Dreaming of Providence

Matthew 2:13-23

Christmas 1

December 28, 2025

William G. Carter

 

Now after they had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you, for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.” Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.”

 

When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the magi, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the magi. Then what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled: “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”

 

When Herod died, an angel of the Lord suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.” Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel. But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, he went away to the district of Galilee. There he made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, “He will be called a Nazarene.”

 

On this Sunday after Christmas, I am blessed to have the help of three friends. You have heard from one already. He is our liturgist. Back in college, he was an English major with a fondness for good words. Another is a retired pastor, also an English major once upon a time. He’s a fan of good words, too. A third is a friend who now lives in my hometown. Like the first he has been a radio host. Like the second, he’s a retired pastor. Another aficionado of words.

It’s that third friend, Jeff Kellam, who prompted the idea for today’s sermon, a sermon full of poetry. He sent me a poem three weeks ago. “There’s not a lot of material on Joseph,” he noted, “so I thought I’d write a poem.” He calls it “Novice Father Joseph.” Here it is:

 

Joseph, with calloused hands and quaking voice,

pushes a curious critter aside

to gaze at the manger with a father's pride;

his heart full, he must rejoice.

 

The mystery once far beyond reason

is now so clear in this stable scene:

cave, crib, straw, stark and mean,

and the infant, bundled, bound, his son.

 

The carpenter knows wood, tools, and measure;

but holding one so vulnerable, so fragile...

could his arms embrace a child so gentle?

Of course, yes! Joe's wide grin showed his pleasure.

 

In days and years to come, Joseph would learn

to listen for more angels through the noise

of hammers and saws, for a guiding voice,

with both warnings and deliverance to discern.

 

But for now on this silent night,

he cradles the infant, both teary,

while Mary rests, delivery-weary,

and overhead stars promise new Light.[1]

How do you learn to listen for an angel? According to the Gospel of Matthew, you could begin to pay attention to your dreams. That’s how Joseph decided to take Mary as his wife. He was a “righteous man,” a “zaddik,” a person who welcomed the guidance of God’s Torah for living his life. When he learned Mary was pregnant, and he knew it happened apart from him, he was well aware of what the old Bible teaching said: get rid of her.

But he took the letter of the Law with a measure of holy mercy. He decided to dismiss her “quietly.” Then he went to sleep. An angel spoke to him in a dream, somewhere between unconsciousness and waking. “Joseph,” said the angel, calling him by name, “don’t be afraid of how this child is coming into the world.” The dream – and the angel – shook him up. He decided to accept the marriage, to accept Mary’s child as his own.

He “went the extra mile,” something Mary’s child would grow up to teach the multitudes. Joseph did it first because of the angel, because of the dream. The child Jesus was as good as his. So, why not have a Sunday to dream about Joseph?

I asked my friend Jim, “Got any good material on Joseph?” He said, “Not yet. Then he sat down a wrote a poem of his own. We need to hear him read it: 

Living the Dreams

 

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Living the dream,” he replied,

“but I’m not sure whose!”

 

No doubt Joseph knew whose dream

he found himself living

again and again and again and again.

 

Like the dreamer of old

with whom he shared a name

Joseph’s dreams foreshadowed lifesaving.

 

Pondering what to do about a fiancé

pregnant without his pleasurable contribution

he made a decision and slept on it.

 

Then came the first dream

directing the living of his days

and those of his wife and her Spirited child.

 

This righteous man, obedience personified

followed the plan the Creator

sketched on his carpenter’s bench.

 

A second dream brought a call to action—

the child’s life was threatened by a fragile king

desperate to snuff out a rival.

 

The dreamer packed up wife and child

crossed a border seeking sanctuary

in a land where ancestors once flourished, then suffered.

 

Twice more dreams in the night

instructed his heart and directed his steps

leading to a place to settle down and set up shop.

