God with us

“Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel,” which means “God is with us.”

God with us.

We tend to remember the Christmas story through a child’s eyes, because that’s how we so often hear it told. Shepherds and a stable, and a newborn baby sleeping peacefully under a starlit sky.

But the whole story is so much messier than the image you might see in a Christmas pageant. It’s a story full of shame and fear, threat and wonder. A young woman pregnant—but unmarried. A fiancé who knows that the world expects him to walk away. A land in which local and foreign powers jockey for control.

And into this messy scene comes an angel with a promise: the child to be born comes from God. Not only does he come from God, he will be God. He is God. Emmanuel. God with us.

You might have noticed two spellings of the word Emmanuel in our readings today—one starting with an “i” and the other with an “e.” It’s that way because the translators wanted to show us that the two passages were originally written in different languages.

The words of the prophet Isaiah were originally in Hebrew, a promise made to a frightened king that a young woman will bear a son, a son who will be a symbol of hope, a reminder of God's promise. Matthew, writing centuries later in Greek, takes Isaiah's words and sees in them an even more striking claim. However we understand the mystery, whether as miracle or as poetry, Matthew's point remains: this birth brings not just God's promise, but God's presence. Emmanuel. God with us.

It’s not Christmas quite yet. We’re still in the season of Advent, in a time of anticipation. But let’s look ahead for a moment. Who is this child whose birth the angel promises? What kind of world will he be born into?

One thing is certain: the child named Emmanuel won’t be born into a time of peace. In the Gospel of Luke, we hear about shepherds and a humble manger. But today we’re reading from the Gospel of Matthew. Matthew’s focus is different. Matthew tells us of a star, of wise men from the East, and of a frightened king. Matthew gives us a warning in a dream, a family on the run, and a massacre of newborn babies that most Sunday lectionaries choose to skip over. Herod, threatened by the rumor of a rival king, lashes out with violence. The holy family flees to Egypt. And even after Herod dies, they’re afraid to return home.

Jesus will be born into a time of fear and violence. And that’s part of the story. Part of what Emmanuel means. Jesus’s birth doesn’t turn the world into a perfect place. The world remains raw and dangerous and full of sorrow. But God shows up anyway. Emmanuel. God with us.

God. Not an idea or a symbol. Not just a messenger. God, the creator of all that is and all that will ever be, choosing to be made flesh. Choosing to be born.

With. Not above. Not beyond. Not at a safe distance. But alongside. Present in the very moments we feel most alone. Present in fear and flight, in scandal and shame, in exhaustion and pain. Not fixing everything. Not making it easy. But there.

Us. Not just with the people of Mary and Joseph’s time. Not just with the righteous and the prepared. Not just with the faithful and devout. With us. Here. Right now. With every person exhausted from caring for others. With every person carrying a secret shame they think would shock everyone around them. With every person going through the motions of this all-too-demanding season with grief heavy on their chest.

God is with us. That’s what Emmanuel means. And if we let ourselves believe it, even for a moment, it might change how we live our lives. It might mean we stop waiting until we have it all figured out to believe God can use us. It might mean we look for God not only in our moments of clarity and peace, but in our moments of confusion and mess. And it might mean we offer ourselves and one another the same grace we'd offer a frightened young woman or a bewildered fiancé who we encountered outside the pages of scripture—the grace to be human and uncertain.

As I said before, it’s not Christmas yet. We’re still in the season of Advent, a season that asks us to slow down, to reflect, to hold off on celebration. But yet. But yet, even in Advent we hear the promise of Emmanuel.

Advent says: wait. Emmanuel says: God is here.

I sometimes think that Advent is the season in which we live the whole of our lives, in the tension between God’s promise and its fulfillment. God isn’t late. But this is how God comes. Quietly. Unexpectedly. Into unfinished stories. Into unanswered questions. Into lives that don’t seem ready.

So we wait. And while we wait, we trust: God is with us. Already. Even now. Even in this.