When Matthew quoted the glorious prophecy of Isaiah, “Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel,” he was inspired to add a simple explanation, “which is, being interpreted, God with us”; and I, for one, am very thankful for the interpretation.
Without it there would merely be the prosaic information “They shall call his name Immanuel,” which wouldn’t mean much more to us than “They shall call his name William.”
But the explanation is there, and the page lights up like a dull morning in December when the sun suddenly and unexpectedly explodes in the eastern sky, warm with love and fragrant with hope. “Immanuel.… God with us.” The word comes as a whisper, a still small voice, soft as the glow of altar candles, and too low to awaken the Babe sleeping in the manger.
Bishop Phillips Brooks caught the spirit of it,
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given.
FOREGLEAMS OF THE DAWN
In a sense, “God with us” is not a new message. What is new is the language in which it is spoken. But it is a mistake to think that the world was without God until Jesus was born.
We understand the doctrine of Providence to mean that God has always been so concerned for his people that he has never left them wholly to their own devices, but has overshadowed them with his presence, even when they knew it not.
The Old Testament says, “He made known his ways unto Moses, his acts unto the children of Israel,” and we accept that statement as true by the evidence of history. The more we know of the other nations of antiquity, the more marvelous does the Jewish nation appear.
We look a little more closely at the Old Testament and find that the basic idea contained in “Immanuel” is not unknown to the other writers of the sacred books. “God with us” is something in which they earnestly believed. Listen to them:
“Certainly I will be with thee.”
“The Lord thy God is with thee withersoever thou goest.”
“My presence shall go with thee.”
“Cast me not away from thy presence.”
“In thy presence is fullness of joy.”
Yet in all these affirmations, there is something insufficient, something lacking. Were God only in creation, only in providence, in history, in conscience, or in the Old Testament, we would be unsatisfied.
Were there nothing more, we would ever cry, “My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God.… O that I knew where I might find him!” And our faith would be like that of the Indiana farmer who, commenting on his poor harvest, said, “My wheat didn’t do as good as I thought it would—but then, I never thought it would!”
The Old Testament closes with the book of Malachi, which means that for the Jew the revelation of God ends there. But the Jew is not content. The Patriarchs and Prophets of Israel confessed longings and hopes too deep to be satisfied with anything they had received. They acknowledged the incompleteness which they sensed; their greatest desire was to be able to say with utter finality and assurance, “God with us.”
THE BIRTH IN A STABLE
And indeed the vital Christian message did not begin until Bethlehem, in “a lowly cattle stall,” and with the chant of adoration:
Glory be to God on high,
And peace on earth descend:
God comes down, He bows the sky,
And shows Himself our Friend!
Charles Wesley
“Immanuel—God with us.”
“God hath spoken unto us—in a Son.”
The stupendous thing to which the Old Testament writers constantly referred was the deliverance of the Children of Israel from the bondage of Egypt—that amazing manifestation of might by which the Children of the Covenant were brought to safety and freedom.
But the great thing to which we look back is the birth of a weak and helpless Baby in all the poverty, filth, and stench of an Eastern stable.
God always surprises us with mysteries. His ways are not our ways. Can you imagine a more unlikely way for the Son of God, the Saviour of the world, to come to earth than the way he came? It shows how little God thinks of our nice distinctions, our ideas of what is becoming, proper, and fitting. We say, “the best for the best, and the poorest for the poorest.” God works in the opposite way: “The things that are despised hath God chosen.”
Christmas, if it means anything at all, means the consecration of the commonplace. For what could be more common than animals in a stall, hay on the ground, a cot or cradle, or more ordinary than a baby? Washing, feeding, crying, laughing, growing, grumbling—these human activities are so common that we live through them and with them without thinking. Christmas is a continual reminder that God in Christ has consecrated the commonplace things of life to confound those that are mighty.
There is no human standard by which the importance of Bethlehem can be reckoned. Bethlehem is itself the standard by which the importance of all human activity must be judged; but, like the Cross, Bethlehem is “unto them that are perishing, foolishness.”