 

Entrusted with God’s Son

to train up in the way he should go

we trust the dreamer lived faithfully ever after.[2]

As we heard in today’s Gospel story, Joseph’s second dream saved Jesus’ life. After the wise men were warned in a dream to avoid King Herod, Joseph has a warning of his own. “Take the child and hide out in Egypt. Avoid his enemy by hiding among Israel’s ancient enemies.”

This prompts another verse, a hymn within our hymnal which we will hear the words without the distraction of a melody we’ve never sung. It’s titled “In Bethlehem a newborn boy.” Listen:

In Bethlehem a newborn boy was hailed with songs of praise and joy.
Then warning came of danger near: King Herod’s troops would soon appear.

The soldiers sought the child in vain: not yet was he to share our pain;
but down the ages rings the cry of those who saw their children die.

Still rage the fires of hate today, and innocents the price must pay,
while aching hearts in every land cry out, “We cannot understand!”

Lord Jesus, through our night of loss shines out the wonder of your cross,
the love that cannot cease to bear our human anguish everywhere.

May that great love our lives control and conquer hate in every soul,
till, pledged to build and not destroy, we share your pain and find your joy.[3]

This world has never been kind to all of its children. Matthew’s gospel story is teaching us about right and wrong, about good and evil. It draws a moral line, declaring in story form that Herod is preoccupied with his own superficial throne. He wants no threat to his power. He will go to any length possible. He forgets that his abusive life has an expiration date. God will outlive him. 

Jim got in touch the other day. “I found another poem that you can use,” he said. It’s in the December issue of The Christian Century, a periodical we both receive. Of course, I couldn’t find my copy, so he sent it to me – and I’d like him to read it. It’s called “Carpenter’s Lullabye,” written by a pastor in Hawaii. He prefaces it by a quote from Pope Francis: “I consider Saint Joseph the special patron of those forced to leave their native lands because of war, persecution and poverty.” Here is the poem. Listen:

      Sleep, child, in this manger rude and small

The world will quickly claim you

Soon you will grow tall

 

From my workshop I have saved

Adze, auger, awl, and blade

Beneath your pillow and your pall

 

Herod’s assassins will not find you

I vowed to guard you in this stall

Papa knows your future, but has Mary told me all?

 

Forget the madness

Chaos, sadness

In the city, in the wild

For this night you are my child

 

The road goes on from here

I cannot tell you where

Papa must know what’s best

But miles to go before you rest

 

Baby, close your eyes I pray

Please don’t look on me that way!

Is it you who’ll save the day?

 

Sleep, child, in this manger small;

The world will quickly claim you.

No assassin, no betrayal

Joseph guards you in this stall[4]

I will call out two lines: “Forget the madness, chaos, sadness…” And then, “Baby…is it you who’ll save the day?” That’s the truth of Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, and Ascension. The baby Jesus grows up. God kept sending dreams to guard his life. Herod could not eliminate him.

And years later, when another brutal empire tried again – and succeeded – God did two further miracles. God grabbed all the hatred that put Jesus on the cross and took it away. The world did its absolute worst to God’s own Son, and God canceled that sin once and for all. Then God raised up Jesus, wounds and all – raised him back to life, raised him to his rightful position as King of Kings and Lord of Lords. We live in the light of those two miracles.  And we are awakened into the dream that God has for all people, in every time and place. 

Who sees this dream? The saints and poets, maybe. They do some. And few have been as eloquent as Langstone Hughes, the poet of the Harlem Renaissance. He could dream a world where every child is safe, where all people live in peace and all are welcome. I’m going to ask Chris to read this. We will pause to let the words sink in, and then we will move along. “I Dream a World” by Langston Hughes

 

I dream a world where man
No other man will scorn,
Where love will bless the earth
And peace its paths adorn
I dream a world where all
Will know sweet freedom's way,
Where greed no longer saps the soul
Nor avarice blights our day.
A world I dream where black or white,
Whatever race you be,
Will share the bounties of the earth
And every man is free,
Where wretchedness will hang its head
And joy, like a pearl,
Attends the needs of all mankind -
Of such I dream, my world! 

