It Was Not a Silent Night

The circumstances of Jesus’ birth were far from pristine. The Son of God entered the world He created in a way that was raw and humble. As one of the more abrupt lines from Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb reminds us:

It was not a silent night.

Born to a young, unwed mother in a chilly stable and laid in a feeding trough, Jesus’ arrival was marked by scandal, danger, and hardship. But it was precisely in these humble and distressed beginnings that God chose to reveal His glory. The manger reframes for us the meaning of Christmas. Far from polished nativity scenes, the first Christmas was gritty, earthbound, and real. As the moving song reminds us:

It was not a silent night
There was blood on the ground
You could hear a woman cry
In the alleyways that night
On the streets of David's town

And the stable was not clean
And the cobblestones were cold
And little Mary full of grace
With the tears upon her face
Had no mother's hand to hold

It was a labor of pain
It was a cold sky above
But for the girl on the ground in the dark
Every beat of her beautiful heart
Was a labor of love

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Jesus’ birth into such conditions assures us that He understands the messiness of life. He knows our fears, struggles, and pain because He has lived them to the uttermost. The incarnation—God assuming human flesh to dwell among us—means that God doesn’t merely sympathize with us from afar; He steps into our suffering to redeem it. God becoming flesh wasn’t an act of obligation but of a deep, personal love.

To reach and rescue us, the King of Glory had to become small.

The Creator of galaxies became an infant, completely dependent on a young mother and her carpenter husband. He exchanged His eternal throne for a manger, and streets of gold for a patch of dirt. This challenges our assumptions about what power and greatness look like, doesn’t it? Jesus’ life began in the obscurity of Bethlehem, and it continued in the unremarkable village of Nazareth. God works in the realms of the overlooked and unexpected.

Hebrews 2:11 offers a remarkable truth:

Jesus is "not ashamed to call us brothers and sisters."

The Son of God—perfect, infinite, and holy—doesn’t distance Himself from us. He will not keep us at arm’s length. Instead, He draws near, claiming us as family. In a world smitten by achievement and appearance, the incarnation reminds us that our worth isn’t in the stuff we do or the things we earn; it’s rooted in God’s unfailing, never ending love.

To see the truth of this, we need look no further than Jesus’ genealogy in Matthew. It’s filled with unexpected names. Alongside Abraham, the abysmal husband, and Jacob, the limping liar, are also the likes of Rahab, a Gentile and former prostitute, and Tamar and Bathsheba, two victims of exploitation and assault. Speaking of Bathsheba, even King David is remembered not for his victories but for his failures:

"David, the father of Solomon by the wife of Uriah."

Such sordid details are no accident. They declare that God’s family is open to all—regardless of offense or injury.

Our most damaged, distressed realities don’t disqualify us from belonging; they qualify us.

The incarnation boldly proclaims that God’s love is greater than our failures. We are not defined by what’s bent or broken in us but by the redeeming love of the Savior who calls us His own.

The incarnation didn’t end with Jesus entering the world. It continues as He sends us into the varied places where we live, work, play, and worship to reflect His love. Advent reminds us that we are called to embody the same incarnational love Jesus demonstrated. We are to move toward the hurting and vulnerable, just as He moved toward us.

What does this look like? It starts with seeing others as God sees them. The lonely, the overlooked, and the marginalized aren’t problems to solve; they (we) are people to be loved. Like Jesus, we’re called to step into the “mangers” of life—those messy, uneasy places where need and brokenness are most visible and pronounced.

Sometimes this means simply sitting with someone who feels isolated, offering the gift of your presence. It could involve helping a struggling family with practical needs or standing alongside a friend in a difficult season. It might involve setting aside time to open your home and table to someone who feels judged, alone, or forgotten. It might mean advocating for systemic changes that affirm the dignity of all people.

Advent invites even us to carry God’s love into a tarnished world.

He deputizes even us to become His humble light.

“You are the light of the world,” Jesus said, “so let your light shine before others that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.”

Advent challenges our ideas about the "Christmas spirit." In our culture, Christmas is often depicted as a season of serene joy, cozy warmth, abundant celebration, and bougie spaces. While these can be wonderful and welcomed features of the holiday for some, they don’t capture the full reality of the first Christmas for all.

Jesus’ arrival was marked by vulnerability. Mary and Joseph fled to Egypt as refugees, running from Herod’s murderous pursuit. The true Christmas spirit isn’t found in idyllic scenes or curated moments. It’s found in God’s presence with us and within us, especially in the midst of life’s sorrows, setbacks, and messes.

What if the spirit of Christmas didn’t stop when the decorations came down? What if it kept going throughout the year. Imagine a community, it’s easy if you try; where people put others first and themselves second, where the lonely find friendship, and the marginalized are treated with honor. This is the way God’s kingdom works as His love is first received by us, then made visible and tangible through us.

Each time the Advent candles are lit this season, let them call forth the humble light that Jesus brings into the world, and that Jesus is to the world. Let them lead us back to the manger, not just to marvel at the Christ child but to be changed by Him. And as we are sent back out from the manger, may we carry its light into a world bruised for lack of hope, remembering that He is Emmanuel—whose name means God is with us.