Edmund jogged down the cobblestone street of Elm Hill, dodging dark puddles and the occasional horse-drawn carriage. The narrow street ran parallel to the River Wensum, which powered the local watermills. From where the street laid, you could hear the slow current of the water rush past like marbles dancing over stones.

Edmund quickened his pace as he reached the end of the street. His Uncle William had drilled it into him at a young age that you weren’t properly on time unless you arrived before the other guests with your pipe already lit and smoking. He shook the water off his umbrella and caught his breath as he walked up toward the paneled building. An old wooden sign swung and creaked in the wind above his head, depicting three stags painted in white. Edmund looked up and grinned, the familiar haunt settling over him like home. He pushed through the door and headed toward a round table with two seats a few feet in front of the lively hearth.

The small room was lit by the dance of candlelight and flame and held the rich scent of tobacco and well-lived life. Each of the blood-red bricks on the floor was laden with centuries of secrets and stories: from flowering love to bitter betrayal, salted tears to crackling laughter. The Three Stags had been the hub of communal life in the village since the 15th century—a kind of chapel for the ordinary man, where the daily mass was a torn hunk of hot brown bread and foaming ale. This homely establishment proved that not every roof needed a steeple to be a place where you encountered the sacred.

“I knew you would already be here,” said Alden, taking off his wet coat as he sat down. He stretched his cold hands toward the leaping flames, trying to take the sharp edge off the English winter.

“It is only proper, my friend.” Edmund smiled, lifting his mug. “Besides, I knew the best ale runs out fast on Friday nights, so my motives were not purely honorable.”

Alden leaned in close and whispered in a nervous tone, “I was beginning to get worried. I sent you two letters in the post and never heard back from you. What happened?”

Edmund’s eyes flickered as he reached into his coat and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in butcher paper sealed with wax. He looked around the room before placing it down and pushing it slowly across the wood.

Alden looked down at the table, then quickly back up at Edmund. His hands trembled as he picked up and turned the brown parcel over, his eyes widening as they fell upon the scarlet-inked word stretched across the top: “BANNED.”

Underneath that word there was more writing in a smaller script, this time in black ink:

Prohibited Register: Class III - Gramarye

By formal decree, this volume is forbidden to be unsealed by any reader from this date forward, except under the express authority of the Chancellor and select Faculty of Cambridge, and solely for academic inquiry. It is to be held in secure keeping within the R.S.

Lord Arthur Cay
23 August, 1705

Edmund’s face was still as stone as he met the eyes of Alden. They sat there in a prolonged silence, both saying more than they could with words. Alden quickly took the wrapped book and placed it in his coat, making sure no other eyes would notice. Their hearts were racing and both felt as though a bolt of lightning had shot through their blood. They felt more alive than ever before and yet also more afraid.

“I didn’t want to have a paper trail in case something went wrong. That’s why I burned up your letters when I received them. I knew you would understand. It was too much of a risk.” Edmund leaned back in his chair and took a slow sip of his ale.

Alden nodded in sober agreement and stared blankly into the fire. A thousand thoughts flew through his mind all at once. He had never been part of anything this dangerous in his life, but he felt like he had to. Like it was a responsibility — no, a calling. Something was certainly calling to him. The voice rang from a depth he didn’t know existed. He felt he had no choice but to see the whole of it through, no matter the consequences.

Small like a pebble stuck in your shoe. Small like a seed buried in the cold dirt. Small like a spark against dry kindling. But it often is the smallest of things that turn out to be the biggest…

The people of Norwich would have sworn adamantly that there was no such thing as magic.

They were far too grown up and educated to be fooled by such a childish ploy. They had commutes and deadlines, appointments and taxes, classes and books. Ah, books... you must know that not all books are written the same nor have identical effects. Many of the ones resting on their wooden shelves, with all the well-calculated information they had to offer, did nothing more than close off their minds; like metal doors shutting out the sun in the name of progress.

But there was that occasional rare book, ragged and worn by the hands of time and love, passed down with care like a secret or a diamond — held tightly until it was safe in another’s hands. That kind of book was a dangerous thing to have lying around. For if someone dared stumble upon it, they would find it near impossible to return to any sense of decency. Indeed, it would gnaw at all sense of reasonableness until one was driven to the edge of madness itself.

At least that was what their friends and family members reported after. But it is not always a bad thing to be called mad in a world that has long lost its sense of wonder.

And on a cold, midwinter day in January, the people of Norwich would come to find out that there was more to this world than what they had been told in their books and classes. Yes, far more than what they were told, but for some, no more than what they had secretly longed for and hoped to be true.

Alden sat with his back pressed against the scarred wooden bench as his professor waved his hands sporadically against the blackboard. The wisdom of Socrates and Aristotle stretched across the top half in bright yellow chalk as he scribbled his own personal musings below in faint blue. Philosophy at Cambridge was not for the faint of heart, at least not when Mr. Cudworth was teaching. In his own words, it was not a successful lecture unless his students left with a figurative nosebleed from engaging in thought at such dizzying heights. And on most days, that was the observable evidence as student after student exited the lecture hall with a blended look of perplexity and curiosity.