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved, with previously copyrighted works owned by their composers.

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[1] “Novice Father Joseph,” Jeffrey S. Kellam, 2021.

[2] “Living the Dreams,” James E. Thyren, December 2025.

[3] “In Bethlehem a newborn boy,” Rosamund E. Herklots, in Glory to God (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2016) 155. By permission of OneLicense.net.

[4] “Carpenter’s Lullabye,” Gary Percesepe. The Christian Century, December 2025, 53.

How Do You Follow a Song Like That?

Luke 2:8-14
December 24, 2025
William G. Carter

       In that region there were shepherds living in the fields,

keeping watch over their flock by night. 

Then an angel of the Lord stood before them,

and the glory of the Lord shone around them,

and they were terrified.

 

But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—

I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: 

unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior,

who is the Messiah, the Lord. 

This will be a sign for you: you will find a child

wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger. 

 

And suddenly

there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host,

praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom he favors!” 

After singing “Angels We Have Heard on High”: How do you follow a song like that?

Of the Christmas carols sung in church, that one rocks the hardest. The stanzas unfold the Christmas story. They move from angels on high to shepherds below. They shift from Bethlehem in general to the manger in particular. Yes, the stanzas are excellent. But it’s the refrain that knocks the socks off.

There are third graders who have lost their minds as they warbled the recurring words. The melody is memorable. The rhythm is strong. The harmony is perfect. It is expertly constructed for drawing voices into a resounding choir. But how many of those third graders have any clue what they’re singing? Gloria (stretch it out) in excelsis Deo.

For many, it’s just a sound, a sequence of syllables, until they look it up on Google. Gloria in excelsis Deo. That’s Latin for “glory to God in the highest heaven.” Luke, chapter two, verse fourteen. It sounds bigger in Latin. It sings when it’s the refrain for that Christmas carol.

The words may come from Rome. The melody may come from France. But according to the Gospel of Luke, the song comes from heaven. The warriors of God’s heavenly court sing praise to the One who sits on the eternal throne. I can’t prove it, but I believe what they’re singing is the song we’ve just sung. Gloria in excelsis Deo. How do you follow a song like that?

There’s something about Christmas that prompts a big song. Big songs are hard to follow – especially when they are done well.

Maybe you sang along with Handel’s Messiah this week. Or the Philharmonic’s Christmas concert. Just three weeks ago, my friend Mark scored us tickets to hear an electrified bluegrass band. They played “The Twelve Days of Christmas” in twelve different time signatures and twelve different keys. Fingers were flying. Feet were dancing. It was beyond joyful.

There’s something about Christmas that explodes in excess. Melodies stick with us. Verses lift our hearts toward heaven. It’s all because a child has been born to us. A Son is given. Love has come. Grace is here. It began with the angel choir, breaking into song just outside of Bethlehem.

It caught those shepherds by surprise. They were minding their own business – that is, their business was minding their sheep. An angel burst into billion-watt light. It just happened. The angel Gabriel gave his announcement. He had already spoken to the old priest Zechariah. He had whispered to the young girl Mary. Then he hollers to the nameless shepherds:

Unto you a child is born. Yes, to you. To people like you.

Just to prove it, you will find him snoozing in an animal’s feed trough.

 That’s big news. Especially for the likes of them! The shepherds in those hills were widely considered scallywags. Inconsiderate, uncouth, unbounded, and unreligious. That’s precisely where God sends his angel. Not to chide them, not to demean them, not to exclude them, certainly not to punish them, but to say, “You count too. You are part of my family. Unto you ... all of you.”

As one scholar notes, it’s an enormous contrast to Emperor Augustus.[1] Augustus makes his decree from across the sea and says, “Go home, be counted, and pay me tax money. That’s how I will fund the soldiers I’ve sent to overrun your dirty little town. He has no regard for them. It’s mutual. 

