born into violence, occupation, and a blood-soaked history.
He was born to redeem the people who died on Bondi Beach today.
And—unbearably—for the people who killed them.
He was born to end this exile.
For Simeon, peace was not the absence of conflict. It was the presence of the one who will one day bring it. He did not see an escape from the world’s brutality; he saw the beginning of its healing. Yeshua—salvation—was not an evasion of violence, but the beginning of God’s decision to confront it and bring it to it’s ultimate end.
This is the mystery of the Messianic Advent: the consolation of one hated, wounded people becomes the hope of all creation.
The righteous, devout watchers—people like Simeon—will see it. Not because of anything they have done, but because of what God has done.
“My eyes have seen Your salvation.”
Oh Lord, that ours would see it too.
May those who have lost loved ones in this horrific attack find some measure of comfort and peace. May the memory of those whose lives were taken be for a blessing.
Tonight as we light the candles, we will do so mourning with those who mourn, binding up the brokenhearted in with our prayers. But we remain firm that the light of our testimony will shine brighter and brighter as the gospel kingdom continues to unfold—through sorrow, through waiting, and toward the light of the final redemption in these dark and evil days.
This reflection is part of “A Messianic Advent,” a five-part series tracing the songs and voices surrounding the Messiah’s birth. Up next: Anna’s Witness | The Redemption of Jerusalem. How it is so, desperately, needed.
Mary’s Song | The Promise Made Flesh
The hills of Judea rejoiced when Mary began to sing. Were her feet swollen, still dusty and dry from the long walk south as new life swelled within her? She was young—too young, perhaps, for the weight she now carried.
This reflection is part 2 of “A Messianic Advent,” a series exploring the first songs of the Messiah’s coming through the songs and words of those who waited — and still wait — for Israel’s redemption.
Luke 1:46–55
The Promise Made Flesh
“My soul magnifies the Lord.”
The hills of Judea rejoiced when Mary began to sing. Were her feet swollen, still dusty and dry from the long walk south as new life swelled within her? She was young—too young, perhaps, for the weight she now carried. Yet the words rose from something older than she was, older even than the language she spoke.
For centuries, Israel had waited. No prophets. No new word from heaven. Just the echo of promises spoken to the mothers and fathers who had long since turned to dust. And now—here in the body of a young, Jewish woman—the silence broke.
The Spirit that once hovered over the waters now hovered over her. The same glory that filled the tabernacle had entered a humble womb. When Gabriel said, “The Spirit of the Most High will overshadow you,” Mary did not hesitate to believe the impossible. And when that promise caused the baby inside her cousin Elizabeth to leap for joy, Mary’s young soul could not stay still either.
“My soul magnifies the Lord.” The word magnify means to make great—to see God as he truly is. Her faith gave her sight. Mary saw what few had ever dared to imagine: that the Holy One of Israel had stooped low to lift his people up.
Her song was the anthem of a people who had waited four hundred years for heaven’s silence to break.
Why Sing, Mary?
If we were to ask her why she sang, Mary might laugh—singing is what her people do. And she already knew the melody, drawn from the marrow of her people’s memory.
For generations, Israel had sung the psalms of exile and return, of longing and lament. Mary’s song was the voice of Israel remembering who she was.
Try as our individualistic culture might to make Mary’s song a private reflection, she did not sing for herself. She sang for her ancestors—for the barren and the broken, for the downtrodden and oppressed, for every woman who stood in the face of evil to protect the promised seed and not yet seen its fulfillment. It wove together Hannah’s prayer, Miriam’s victory, Deborah’s triumph, Eve’s ancient hope, and the psalms of David into one unbroken chorus—a song older than Mary’s own bones, and larger than her own joy.
This was not a new song. It was the continuation of the oldest one, the story of God remembering his mercy and his covenant, and of a young woman surprised to find herself standing at its very center.
That day in Elizabeth’s home, her voice joined the chorus of generations who had waited for the God of Israel to move again—and now, at last, he had.
The Promise Alive
“He has helped His servant Israel, remembering to be merciful…
He has brought down rulers from their thrones but lifted up the humble.”
It’s almost impossible to read these verses without feeling the weight of the entire Hebrew Bible pressing into Mary’s body. The child she carried was the embodiment of every promise ever made to Israel. The holy covenant once written on stone was pulsing with life beneath her ribs. The Messiah was Israel’s son before he was Mary’s.
