Madonna of the Grotto by Karl Müller, 1876
I used to be afraid of the dark. At night I would run through dark spaces, turning on lights and looking over my shoulder as I went from room to room. The older I’ve gotten, the dark has become less frightening though my fear itself has grown. The dark is no less scary, but I know now there are as many monsters in the day as in the night.
Fear shows up less often now as chills on my spine and more frequently as anxiety or anger as I move from relationship to achievement to bank account to accolade, trying to push back the monster beneath it all: the fear of not being enough. It is a ghost that haunts both my everyday task list and my big life decisions.
I frequently look to achievements and relationships to flip the switch, but their light only goes so far. What I’m really looking for is an encounter with God. His is the only measurement that matters, but that makes approaching Him an all the more terrifying endeavor. I prefer the dark over what the light can expose. What will the light bring to those that live in darkness? How will God approach us?
When I look at humanity, there are a lot of reasons to fear the answer to that question. The Old Testament starts off in just the third chapter, Genesis 3, with the tale of our great failure: Adam and Eve disobey God and break the world He gave them. Genesis tells us that they hide when they hear God coming, afraid of His approach. This pattern of failure and shame becomes programmatic not only for Bible stories, but for ours.
The first Christmas, however, shows us how God approaches us, and it turns out there’s no thunder in His footsteps, no need to hide.
The first word Gabriel, God’s messenger, spoke to Mary in Luke 1 usually gets translated as simply, “Greetings!” or “Hail!” The word itself actually translates “Rejoice!” God’s first message to Mary was, “Take joy! Be glad! Do not fear, for you have found favor with God.” He came not with fear, but with favor. The only thunder was the roar of the heavenly chorus singing over us with joy.
The God of the universe could approach us however He wanted to: a voice from heaven resonating through the earth, a giant supernatural warrior—insert any Marvel movie scene and take it up an exponential notch. The transcendent God approached, however, not with war but with empathy. He came to us as Emmanuel, God-with-us, taking on our flesh and walking a mile in our shoes.
Even so, surely He could have taken on flesh in a way that showed His authority––perhaps a mighty warrior, or a conquering king. Instead, God came to the earth as a child.
The God who measured the foundations of the earth measures us not only with favor and empathy, but with love. One fateful night, in the arms of an unremarkable teenage girl, He approached us with love—not only the love of a Father for His child, but the love of a Son for His mother.
Take joy! For we have found favor with God.
And also, take heed. The favor of God is not like the favor of people. His favor is not earned. It is not a response to what you have achieved; it is not a switch to flip. God’s favor, like the love of a child, is transforming.
Transformations can be uncomfortable––costly, even. For nine months Mary bore the transformation in her body, from morning sickness to labor pains. But Mary wasn’t the only one transformed by the favor of God in the Christmas story. Zechariah, too, met with God, and he left the encounter a changed man. Gabriel came to Zechariah, whose wife Elizabeth was barren, with good news of God’s favor: the promise of a long-desired child.
Zechariah, however, met God’s favor with fear. He knew too well the monster of unmet desires and he was afraid. He doubted God’s favor and so God struck Zechariah mute. That is exactly what I am afraid of: coming face to face with God and being found wanting. Finding a curse instead of a blessing.
Sometimes, however, even God’s rebuke is His favor. Zechariah asked Gabriel, “How can I know for sure this will happen?” God answered Zechariah’s doubt with correction, but also with certainty. There was no ambiguity about his nine months of muteness—Zechariah had asked for a sign and in God’s gracious admonition, he got one. God’s favor transforms both our hopes and our fears.
Maybe you share my fear, or maybe yours manifests differently. Maybe you’ve grown so used to coping with fear you have forgotten what monster you are running from. Or perhaps you are having a hard time finding His favor under the rebuke. The offer in Advent is to forget for a moment what we are running from, and remember Who we are running to. Perhaps then, as we turn our eyes to the nativity scene, we can see Him running toward us with favor and love in His arms.