By contrast, the God above every emperor says to the shepherds, You are already home. Home free! And my child will make his home with you.” My goodness – holy goodness! The scallywags have a Savior. That’s big news, much bigger than anything the Emperor could ever decree. This would be enough. The news would be enough.

Yet notice one thing more: that’s when the choir appears above them, shining like a thousand suns. The sanctified symphony explodes above their heads. Gloria in excelsis Deo. The song amplified the good, good news. It’s extra, excess, an unexpected gift.

Now, we expect music for Christmas. The holy day has prompted a thousand songs. Here’s my suggestion for getting through this darkest month of the year:

• 
  
• Pay attention to the songs that stick to your soul.
• Hold onto those melodies that won’t let go of you.
• Hum along, sing, sway, even dance.
• When the big music finds you, lose yourself and let go.

Music is God’s gift to express what can’t be said any other way. After all, what does it mean to sing Gloria in excelsis Deo? I don’t know, and I’ve been singing along since I was a third grader. If it means anything at all, it means there is a power of holiness greater than anything we can imagine. It’s enormous. It’s literally above our heads. It’s beyond our ability to manage it, shrink it, or avoid it. And it announces God’s favor. That’s the gift.

This is why the angel army bursts into song. They came to sing us into unearned grace. Glory to God in the highest heaven – and shalom down here. Peace, that is - deep, deep peace.

Why the peace? Because God favors you.

Why does God favor us? The Bible doesn’t say. I guess it’s just the way it is.

God favors us. All of us. All. It’s astonishing, really. Didn’t order that on the internet. Didn’t wait for it on the big brown truck. Can’t even force it to come because it’s already here. The favor of God is with you.

Or as the angel announced, The Holy One has found you. You count. You are part of the family. Gloria in excelsis Deo. That’s the good news.

How do we follow a song like that? We sing along. 

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Joseph Fitzmyer, Luke I-IX: The Anchor Bible (New York: Doubleday) 396-397.

Promising and Receiving

Romans 1:1-7
December 21, 2025
Advent 4

William G. Carter  

Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle, set apart for the gospel of God, which he promised beforehand through his prophets in the holy scriptures, the gospel concerning his Son, who was descended from David according to the flesh and was declared to be Son of God with power according to the spirit of holiness by resurrection from the dead, Jesus Christ our Lord, through whom we have received grace and apostleship to bring about the obedience of faith among all the gentiles for the sake of his name, including you who are called to belong to Jesus Christ,

 

To all God’s beloved in Rome, who are called to be saints: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

 

It’s only four days until Christmas. Perhaps it is time for a “true meaning of Christmas” sermon. Have you ever had one of those? In some of the churches where some of us grew up, the preacher would stand in the pulpit as the days were hastening on. Looking out upon a congregation under stress from the holidays, upon good people consumed by consumerism, upon those too weary to be joyful, the preacher would tell everybody the “true meaning of Christmas.”

Today is a day like that. Even though, the Bible offers a number of “true meaning of Christmas” sermons. And who knows which one is the sermon for today.

We can ask the writer of the main story we’ve heard. “Luke, what’s the true meaning of Christmas?” He doesn’t pause. Luke says, “God came to us as a peasant child. His parents were so poor they had to cradle him in a feeding trough. When a group of sheep herders heard the news, they could scarcely believe God came to people like them.” Christmas according to Luke.

How about Matthew? Matthew says, “When God came to us, he shook up old King Herod. Herod was a cranky and violent despot, immediately threatened by someone who might get more attention than him. He was the first of many who tried to get rid of Jesus. Like the rest of them, he didn’t succeed. Jesus is the True King over all kings, with all authority over heaven and earth.” Christmas according to Matthew.

Let’s hear about Christmas from Mark. Mark, anything? Nope. Doesn’t say a word. Not going to get anything out of him.