He would redeem the nations, yes—but only as the outworking of his faithfulness to Abraham’s family. Salvation flows outward through the covenant, not around it. Inside her, God’s oath to her people was coming alive in flesh and blood.
“He has brought down rulers from their thrones but lifted up the humble.”
God chose shepherds over kings—
the outcast over the powerful,
the disregarded over the revered—
those the world had written off or learned to dominate.
God was turning the world right-side up in the most impossible way.
Mary knew it. She knew that every kingdom built on oppression, every throne secured by violence or pride, would one day crumble before the reign of her child.
Every throne of man will one day bow before a Jew.
And so, the Magnificat is no lullaby—its a battle hymn of the lowly made triumphant.
The king had entered the world through the covenant of Israel’s womb.
Advent Reflection | Joining the Song
The story of Israel has always been about restoration. Every law, every festival, every sacrifice embodies the same hope—that God will draw near, cleanse his land, exalt Israel, bless the nations, and dwell with his people forever.
Mary’s song declares that this hope is no longer deferred. The long exile of sin and sorrow is ending. She sang because in her body, Israel’s story was reaching another mountain peak:
The promise to Abraham became tangible.
The throne of David received its heir.
The dwelling of God moved from tent to temple to flesh.
The popular Christmas song Mary Did you Know is answered by her own song with a resounding and unapologetic yes! The covenant she hoped in, the promises she knew all about, became incarnate. And this is how heaven always seem to come—unexpectedly, but faithfully, and through the obedience of the ordinary people who trust in the promises of God.
Christmas exalts global joy—peace on earth, goodwill to all. But if we linger a moment with Mary, we may find the heart of the gospel waiting there: through this family, we too have found God’s life and blessing.
Mary was blessed not simply because she bore the Messiah, but because she believed in the promises to her people. Advent invites us into that same faith: to sing long before any sign of the promise is fulfilled.
Christmas celebrates the truth that God’s mercy is not abstract but ancestral—it has a lineage, a story, a name, and a song. A song Mary already knew, passed down from the blessed women who had sung it for generations.
This December, let us learn her song again.
May we carry her faith on the other side of its moment—
waiting for the day when the son she bore will return to finish what he began:
to restore Israel, exalt the humble,
and fill the world with the knowledge of his glory.
He who is mighty has done great things,
and holy is his name.
This reflection is part of “A Messianic Advent,” a five-part series tracing the songs and voices surrounding the Messiah’s birth. Up next: Simeon’s Blessing | The Consolation of Israel.
Zechariah’s Song | The Covenant Remembered
An old priest stood in the temple, the scent of incense curling through the air. For centuries, heaven had been silent. No prophets. No visions. No fresh word from the God of Israel. Only the faint echo of ancient promises—unbroken, but waiting. Then the silence was pierced.
Before Luke brings us to Bethlehem, he takes us somewhere older. Before the manger, before the shepherds, before the Bethlehem star ever rose, there were songs—ancient, aching, Jewish songs—carried through centuries of silence.
Many Christian Advent traditions begin with inward reflection, wrapped in candlelight and ringing with carols. But Luke begins with the songs of a priest, a mother, a prophet, and a widow—voices who knew the promises long before we sang the carols.
This is Advent as Scripture tells it. A Messianic Advent explores the first songs of the Messiah’s coming through the eyes of those who waited — and still wait — for Israel’s redemption.
Luke 1:68–79
The Silence and the Song
An old priest stood in the temple, the scent of incense curling through the air.
For centuries, heaven had been silent. No prophets. No visions. No fresh word from the God of Israel. Only the faint echo of ancient promises—unbroken, but waiting.
Then the silence was pierced.
Zechariah saw an angel standing beside the altar of incense. The message was impossible: his barren wife, Elizabeth, would bear a son—a child who would restore the hearts of Israel to their God and prepare the way for his anointed one. But faith can falter, even in the most faithful places. And Zechariah, like so many before him, could not believe. “Too old,” he said. “Too late.”
He walked out of the temple unable to speak—a priest silenced by his own unbelief. A priest appointed to bless could no longer bless. A mouth meant to proclaim God’s mercy was shut.
Months passed. Elizabeth swelled with life.