Mr. Cudworth was not at all your average professor, though on the outside he certainly looked the part. He had a large head of wispy white hair with a few rogue strands, a leathery face that was outlined by a pair of oddly bent black spectacles and an aged body that was draped with the customary black robes, one size too large. Yet those who paid close enough attention knew this was all just a disguise, a mere facade for something much more wild and unpredictable underneath.

There were a few students who were not so easily fooled by the appearance, Alden being the most keen. Over time he began to pick up on the subtle shifts in the professor’s voice and the glinted spark in his sage green eyes when he looked out through the window near his desk. It was as if he was recalling a long lost memory, pulling up some archaic wisdom from a dreadfully deep well. It was obvious to Alden that Mr. Cudworth knew something that he was working very hard to restrain and keep in. But his strength was fading with age and time, the dam began to crack, and Alden was determined to catch every drop of gold that slowly trickled forth.

Delight and joy are not a luxury for me.
My heart is often at risk of pumping cold blood. 
I find in myself a great need to see the world smiling,
as I smile back at it in wonder.

Joy is an ancient blade that must be brandished.
What else can slay the dragon of gloom?

And so I gaze at every sunrise
and chase down every sunset.
Mouth gaping like it was the first time.
Because to me, it feels like the first time.
And this tells me I am safe from the gripping,
cold, calculating, clutching hands of this age. 

The poison that says this thing is just this thing.
That a star is just a flaming ball of gas,
and nothing more.
I fear analyzing that doesn't lead to amazement.
I fear reducing Heaven down to a thesis.

Stopping to smell the roses is not a luxury for me.
I need to remind myself of how alive this world is,
and how alive I am to this world.

Every blade of grass, holding a drop of rain,
holding a world of things to know and love,
glimmering with the glory it is held by.

This is not a luxury.
This is a necessity.
Oxygen to my lungs.
I breathe in glory
and exhale wonder.
And my heart stays warm.

I would venture to say that approaching the Christian Story from this direction, it has long been my feeling (a joyous feeling) that God redeemed the corrupt making-creatures, men, in a way fitting to this aspect, as to others, of their strange nature. The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories. They contain many marvels—peculiarly artistic, beautiful, and moving: “mythical” in their perfect, self-contained significance; and among the marvels is the greatest and most complete conceivable Eucatastrophe. But this story has entered History and the primary world; the desire and aspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation. The Birth of Christ is the Eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the Eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy. It has pre-eminently the “inner consistency of reality.” There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many sceptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath.

It is not difficult to imagine the peculiar excitement and joy that one would feel, if any specially beautiful fairy-story were found to be “primarily” true, its narrative to be history, without thereby necessarily losing the mythical or allegorical significance that it had possessed. It is not difficult, for one is not called upon to try and conceive anything of a quality unknown. The joy would have exactly the same quality, if not the same degree, as the joy which the “turn” in a fairy-story gives: such joy has the very taste of primary truth. (Otherwise its name would not be joy.) It looks forward (or backward: the direction in this regard is unimportant) to the Great Eucatastrophe. The Christian joy, the Gloria, is of the same kind; but it is preeminently (infinitely, if our capacity were not finite) high and joyous. But this story is supreme; and it is true. Art has been verified. God is the Lord, of angels, and of men—and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused.

— Tolkien, On Fairy-stories (Epilogue)

The grill is on and the smell of propane and fresh sausages assaults my senses as I hear the echoes of a woodpecker on a distant tree. I’m thinking about the idea of mystery and how we grow as people. We just got finished fasting and praying for three weeks as a church and I recall the common thoughts and questions that would come up: “How does this really work?” and “What if I break my fast? Does it mean I ruin the whole thing? Will God still bless me…?” They are honest questions, but they reveal something about how we think about how we actually change and grow as people.

Humans are so quick to try to put everything into a box. Everything needs a formula, an answer, an explanation. If 1+1=2 then shouldn’t me doing this certain action automatically lead to a specific response. Well… not really. Not with this life and certainly not a life with God. We want Ikea manuals for everything; for how to pray, for how to read the Bible, for how to raise our kids, for how to grow in being compassionate. But those don’t exist. There are no easy and quick steps for how to grow. No clear, straight path for maturity. The only path that exists is the wild one through fire, up hills, through strange forests that make us get a bit lost and down in the valleys where we barely see the light.

I don’t want a faith that is plug and play. That is like thinking we can fit Niagara Falls into a Ziplock bag. It’s like trying to make God into an AI chatbot where we input questions and He spits out ready-made answers. No. We need the journey, the struggle, the wrestle, the mystery. We need the liturgy, the practice, the long-obedience in the same direction. This is what makes us. The mystery of it all is actually beautiful — and it’s in this tension where we get to put our real faith in the real Jesus and trust Him as we put one foot in front of the other.

If you are bored with life, it might be because you have sucked out all the mystery and have an answer for everything. Let it all be bigger than yourself, than what you can understand or wrap your neatly-tied theology around.