Of course, John is ready to fill the silence. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us,” he says. The philosophical becomes physical. Grace and truth took on skin, breath, and blood. Jesus comes to show us what God is like.” Christmas according to John.

Today, of course, we hear from the apostle Paul. Paul’s not one for telling stories. He never mentions Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, or nasty old Herod. He doesn’t reach into the philosophical clouds like the gospel of John. What does he have to say about Christmas? Well, we have just heard a mouthful. Paul says Christmas is “a promise received.” Did you catch that? There was a promise and it was received. Those are today’s two Advent words.

They are wrapped up in a signature. Admittedly, that flew by kind of fast. When you sent a letter in the ancient world, the signature came first. They didn’t have address labels. The writer signed the letter first, so everybody knew who it was from, so this letter begins “Paul…” and there is a string of additional words. 107 words, and that’s just in the signature. Couldn’t he have written “Paul” and left it there? Maybe, but this is Paul. The apostle Paul. Why restrict yourself to one word when you can use 107 more words?

Fact is, he is writing to people he has never met. Fifteen chapters and seven thousand words later, he says, “I hope to see you. I plan to stop by Rome on my way to Spain. But I wanted to make sure you got the whole Gospel from me before I see you face to face.[1] Oh, and I’m also collecting offerings for some famine victims. Meanwhile, say hello to all my friends who are with you. Give them a little kiss.”[2]

So, let me break that down for you. Romans is Paul’s longest letter – 7100 words – and it is his letter of introduction. This is literally his book of sermons. What we have today is Paul’s introduction to his letter of introduction – his signature and 107 additional words. Those 107 words summarize the seven thousand other words. And to make it clear, there are two verbs that summarize the 107 words. Ready? Promise and receive. These two verbs hold the essence of Christmas for Paul – and for us.

Now, Paul is a Jew. He knows all about the word “promise,” for the Jewish faith is built on promises. As a Jew, he knows God is the One making all the promises. God speaks and things happen. The promises are just that powerful.

·       “Let there be light” – and there was light.

·       “Be fruitful and multiply” – and it was so.

·       “You shall be my people” – and the calling was irrevocable.

·       “Keep my commandments and you shall be my treasure.” And God kept his part of the promise. Sadly, that’s where things broke down.

As Paul tells it, God has always been good on his promises. It’s the rest of us who have stumbled. He lays all of this out in those seven thousand words in the Letter to the Romans. And nobody gets off the hook, whether we are part of the Jewish covenant or not. The excuses won’t wash 

But then God sends Jesus into a world like this. It is a world that can’t decide if it is rebellious or indifferent; probably a measure of both – and Jesus the Christ comes anyway. And the world tries to push him away, yet he comes back. What Paul has discovered is that God promises a wide embrace. God promises enough mercy to welcome us all, whether we are Jews or not Jews, whether we are finished or unfinished. The promise is there. It comes in Jesus.

He signals this in two ways, which many of us have heard before. First, he speaks of “Jesus Christ our Lord.” Jesus is the name of the Christ, that is, the kingly Messiah. He comes from the line of David and is now the King above all other minor kings. That’s the Jewish hope. And Jesus the Christ is the Lord. That is, the One who holds all things together. The gravitational center of goodness and wisdom who governs the universe. That’s the Gentil hope. “Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Second, there’s the famous greeting he offers, once we get through that breathless signature and introduction: “grace to you all and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.” “Grace” is the Gentile greeting, pretty close to the Greek word for “howdy.” And peace is the Hebrew word, “Shalom,” the blessing offered when someone comes and goes. Grace and Peace: gifts from God, and through the Lord Jesus Messiah.

In other words, the promise is for all. God’s promise is no longer distinguished by bloodline, race, or language. God sends Jesus to make this crystal clear. Got all that?

