Incarnation

The Christian astrophysicist Deborah Haarsma was standing alone in the New Mexico desert beside the Very Large Array, a vast field of twenty-seven radio dishes stretching for miles. While her colleagues worked inside the control room, tracking signals arriving from halfway across the universe, she stood outside in the cold, looking up with her bare eyes. The sky was thick with stars, and the words of Psalm 19 came to mind: “The heavens declare the glory of God.” The team was studying gravitational lenses—places where massive galaxies bend space itself. In moments like that, ordinary measurements felt useless.

As a young researcher, Haarsma found familiar atheist arguments surfacing in her mind. Carl Sagan once wrote that we live on “an insignificant planet of a humdrum star…tucked away in some forgotten corner” of the cosmos. If the universe is this vast, where do human beings fit? And where does God?

Astronomers estimate that our galaxy contains about 100 billion stars, with hundreds of billions of galaxies beyond it. Even more striking, everything we can see—stars, planets, atoms—accounts for only about 5 percent of the universe. The remaining 95 percent is dark matter and dark energy, real and powerful yet largely unexplained. Some conclude that that God must be distant and impersonal.

But Scripture proclaims that the Creator of all things did not remain removed from what he made. In a universe vast beyond imagination, the incarnation declares something astonishing: the God who made the cosmos chose to come flesh and dwell among us.

The New York Times asked hundreds of readers to describe the best gifts they had ever received. Not the most expensive gifts. Not the flashiest. The most meaningful. The answers sounded the same: the best gifts weren’t things at all. They were acts of attention, sacrifice, and love that made someone feel truly seen.

One woman told of a Christmas when her husband was deployed overseas. Overwhelmed with young children, she mentioned—almost offhandedly—that she didn’t know how she’d manage to get a Christmas tree. Weeks later, a friend showed up at her door carrying a fully decorated tree. He had listened. He had remembered. And he had acted.

Another reader described her father’s graduation gift to her: he quit smoking after forty years. No wrapping paper. No receipt. Just a costly, lifelong sacrifice so his family could have more years together.

Another spoke of a husband who gave a simple stapler—not because it was impressive, but because he noticed the daily inconvenience his wife endured and quietly removed it.

And one father recorded himself reading children’s books, so his voice could still be heard one day when he was gone.

All of them point to the same truth: the greatest gifts are not bought; they are given. They cost the giver something. And they change life long after the moment of exchange.

The best gifts say, I came for you. This is why Jesus is the greatest gift God has ever given to the world. God did not send an idea, a rulebook, or a distant solution. He sent himself.

Nearly 300 years ago, Messiah was born not out of cultural confidence but out of anxiety, grief, and deep uncertainty. George Frideric Handel lived in a world marked by disease, political unrest, and religious division. Families buried children regularly. Nations argued over legitimacy and power. Beneath the wealth of empire lay human enslavement and moral fracture. It was not a hopeful age.

The words of Messiah did not come from Handel himself but from Charles Jennens, the troubled aristocrat who assembled its biblical text. Jennens suffered recurring despair and depression. He had lost a brother to suicide. Searching for a way through his darkness, he turned to Scripture—not to argue, but to endure. He gathered passages that traced a path from promise to suffering to redemption, beginning not with triumph but with a whisper: “Comfort ye, my people.”

Handel composed the music in just 24 days. At its premiere in Dublin in 1742, one of the most haunting moments came when Susannah Cibber stepped forward to sing, “He was despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.” Cibber herself had been publicly shamed and abused. The audience knew her story. As she sang of Christ’s suffering, silence filled the hall. One listener reportedly stood and said, “For this be all thy sins forgiven.” The gospel was no abstraction that night—it was embodied.

Later, Messiah became linked to care for abandoned children through performances benefiting London’s Foundling Hospital. Words like “For unto us a child is born” rang out beneath balconies filled with the forgotten.

Messiah endures because it names grief, injustice, and death—and then insists, with Scripture, that they are not the final word.

In 2020 Christian leader John Perkins interviewed the lawyer, Bryan Stevenson. Perkins, the son of a sharecropper, was born in poverty in Mississippi. Stevenson was born two years after Perkins’ conversion to Christ, in a poor, black, rural community in Delaware. Stevenson eventually graduated from Harvard law school and founded the Equal Justice initiative. He represents people who have been sentenced to death on flimsy evidence or without proper representation.

Stevenson told Perkins the story of his first visit to death row. As a law student intern, he’d been sent to tell a prisoner that he was not at risk of execution in the coming year. Stevenson felt unprepared. The prisoner had chains around his ankles, wrists, and waist. Stevenson delivered his message. The man expressed profound release. They talked for hours. But then two prison guards burst in.