And when the child was born, the silence broke again—but this time into faithful praise. Zechariah’s tongue, once stilled, was loosed by God’s mercy. So it’s fitting that his first words were not about himself, or even about the little miracle in his arms. They were about God and about Israel—about a story still alive.
This is where Luke begins Advent. Not in Bethlehem, but in the temple. Not with shepherds, but with an old priest and a covenant refusing to die.
The God Who Remembers
“Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel, because He has visited and redeemed His people.”
Before Jesus was born, Zechariah held his own son and saw more than a miracle—he saw a promise remembered. For generations, heaven had been silent, the temple corrupt, and Rome’s shadow heavy upon the people. Yet even then, God had not forgotten.
The old priest knew the story of redemption began beneath Canaan’s stars, when God swore to Abraham a family, a land, and a future. It has always been a Jewish story—holy, particular, a fierce tale of faithfulness and folly. Through wilderness and exile, covenant and kingship, lament and longing, God’s promise endured.
As Zechariah watched John’s first breaths, he realized Israel’s covenant was breathing again. His son would not prepare the way for a generic Savior, but for Israel’s deliverer—the Son of David through whom light would rise and spill outward, until even the nations stood within its glow.
“He has raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of His servant David.”
Mercy and Memory
The days Zechariah lived in—and the season of Jesus’s birth—were not bright ones for Israel. The people, the land, the covenant family had known failure, compromise, and long centuries of suffering.
So why act now? Why remember them again?
“To show mercy to our ancestors and to remember his holy covenant, the oath he swore to our father Abraham...”
Mercy and memory—these are the heartbeats of Zechariah’s song. And they remain the heartbeats of Christmas today.
The mercy Zechariah sang of was not about God’s mercy towards sinners. It was for people we have only ever read about, people long gone by our own time—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. It was God’s mercy that remembered the covenant he swore to them long before our nativity scenes and Advent wreaths, long before the manger and the star.
Zechariah’s song is not a lullaby; it is prophecy. His joy is not anchored in vague hopes of “peace on earth” or “forgiveness of sins” or even in the loosing of his own tongue, but in the restoration of a nation—the mercy God promised to their fathers, stirring again in his generation.
“We have been rescued from our enemies
so we can serve God without fear,
in holiness and righteousness
for as long as we live.”
In the days before Jesus’s birth, Zechariah sang the eternal vows of a relationship God refuses to let fail.
And in the days before we celebrate his birth, we are invited to sing those same songs too.
Advent Reflection: The Promise Remembered
At Christmas, it’s easy to be swept up in our beloved traditions—wintery waiting, sentimental starlight, and familiar hymns that celebrate a Savior born to save us. But I fear that if Zechariah walked into one of our Christmas Eve services and sang his song, few of us would understand him. He didn’t sing about Jesus coming to save “the world” or to comfort “every heart.”
He sang about God keeping his covenant with Israel—the foundation on which everything else stands.
Before we rush to “good news for all people,” Scripture calls us to listen to the song that came first—the song of mercy to the fathers and the covenant God swore to Abraham. Before our carols lift up universal hope, Zechariah sings of promises spoken to a particular people, in a particular land, through whom God would someday send blessing to the nations.
Zechariah’s song is not the beginning of a new story; it is the continuation of a very old one. One we still have a chance to learn.
Christmas brings joy and generosity, beauty and nostalgia. But Zechariah’s story warns us as much as it invites us. We can be just like him—slow to believe that God can still do what He has promised, especially through the people or the places we’ve already decided are too barren, too broken, too late.
But the old priest learned what Advent always teaches—and what we modern readers often miss: God’s promises do not expire—not with silence, not with age, and not with our unbelief.
Of John, his father said:
“And you, my little son,
will be called the prophet of the Most High,
for you will prepare the way for the Lord,
to give His people knowledge of salvation
through the forgiveness of their sins.
Because of God’s tender mercy,
the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
and to guide us to the path of peace.”
And by that same mercy, the rising sun has already broken upon us, too. Its warmth has reached even our hearts, stirring faith in the God who has not given up on his plan for shalom.
This Advent, as we celebrate the birth of Israel’s redeemer, the same mercy that loosed Zechariah’s silence can also shatter ours. A baby in his arms, another yet to be born; a child already given for a people who do not yet recognize him. The birth of the Messiah stirs our faith and lifts our song—not only in celebration of what we have received, but in awe of the God who keeps his word.