And that opens us to the second Advent word: “receive.” The sense of the verb is to “take hold,” as in to “take hold” of what has been offered as a gift. Paul likes that verb. About a third through this seven-thousand-word letter, he speaks of “taking hold” of how the cross of Jesus reveals God’s mercy. God could have blasted us away when we pushed Jesus away, but God chose to cancel the power of that sin.[3]

Then, a little further, Paul speaks about “taking hold” of our new family status, a status independent of how the world would try to classify us. He says we did not receive the confinement of fear or abandonment – rather, it’s as if we are children who have been adopted by our Single Parent who art in heaven. And we cry out “Abba, Daddy!” when we pray.[4] Take hold of the One who has taken hold of you.

With this, it’s Christmas. At least, it’s Christmas for the apostle Paul. For Christmas is the promise God makes to welcome us, to scrub us clean, to put on us a new set of clothes. All we have to do is receive it. Because God’s saving, God’s claiming, God’s loving – all of it comes as a gift. Take hold of that.

This is God’s good word, literally the “Godspell” of God. And what a wild, crazy week for anybody to take hold of it. The writer Anne Lamott, Presbyterian Sunday School teacher, was lamenting the kind of week it’s been. It reminded her of that dark December in 2012, when the school in Newtown, Connecticut was attacked. She had asked her friend Tom, the Jesuit priest, where is Advent in the middle of despair and chaos?

He said, “Annie, you Protestants and your little questions!” Then he added, “Faith is a decision. Do we believe we are ultimately doomed and there’s no way out? Or that God and goodness make a difference? There are heaven, community, and hope – and hope that there is life beyond the grave.”

“But Tom,” she protested, at the same time, the grave is very real, dark and cold and lonely.”

Tom replied, “Advent is not for the naïve. Because in spite of the dark and cold, we see light – you look up, or you make light with candles, trees, and you give light. Beauty helps, in art and nature and faces. Friends help. Solidarity helps. If you ask me, when people return phone calls, it’s about as good as it gets. And who knows beyond that.

He continued, “Advent says there is a way out of this trap – that we embrace our humanity, and Jesus’ humanity, and then we remember he is wrapped up in God. It’s good to remember where to find Jesus in the least of these, among the broken, the very poor and marginalized. Jesus says, ‘You want to see me? Look there.”

So, she called Father Tom after hearing about the human damage of that week. Neither said anything interesting, she said, but they spent time on the phone, listened to each other’s voices, and grieved for those affected. That helped. She said, “These tiny bits of connection to the broken are very real, and the kindness and attention people show to one another create a tiny bit of light. That’s Advent.

She concludes, “I will not let hate, violence, or despair be my norm, my reality, or my way forward. I choose to believe we are better together and connected, even in heartbreaking days. I choose light – and your light. We have never needed Hanukkah and Advent more.”[5]

Can you hear the promise, the promise of God? It’s the promise that all of us are invited in, all of us are beckoned to make our way forward together as one family with Jesus. Can you take hold of that? Can you let go of all that hurts and divides, and take hold of the faith, hope, and love that come as gifts because of Christ’s coming into the world?

I think we can. Yes, I believe we can. For we are God’s beloved, called to be saints together. So, Merry Christmas from the apostle Paul. Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

(c) William G. Carter

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[1] Romans 15:14-24.

[2] Romans 16:16.

[3] Romans 5:6-11

[4] Romans 8:15-16.

[5] Anne Lamott with Sam Lamott, Some Assembly Required (New York: Riverhead Books, 2012) 103-104.

Rejoicing and Abounding

Romans 11:33-36
December 14, 2025
Advent 3

William G. Carter

O the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!

How unsearchable are his judgments and how inscrutable his ways!

“For who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been his counselor?”
“Or who has given a gift to him, to receive a gift in return?”

For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be the glory forever. Amen.

We are making our way through the season of Advent by paying attention to the verbs. Careful observers were waiting for today’s two verbs – rejoicing and abounding. Careful listeners did not hear them in the reading of the text. At least, not that text. Not the Romans text. 