Angry that the visit had taken so long, the guards reapplied their inmates’ chains. Stevenson pleaded with the officers to stop. He told them it was his fault they overrun their time. But the prisoner told Stevenson not to worry. Then he planted his feet, threw back his head and sang:

I’m pressing on the upward way,

New heights I’m gaining every day;

Still praying as I am onward bound,

Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

Everybody stopped, Stevenson said, “The guards recovered, and they started pushing this man down the hallway. You could hear the chains clanking, but you could hear this man singing about higher ground. And in that moment God called me. That was the moment I knew I wanted to help condemned people get to higher ground.”

In an issue of CT magazine, Gene McGuire tells the story of how God found him serving a life sentence in prison and gave him new life in Christ.

I’d always looked up to my out-of-town cousin, Bobby. I was thrilled when he invited me to come along that night to a bar. After a few games of pool and several drinks, Bobby told us he was going to rob the place. While surprised at his sudden intentions, the alcohol seemed to dull any impulse for protest. Sid and I would leave—as locals, we’d be recognized—and Bobby would commit the robbery alone.

We waited outside. After several minutes, we poked our heads in the door—Bobby had brutally murdered the bar owner. He shouted, “Don’t just stand there! Help me find the money!”

On the run, McGuire followed Bobby to New York City, but he couldn’t escape the reality of what they had done and went to the police. Bobby told him, “Gene, tell the truth. It was all me.” McGuire told the detectives everything but because he was present when the crime was committed, he was charged with murder. A day before his 18th birthday the judge sentenced him: “For the rest of your natural life,” without the possibility of parole.

In prison McGuire met Larry when he visited as part of a nationwide outreach event organized by Prison Fellowship. A preacher shared a gospel message and ended with an invitation saying, “Real men make commitments.” But McGuire held still.

McGuire returned the next day. Again, the preacher ended with those words, “Real men make commitments.” He watched as others made the commitment. He really wanted to—but he couldn’t. Then a volunteer approached him. “Hi, my name is Larry.” McGuire asked, “How long have you been a Christian?” “Since I was 4-years-old,” Larry replied. McGuire thought, “Was he putting me on? If a 4-year-old could sort out this Jesus stu­ff, why couldn’t I? What was I doing at 26 without a clue?”

The next day—the final service—I went back, and again it ended with the familiar “Real men make commitments.” A war raged within me—Go! No, don’t go! Get up! No, don’t move! I held on to the chapel pew with a white-knuckled death grip.

Suddenly, it just happened. I was on my feet, putting one in front of the other until I was at the altar. I remember praying, “Jesus, I believe you died and rose again for me. Please forgive all my sins. I want to be saved. Jesus, come into my heart today. Amen.” It sounds cliché, but I felt as if a ton of weight rolled right o­ff my back, as if chains fell away and I was free. Life in prison remained life in prison, but from the moment I believed in Jesus, the newness of life was extraordinary.

The Lord continued to use Larry in my life; for the next 25 years he mentored and discipled me, never letting me lose sight of opportunities to love God and serve others.

Meanwhile, I was actively petitioning the governor to commute my life sentence. Yet another attempt—after 32 years in prison—ended in rejection. Then, in June 2010, I received a notice from an attorney out of the blue. It informed me of a new Supreme Court ruling that could o­ffer juveniles given life sentences the opportunity to return to court and possibly receive a lighter sentence.

On April 3, 2012, I finally got my release. As a 17-year-old looking squarely at a lifetime behind bars, I never would have imagined this outcome. But God’s love is so great that nothing can separate us from it; his mercy and grace so powerful that no shackles can confine us. I’m living proof. I received a life sentence and, along the way, I found life—and freedom.

Editor’s Note: Gene McGuire is the author of Unshackled: From Ruin to Redemption . He lives in the Dallas–Fort Worth area, where he serves as pastor for a Christian family-owned restaurant company.

When people like Maria Garza are released from the Logan Correctional Center in central Illinois, the staffers there don’t usually want to see them return. But in Garza’s case, they were willing to make an exception.

During her time there, Garza was enrolled in the Northwestern Prison Education Program, earning a bachelor’s degree. But since they didn’t want her release to interfere with her education, she was allowed to return to the classroom via Zoom. In her chemistry class, she’s the only one doing the experiments from home.

According to NPEP program director Jennifer Lackey, Maria was their first student to earn early release while in the program. The Illinois Department of Corrections says that most prison education programs like NPEP are so new that the directors have yet to figure out protocols for re-entry because so few of the inmates qualify for it.

One of the few other prison education programs that address re-entry is North Park University and Theological Seminary, which offers a master’s in Christian ministry through the Stateville Correctional Center. Program director Vickie Reddy says of the four students who have made re-entry during the program.

Garza is grateful to maintain the connection with her classmate. She said, “To me, it’s kind of like a comfort. There are people who would say that once they leave [prison] they detach themselves from everything. But it’s hard to detach yourself from the people that understand what you’re going through.”

