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.
What Does It Mean to Stand With Israel?
As bombs flew over Iran toward Israeli soil, the world watched, unsurprised, as the Iron Dome lit up the sky.
As bombs flew over Iran toward Israeli soil, the world watched, unsurprised, as the Iron Dome lit up the sky. The scales of the Middle East shifted again, deepening the political and humanitarian nightmare. Christians look on with questions:
How should believers respond to the events in the Middle East?
Should we pay attention, and why?
Are biblical prophecies unfolding?
Is Jesus coming back soon?
Do we take a side—and if so, which one?
Among Christians who “stand with Israel,” many do so from sincere compassion. They recognize Hamas’s attacks as evil and stand with the Jewish people because of their pain. Others are motivated by politics—Israel is our ally, so we defend her. Still others stand because Israel factors into “end-time” events, wanting to be on the Lion of Judah’s side when the Day of the Lord comes.
Covenant Connection
This relationship is central to Scripture yet often overlooked—or denied—in Christian teaching. If we stand with Israel only for politics, compassion, or eschatology, we risk missing the heart of the Father.
To stand with Israel as Gentile followers of Jesus means embracing a covenantal connection with the Jewish people.
As believers, if we only stand with Israel because we are politically motivated to do so, or because we don't want innocent people to get hurt, or because we have a static, eschatological-only use for the land of Israel and the Jewish people, then unfortunately, I believe we are standing for the wrong thing. Our sentiments may be well-intended, but alone they are alienating us from the Jewish people and from the heart of the Father Himself.
“Covenant” may sound vague or religious, but the Bible is clear: God is knitting believers from the nations together with His chosen people, Israel. For as much as we quote the book of Ephesians, it often seems as though we have missed it's central point:
“…remember that you [non-Jews] were once separated from Messiah, alienated from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world. But now in Messiah Jesus you [non-Jews] who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Messiah. For he himself is our peace, who has made us both [Jew and non-Jew] one…that he might create in himself one new man in place of the two, so making peace…you can perceive my insight into the mystery of Messiah…This mystery is that the Gentiles are fellow heirs, members of the same body, and partakers of the promise in Messiah Jesus through the good news.
Ephesians 2:12-16, 3:4-6 (paraphrase)
God, in his great wisdom, is unveiling a new man made up of every tribe, nation, and language, that originates in Jesus, the Jewish Messiah, and grows from the root of the Jewish people.
It's easy to translate this to "Jews accept Jesus, get saved, convert to Christianity, and join the body of Christ." But that is a backwards understanding of the text.
Instead, it is Gentile believers who join themselves to Israel’s God through her Messiah. God has a plan to redeem the nation of Israel and the Jewish people and reveal himself to them by his timing and design. God has always invited non-Jews to play an intricate part in that plan while retaining their unique ethnic identities.
God Has Not Forsaken Israel
Israel is precious to God—the apple of his eye, his firstborn, the people on whom he set his love. Nothing has changed since the days God spoke those words through Moses and the prophets. It didn't change at the cross or the resurrection, and it remains unchanged today.
But many Christians have not been taught this. We’ve been taught that the Bible’s story centers on us and our sin, with Jesus offering forgiveness and heaven. Yet on Israel and her Messiah, the Bible presents a far bigger story—one many of us are unprepared to receive.
Paul warns Gentile believers not to become arrogant:
“Israel has experienced a hardening in part until the full number of the Gentiles has come in…what will their acceptance be but life from the dead? … Do not consider yourself superior to the other branches. You do not support the root, but the root supports you” (Romans 11, paraphrase).
This is not a “free pass” for Israel. Paul trusts God’s plan to bring them to redemption and warns Gentiles to honor the root that supports them.
The prophets echo the same call. Amos rebuked those who “do not grieve over the ruin of Joseph” while living in comfort (Amos 6). The Psalms call us to “pray for the peace of Jerusalem” (Psalm 122). Like Ruth cleaving to Naomi, or Jonathan binding himself to David, those who fear God seek the good of his people, even in their darkest hour.
A Covenant Stance
To stand with Israel as believers means committing ourselves to God’s purposes for his chosen people regardless of their nation’s current condition. We can adopt shoulder-to-shoulder stance of covenantal loyalty—honoring Israel’s suffering now and proclaiming her vindication to come. This is not blind support for every government policy or military action. Compassion and covenant are not enemies; we can still be moved for the innocent and believe in God’s covenant.
In great faith, we can step forward into the role of preparing the bride saying, "I'm going to join myself to you. I'm going to stand in truth and love for you when you are crumbling and burden by your mistakes. I'm going to cry out for you when you are too weak to whisper and intercede when you are too rebellious and arrogant to see the One who holds your victory. And I'm going to do this because your Messiah took compassion on a dog like me. I'm going to honor you as the greatest of all the brothers because your brother honored me. And he has not forgotten you."
Isaiah foresaw the day when Egypt, Assyria, and Israel would together be “a blessing on the earth” (Is. 19:24). The nations will stream to Jerusalem to learn God’s ways (Is. 2:2-3). We are invited to participate in that future now—by aligning our hearts with his covenant plan.
Our Choice
We can ignore this message and stay comfortable—scrolling past headlines, singing our worship songs, and congratulating ourselves for theologically explaining away the blessing that belongs to our brother.
Or we can humble ourselves. We can remove our Christian-centric lenses, thank God for the message that brought us this far, and take the next step—asking him to give us ears to hear what he is saying through his Word, seeking its wisdom to make sense of the world’s stage today.
We can join ourselves to his people: stand with them in truth and love when they are weak, pray for them when they cannot pray for themselves, intercede when they are rebellious, and to love in the face of hate. We can honor them because their God had compassion on us.
To stand with Israel this way will be a steep learning curve—a rollercoaster of faith. But our Lord promises: “The one who endures to the end will be saved.”
“Who is a God like you, who pardons iniquity and passes over the rebellion of the remnant of His possession? He does not retain His anger forever, because He delights in unchanging love. He will again have compassion on us…You will give truth to Jacob and unchanging love to Abraham, which You swore to our forefathers from the days of old” (Micah 7:18-20).
May we have ears to hear the Spirit, humility to seek the truth, and endurance to stand in courageous love.