There is plenty of rejoicing in the reading from Isaiah 35. The prophet is thrilled at the prospect of going home. He speaks in poetry, of course, so his words lack specifics. But the emotion is there. The desert shall rejoice. The crocus shall rejoice. The speechless will sings for joy. Those claimed by God will rejoice. “Everlasting joy shall be upon their heads.” That’s a pretty good promise.

And the abounding is there, too. A stark landscape breaks into blossom. The hot sand burst into green grass. Those who can’t see shall see. Those who can’t hear shall hear. Those who can’t walk shall dance. This is the abundance, the abounding. There is a surprising over-supply beyond what anybody expected.

Many times, the New Testament verb for “abound” points to food. Like loaves and fishes! Church people know about abundance. The quilting group invited me downstairs for lunch on Tuesday. There was a lot of food. Last Sunday’s LIFT luncheon, also downstairs, had too much food. I drove my wife over the mountain to the small church where she plays the organ on Sundays. They were preparing for a Christmas cookie sale. They expected 130 pounds of Christmas cookies. We know about abundance. And it’s more than merely food. God is exceedingly generous.

In the Advent promise, we see extravagance and hear exuberance emanating from the heart of God. Rejoice! Abound! It sounds like a holy protest against the sadness and the meanness that threatens our world. Joy and abundance defy the fear and scarcity that constrict so many people’s lives.

I think of a woman who many of us know. She’s always laughing. No matter what happens, some kind of carbonated holiness infuses our spirit. She is a make-lemonade-out-of-lemons kind of person. Is her life easy? No easier than yours or mine. Is everything going her way? Not at all. Does she sink into a slump from time to time? Everybody does, her included – but she can break into a Christmas carol without notice.

Last time I saw her, she was recounting some health challenges. Suddenly she broke into song, “Joy to the world! The Lord has come. Let earth receive her king! Let every heart prepare him room. Let heaven and nature sing…”

What is astonishing is how to explain people like that. Are they in denial? No, not really. They know what kind of world this is. Are they avoiding tough conversations? No, they are well aware of the issues. Are they trying to change the conversation? Well, maybe. Maybe something else has happened to them.

There’s that moment the Grinch steals Christmas from the Whos down in Whoville. He leans to listen to their wailing on Christmas morning after he has stolen all their presents. You remember what happens. He hears them break into song, a happy song, a joyful song. Then, as Dr. Suess tells us,

And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow,

Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?

It came without ribbons! It came without tags!"

It came without packages, boxes or bags!"

And he puzzled three hours, `till his puzzler was sore.

Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!

“Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store."

“Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

(Theodor Seuss Geisel, How the Grinch Stole Christmas (New York: Random House, 1957)

Yes, yes. This is the secret. This is the Mystery. And we name it as the coming of God into this world. That God is not absent. God is not indifferent. God may be quiet and exceedingly subtle – yet God is coming. And everything will be infused with unexpected joy and abundance.

So, we circle back to what we heard today from the apostle Paul. It comes from his letter to the Romans. This is the thickest book in our Bible. Not the longest in terms of pages, but the thickest. The heaviest. The most profound. Paul is laying out the entire work of God in human history. He is swimming in very deep water. At the end of chapter eleven, he suddenly breaks into song:

O the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!

How unsearchable are God’s judgments! How inscrutable God’s ways!

Now, he is interrupting himself. He has just spent three entire chapters wrestling with a thorny spiritual problem. Jesus the Messiah has come, but many of his own people do not believe in him. Paul is a Jew and he agonizes over the unbelief of so many of his spiritual family. Some of you know what this is like. Maybe your kids graduated from confirmation class and never came back. He is struggling to make sense of this. He knows God loves every one of them, that God will not abandon any one of them, that God will not revoke his call upon their lives. Then, without warning, comes the song: “O the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!”

Why is he interrupting himself with praise, especially here? Well, it’s a habit. He has done it before.