Possible Preaching Angles:

1) Loving others; Loving the Unlovely - When we do our best to care for incarcerated people, we are demonstrating God's love for the lost and broken. 2) Perseverance; Overcoming – Through perseverance it is possible to overcome failure and achieve goals.

In June, a group of students were honored in an off-campus commencement ceremony, being conferred with degrees from a neighboring educational institution. But unlike many pandemic-era distance learning arrangements, these students were not doing their learning from home. On the contrary, these men were residents of Statesville Correctional Center. But despite their institutional disadvantages, they earned master’s degrees in Christian Ministry and Restorative Arts from North Park University in nearby Chicago.

Michelle Clifton-Soderstrom is the former dean of faculty at North Park, and says she helped start the program because most Statesville inmates have never had access to quality education. The Statesville Restorative Arts program examines Biblical theology and history, but also includes courses on trauma, race relations, nonviolent communication, conflict transformation, restorative practices, and transformative justice.

Cook County State’s Attorney Kimberly Foxx was in attendance as the commencement speaker, and praised the graduates for their initiative. She said, “We achieve our highest calling as a community when those who have the least among us are leading the charge to get us there.”

Perhaps the best summary of the program’s significance was uttered by one of its participants, Jamal Bakr: "Our potential is not defined by our worst mistakes. Let today's event be an example of what happens when opportunities are created, potentials are unignored and complete restoration is always the aim of justice."

Possible Preaching Angle:

No one is beyond God's redemption. Even those who've done wrong can still find roles to participate in God's service.

Some people might say that having a face tattoo would make you look like a criminal. But in the case of Tyrone Lamont Allen, it was his tattoos that helped pave the way for his freedom. Allen had previously pleaded guilty to a string of 2018 bank robberies in the Portland area. However, his plea deals with prosecutors came under intense scrutiny once it became clear that police had altered his photo in a police lineup. In order to make his photo match the description of the suspect in the robberies, a police forensic artist used digital image editing tools to paint over several of Allen’s facial tattoos. The police artist likened it to “electronic makeup.”

The outcry over this image manipulation wasn’t enough to convince U.S. District Court judge Marco Hernandez to suppress the photo lineup as evidence. However, Allen had spent the last three years working to rehabilitate his life, working to steer youth away from the same crime and violence that previously ensnared him. Judge Hernandez was impressed by this effort, and by the advocacy coming not only from his attorney, but also from the local prosecutor, US Attorney Natalie Wight.

Wight testified, “This case has the possibility of becoming extraordinary. [Allen] can lead the community and show our community that … the criminal justice system actually recognizes you for your value.

In the end, the judge gave Allen a sentence of time served and three years of supervised release. Hernandez addressed Allen directly, "I believe in redemption. I believe in giving you an opportunity to show your changes are deep and lasting."

Allen said, “I'm here to accept responsibility for my actions. I come from a really hard background and am trying to change." Pointing to supporters in the courtroom, he continued. "People who never gave up on me when I gave up on myself. They pushed me to be a better person. And today, I know I'm a better person."

Possible Preaching Angle:

1) If we take shortcuts in the way we assess someone's guilt or innocence, we might end up dishonoring God and the community surrounding that person. 2) Repentance can lead to a new beginning and support, even from those who were formerly opposed.

When an envoy visited the White House to advocate for an inmate serving a life sentence, most of the headlines went toward fashion model and lifestyle icon Kim Kardashian West. However, accompanying her was former federal judge Kevin Sharp. Sharp carried an authoritative tone because of his years on the federal bench. But Sharp also had a specific opinion on the inmate in question because he was the one who sentenced him to prison.

Back in 2013, Christopher Young was sentenced to life in prison under a federal “three strikes” law, even though his drug charges were nonviolent. Sharp says Young should never have received such a harsh sentence, but that during the trial, his hands were tied because of the sentencing statutes.

Sharp vividly remembered that day in court, listening to Young give his formal statement:

If anyone is getting a mandatory sentence, you have to remember these are still people. You need to give them a chance to talk. It was the worst time I've ever had on the bench. I knew it was a mandatory life sentence. He knew it was a mandatory life sentence …

Sharp is notable for having left a lifetime judicial position to advocate for change:

Our criminal justice system is a mess. It's still the best there is, but there is so much we could do to make it better. And one of those things has got to be get rid of mandatory minimums. Let the judges do what you ask them to do. I got to the point where I'm thinking: “Is my role in society better on the bench or off the bench? Am I better off the bench working and advocating for a more fair criminal justice system?"

Possible Preaching Angle:

Those in authority have a responsibility to wield that authority justly. If we find we can make a difference for those without influence, we are obligated to do so. This will result in the honor and glory of Christ.