And so, as we sing our carols and rejoice in the birth of the King of the Jews, may the song of the old priest still haunt our hearts:
Christmas is the covenant kept,
a promise remembered,
and the light of God’s tender mercy
falling upon all of us who have stood in our own unbelief.
This reflection is part of A Messianic Advent, a five-part series tracing the songs and voices surrounding the Messiah’s birth. Up next: Mary’s Song | The Promise Made Flesh.
All Scripture quotations NIV: Holy Bible, New International Version® (Anglicised), NIV © 1979, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
The Plea of the Lamb
Half of the world is hopeful and drunk
while the other half burns to the ground.
Half of the world is hopeful and drunk
while the other half burns to the ground.
Sipping on cocktails and telling the tall tales
while survivors sweep ash off burial mounds.
Deception hangs thick, the shofar blasts sound,
the days of Noah counting us down.
Glasses in hand, raise a toast to the future,
glazing right over the foreboding picture
while dust collects on our leather-bound scriptures.
Labor pains start.
It’s cold in the human heart.
In Judea the hills still echo the pain
of Mary’s soft wails, a lament for the slain.
But in churches her mourning's drown out by our shouts.
"Death is no more! I was lost, now I'm found!"
When a Passover Lamb is hung up on a tree,
blood over the door, I claim it’s for me.
We shout, “He is risen! He is risen indeed!"
Deaf to its meaning: Israel’s redeemed.
And the songs of Zion
all tangled in Babylon's trees.
Holy land polluted with rivers of blood
fresh as a daisy as envy goes crazy.
Your people stumble, always war and infighting,
missed their Messiah, now Your face is hiding.
A blessing, a promise, all the good in the world.
You’ll bring it through them, yet we twist Your words,
"Did God really say? No way, its not true.
Our theology fixed that. See these New Testament moves?"
Golden calf, on our knees,
worshipping our sound beliefs
as Abel’s blood cries,
“How long will you wait, oh Lord?”
Baby in a basket floats strait to the hunter.
Daddy’s dream saves the baby boy destined to suffer
for the red-headed babies ripped from their mother.
Their caskets float past us while we sit and wonder
which store has the best price on the candy and baskets,
the trinkets we’ll hide to keep ourselves distracted
from the blessing we stole, from the heel we have grabbed,
plant our cross on the hill and claim the side that was jabbed.
We wave palms high and preach, “God died for you.”
Erasing his crime: King of the Jew.
This world goes blind as Rachel's children are dying.
They fade into dust, yet we never stop crying,
"We love you, Lord Jesus!”
Forgotten, the least of these.
So we spurn ‘em, burn ‘em, don’t return ‘em.
Use ‘em, defuse ‘em, execute ‘em.
Back ‘em, sack ‘em, counter-attack ‘em.
Leave ‘em, chide ‘em, evangelize ‘em.
Complain ‘em, frame ‘em, downplay ‘em.
Hate ‘em, grate ‘em, devastate ‘em.
Wreck ‘em, deck ‘em, what-the-heck ‘em.
They’re still God's chosen ones,
still wrestlin’ with the worst of us.
So the Nile runs red,
and Judah’s scepter’s still true.
The stars in the heavens
know he loves you.
His love rests on you, dears,
his love rests on you.
Word in the heavens
is he still loves you.
Yeah, Jacob’s in trouble,
'cause we beat him up.
Sold him for rank,
our silence casting his lot
while they ransack and pillage,
terrorize, rape.
Us emotionless watching, stoic our face.
Lips rehearse empty prayers and hollow we stand,
bloodguilt of our brothers stains our holy hands.
The Son reigns on high
at the right hand,
but the bowls grow heavy
as blood soaks the land.
“Worthy is the Lamb,
at dawn you must ride!
Mount the great clouds
and rescue your bride!”
Still he pleads with the Father
to remember his land,
remember the people he numbers like sand:
"Remember your promise to Abraham,
remember Egypt, and your outstretched hand.
Don’t pour out your wrath yet.
Wait one more generation.
Just a little more time,
for the sake of the nations.
The hatred will grow, yes,
but so will the love.
So the whole world will know
the God of Jacob.
Forgive them all,
great God of Jacob.”
“Through us and the church, infinite wrong was done...We accuse ourselves for not standing to our beliefs more courageously, for not praying more faithfully, for not believing more joyously, and for not loving more completely.”