• Back in chapter one, Paul wrote about those who live without the Bible or any knowledge of Christ. He interrupts himself with another burst of praise to “the Creator who is blessed forever. Amen.”[1]
• In chapter nine, as he anguishes about the rejection of the Messiah, he does it again, interjecting, “the Christ, who is over all, God blessed forever. Amen.”[2]
• And then, one more time, at the very end of this letter, he sings once again, “to the only wise God, through Jesus Christ, to whom be the glory forever! Amen.”[3]

Paul can’t seem to speak about God without praising God. He knows his words, his reasoning, his thinking only goes so far. God is greater than our understanding. God’s grace is more abundant than we can comprehend. No matter much we think we know about God, God is bigger. God is greater. And this holy and inscrutable God is infinitely inclined toward loving all of us. God is going to take in the world for repairs. That’s the Mystery.

To strengthen his doxology, Paul paraphrases two verses from his Hebrew Bible. The first, from Isaiah, chapter 40: “For who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been his counselor?”[4] God is beyond our comprehension. No one is going to tell God what to do. The best we can do is line up with those things that God cares about. And it takes a good bit of discernment to figure out what they are. 

The second verse comes from the end of the book of Job. God says to Job, “Who has given a gift to him, to receive a gift in return?”[5] In other words, life is not a transaction. Life is a gift, a whole lot of gifts, an abundance of gifts. And God is infinitely more generous than we could ever expect or deserve. So, rather than explain God, Paul bursts into song. He rejoices because God’s love abounds.

Now, are you feeling the same way? Maybe, maybe not. Paul was an unusual character, after all. Once when he was in prison, he rattled his tin cup against the iron bars. Then he exclaimed, “Rejoice in the Lord always! Again, I will say rejoice!”[6] How could he rejoice in those circumstances? Because he knew there are things worse than sitting in a prison. He had his life. He had his hope. He had his friends. He had his knowledge of the scriptures. More than that, God had him – a God so gracious that he couldn’t even comprehend it.

What we learn from Paul is something about the true nature of joy. Joy doesn’t depend on our circumstances. Happiness usually does; someone or something can make us happy. Happiness comes and goes. But the grounds for our joy don’t depend on us or anybody else. Joy is that spiritual essence that carries us through. It is rooted in the truth that we are divinely loved, that our purpose is to love in return, and, as Paul says elsewhere in this letter, the knowledge that “nothing shall ever separate us from the love of God.”[7] Nothing at all.

A second lesson about joy is that we don’t have to understand everything there is to know about God – and that’s OK. Trained as a Bible scholar, the apostle Paul sings out, “There is so much that I don’t understand. The fullness of God is incomprehensible.” There is so much more wisdom to pursue, so much more knowledge to grasp, so much more love to learn and practice. Even then, we cannot apprehend it all. We probably never will. But God apprehends us – and God comes to us in Jesus Christ. It’s something we could never demand or deserve. We can only receive the gift – and we can do so with open arms and open hearts.

So, in a dark world, we sing. We have seen enough of the light to know the darkness does not win. Darkness did not win over Jesus, and it will not win over us. And we live as fragile beings in a world of trouble, yet we are living - and fully alive - because the God of life has breathed life into us. And we pray for eyes to see the same abundance that the prophets could see: streams of water in the wilderness, sight and speech restored, hope renewed, and God approaching us on the holy highway.

And to take a cue from Paul, none of us have to pretend to be experts in the ways of faith. The Messiah does not come when we attain enough knowledge, comprehension, or even faithfulness - as important as those things are. The Messiah comes solely on the generosity of God. Rejoice, O people of God. Out of the abundance of God’s mercy, our Savior is at hand. He claims us as his own.

For what does the Bible say? “From God and through God and to God are all things. To God be the glory forever. Amen.”

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] 1:25.

[2] 9:5.

[3] 16:27.

[4] Paul’s paraphrase of the Hebrew text of Isaiah 40:13.

[5] Paul’s paraphrase of the Hebrew text of Job 41:11.

[6] Philippians 4:4.

[7] Romans 8:38-39.