The Indigenous Arts In Prisons & Community program, also known as The Torch, has become an incredible boon for inmates in Victoria, Australia. It allows inmates to sell their artwork to the public, helping them manage the stress of their incarceration as well as assisting in their post-prison rehabilitation. The proceeds from the art sales are placed into a trust, which then reimburses the artists upon their release from prison. Last year alone, The Torch provided $280,000 for prisoners and ex-prisoners.

Victorian Ombudsman Deborah Glass founded The Torch in 2015 during her research into prisoner rehabilitation, when it was only a program that allowed inmates to express themselves through art. She saw the success of the program but was bothered by the fact that the prisoners weren't allowed to make money from their work, so she set out to change that.

According to Glass, The Torch is not only a great place to purchase art (she's got several pieces in her newest office space) and help inmates change their lives for the better, but it's also a great investment.

"When you think about what it costs society when somebody comes out of prison without support, commits crime, and goes back in again—[it's] over a billion dollars a year," Glass said. "If we can invest some portion of that into the sort of programs that prevent reoffending how much better off are we?"

Potential Preaching Angles: Hardship can often sensitize us toward God's beauty and wonder. God's blueprint for justice includes restoration. Godly correction is not condemnation, but an opportunity for repentance.

Every Sunday Clive Jacobsen from Sydney, Australia boards a train with a leather duffel bag, finds a comfortable seat, and settles in for a four-hour journey. He's not on the train to look at the scenery out the window. Instead, Clive will unzip his duffel bag, get out a note- pad and a pen, and start writing letters.

The letters he writes will find their way to distant countries like Zambia, South Africa, and Thailand. Clive is writing to international prisoners. He writes to inmates because he was one once. Back in the mid-1960s, Clive spent a small amount of time in jail for a relatively minor offense, but he's never forgotten the sense of isolation and abandonment he felt while he was there. So it seemed only natural that when a letter-writing organization contacted him in 2002 about sending letters to inmates abroad, he seized the opportunity.

The organization told him he could write to more than one inmate if he liked, so he decided to write to three. As his correspondence went on and he began to develop relationships—however distant—with these men, so he upped it to four. Then 10, then 20, then 100. Now Clive Jacobsen maintains written correspondence with more than 550 prisoners abroad.

Many of them live in countries with extreme poverty and no opportunities to get out of it; many of them, in a fit of desperation, did something criminal in an effort to take care of their kids or wives. Clive understands them, and his heart goes out to them. In his words, "They can't undo the crime they've done, but no one is beyond redemption."

The United States has the largest prison population in the world, with 2.2 million adults behind bars. The United States also consumes more coffee than any other nation—146 billion cups of coffee every year (as of 2/2024). Those two facts may seem completely unrelated, but to a Christian businessman from Wheaton, Illinois, they provided a creative way to do something he loves and minister to former inmates in his community.

It all started when Pete Leonard, a businessman involved with a local software company, started roasting coffee out of his garage. About the same time, Leonard watched as a family member fruitlessly searched for work after serving time in prison. Leonard said, "He'd always get interviews, but the instant he had to check the box 'I'm a convicted felon,' that was the end of the story." Leonard also realized that his relative's story was typical of a much larger problem: Many ex-convicts can't find work, which drives them back into unemployment or crime.

Over breakfast one morning, Leonard and two close friends took a napkin and sketched out an idea of starting a business that would hire ex-offenders. But Leonard was also committed to making excellent coffee. "If the coffee is bad," he said, "you're not going to buy it again." So Leonard and his friends started Second Chance Coffee Company, which markets under the brand I Have a Bean. Leonard and his wife, Debbie, invested thousands of dollars to launch the business, and Leonard eventually left his job to pursue it full time. Today, Second Chance makes quality coffee while hiring mostly ex-convicts. For a mom or dad coming out of prison, that means being able to be a provider and pulling the family out of the cycle of poverty. According to Debbie Leonard, for her and Pete it's also meant realizing that "your security is in God and not in your bank account."

Editor’s Note: This company’s program continues in 2024. You can read their story here

Cornelius Plantinga Jr. writes in “Reading for Preaching”:

I was visiting on death row in the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola. I asked one man if he would like to talk, and he said he would. He was a smallish man whose wire-rimmed glasses and intelligent expression made him look a little professorial. I asked him how he spends his days. He picked up his NIV Bible, hefted it, and said, "I spend a lot of time reading our book. I'm glad it's so big. I'll never get to the bottom of it." Then he said something I'll never forget. "You know," he said, "there are 2 billion of us Christians in the world, and everything today that any of us does that's any good has something to do with our book. And I have a copy of it right here in my cell!"

Why should small-time embezzlers, bad-check writers, and petty burglars be in prison when they ought to be working to pay back those they have wronged, benefiting both the victim and society? That's the road to real justice.