Bethlehem is a parable of the whole life of Jesus. He was born an outcast, in a rough stable, with the winds of God beating upon him. For years he earned a livelihood for himself and the rest of the humble family to which he belonged: with taut muscles and calloused hands he did the work of a manual worker.
The day came when he, whose dwelling had been heaven, had nowhere to lay his head. A certain village once refused him a night’s lodging. “He came unto his own, and his own received him not.”
He was despised and rejected of men, a Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. Then he died an outcast, crucified on a hill outside the city wall, with the winds of God beating upon him.
Everything in the life of Jesus fits into one great design—the Cradle and the Cross, the Manger and the Ministry. All the parts of his life tell us that he came for one purpose, and that in everything his purpose was one. He was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor, that we, through his poverty, might become rich.
From the Manger to the Cross, through all the tortuous wanderings and fluctuating fortunes of that unique life—in all that he ever was, more than in all he ever said, there is one amazing message.
We see the message of his life as he stands before his frenzied parents in the Temple at the age of 12.
Toward the end of his earthly life, we see it as he weeps over Jerusalem, and as he rides a borrowed donkey for his triumphal entry. We witness it as He calmly tells a perplexed Roman governor that the power which he thinks comes from Caesar actually comes from God.
And in the agony of his death we behold it as he cries, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” The message is there from the poor manger of Bethlehem to the bitter Cross of Calvary.
Yet having eyes we see not: having ears we hear not.
We come, year after year, to Bethlehem, and whether we are Wise Men, which is very unlikely, or just simple shepherds, which is far more likely, we kneel by the manger. But what have we learned from our annual pilgrimages?
We come, year after year, to Calvary. Through 40 days of Lent we follow the wandering steps of the Master as they lead to Bethany, to Jerusalem, to the Garden of Gethsemane, to Pilate’s judgment hall, to Golgotha. We see him condemned, scourged, and crucified. But what have we learned from our annual vigils?
Have we ever tried to relate Christmas to Good Friday? Do we not realize that they have the same common denominator?
Too many of us have minds like concrete—made up of innumerable fragments, all mixed up, and permanently set. We sentimentally sing,
Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head.
The stars in the bright sky
looked down where He lay,
The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.
Martin Luther
But what does it mean?
The way he entered the world which he had made, and the way he left the world which had no room for him, and the whole pattern of his life reveal glory in humiliation, sovereignty through suffering, perfection through limitation, victory through defeat, Godhead inherent in manhood, “Immanuel—God with us.”
“All praise to Thee, Eternal Lord,
Clothed in a garb of flesh and blood;
Choosing a manger for Thy throne,
While world on worlds are Thine alone.”
Martin Luther
We may well ask ourselves, “Why should this incredible thing happen?” The most important part of the answer was given by St. Augustine: “The chief cause of Christ’s coming was that men might know how much God loves them.”
In the presence of the Babe, argument ends in admiration, the rich fall down in homage, and the poor stand up in hope.
The second and subsidiary part of the answer has already been given, namely, to consecrate the commonplace. The consecration of the commonplace is the dynamic nerve-center of the Christian faith. For it was by his incarnate human life that the Lord Jesus made common things important and glorious.
That is why the Gospels are central to the Christian way of life, for they tell us all that we know of God’s gracious acts in a human context.
Christmas is a reminder to us that when we take the mystery out of Christianity we are left with a moralistic sect, of no relevance to life save only to the eccentric.
In choosing a manger for his throne, God was giving his love to us. “God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son.” It is the way of love to give, and the measure of the love is the measure of the sacrifice involved in the gift.
God’s gift is him whom we call “Immanuel,” and we rejoice that it means “God with us.” As we look again at that stable and view glory in humiliation, we know he is with us. We may receive him and rejoice in
God’s presence and His very self,
An essence all-divine.
John Henry Newman
Samuel M. Shoemaker is the author of a number of popular books and the gifted Rector of Calvary Episcopal Church in Pittsburgh. He is known for his effective leadership of laymen and his deeply spiritual approach to all vital issues.