Jesus is so much bigger and so much better. He is the mystery and the journey; the way, the truth and the wild life!

I sit here under blue skies littered with a thin haze of white clouds. The tobacco smoke from my pipe floats weightless away in the air, reminding me that my life is a lot like that.

Here today, gone tomorrow.
A breath. A mist. A vapor.

And somehow, that wild truth frees me.

It frees me to live. To enjoy this moment. To delight in the small things and not fret over what I can't control or fill my mind with anxious thoughts. Jesus said you can't add even an hour to your life by worrying, so I guess I should just spend the little hours I do have attentive. Attentive to the birds, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the books on my shelves, the kids running through the backyard laughing. 

Another wisp of smoke floats away and I breathe slowly, lifting my gaze upward. That's where I want my eyes to be, but if I am honest, most of the time they can tend to be on myself. How I came off in that moment, what others think of me, how well I did, etc. But I've sensed a change over the years. It's been slow, but I am becoming more comfortable in my skin, more confident, more awake to who I was created to be. 

That's the journey, isn't it?

Becoming who we already are. Not having to create some new identity up for ourselves but discovering that unique person that God had made us to be all along. That person is there. They were always there, often just buried under the rubble of performance, insecurities, and the mixed propaganda of a culture that says fit in or be left behind. I've caught myself saying to my wife a few times this last year "I really like who I am becoming." I don't think that comes from a place of pride. But I am proud. And I feel God's smile over my life. And that's everything to me.

And so I lift my gaze upward.

The tree that was barren all winter with a skeleton outline has now exploded with green leaves and white flowers, reminding me that good things take time. You can't rush the process. There is no shortcut around the valley. We all need seasons of death and dormancy. Just a few weeks ago the tree looked lifeless. Now it looks like it's bursting with more life than it knows what to do with.

I think we grow more like trees than we realize. There are seasons in our lives. Seasons of things being stripped away, seasons of stillness, seasons where new seeds need to be planted, and seasons where the branches are laden with ripe fruit.

We all want the fruit, but we don't want to wait. But patience is the name of the game. I don't really like being patient. But all the good stuff of life is on the other side of it. Of waiting. Of deep work done slow over long seasons. And so we wait, but not without hope. We wait with expectancy.

The little tobacco that is left in my pipe is now just ash. The sun is moving slowly in the sky and now I sit under a cool canopy of shade as planes and birds both fly over my head. I read over what I have written to my kids and they give me wide smiles and I am reminded of the words from Julian of Norwich, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."

“What can a fictional story say to my pain, grief, work, parenting, singleness, and dreams?”

It turns out the answer is: quite a lot...

This is why it’s always a thrill for me to see someone’s eyes light up for the first time when they suddenly become aware that this grand narrative actually has the ability to not only map onto their own life, but also speak into it in a profoundly deep way.

I just experienced this with a good friend this past week. He knew how big of a Tolkien nerd I was and would often take the comical jabs at me for it. So when he randomly asked to borrow the books to start reading, I was pleasantly surprised. A week later, as he was already deep into book two, I received this text from him as he was processing his current season of life:

I feel like Sam, I just want to go back home where everything was good. Journey started cute, but some days I feel like I’m solo and post fellowship disbanding.

Dry marsh, rapidly changing friend groups…

Hobbits are gardeners, they have no place in Eastern lands, but they were selected to bear the journey through that land to complete something much bigger.

I have to continually remind myself why I left the comfortable, where I fit the mold, and come expectant that the bigger thing is truly ahead, and it is better.

It wasn’t just the fact that he was quoting LOTR that brought me joy, it was the fact that I was witnessing him make sense of and navigate his own story through this lens. It not only put words to his journey, it gave him comfort, courage and vision for what he was experiencing and how he needed to move forward.

This is why I love reading Tolkien. Not just because I enjoy Middle-earth, but because it has been a source of clarity to my own life and story.

This is really the way I think life is designed to work. It’s really hard to understand your own story, let alone figure out how to live in it, without the presence of another story. We are storied people. Humans have been this way since the dawn of creation. It’s the way God made this world. It’s why music, movies, plays, and books are so powerful. We have a great need to immerse ourselves in another story and let it overlap, jab, poke, reveal, expose, comfort and strengthen us. No amount of reasoning or logic can do this. Myth is the native language of the soul.

Read good literature. Fiction is not a waste of time. A good story with real human depth is a prophetic voice. It speaks wisdom and warning into our lives. It calls us out, lifting our eyes, and inviting us further into the life we were meant to live.

What do elves, dwarves and magical lands have to do with your life? Everything.

For me, this book (which I only picked up for the first time less than 6 years ago) is on another level when it comes to stories. There is something deeply human and haunting about the way Tolkien shaped his world and characters — the best way I can describe it is that it feels like coming home and yet leaves you with an ache for another world, something that you have a faint memory of and yet deeply long for to be true and real. It taps into the greater story we are all living in with beauty, tragedy and hope — and it has and still is shaping the way I see and understand the world!

If you haven’t yet read through LOTR, this is a great inexpensive copy to buy to start off the adventure and journey… I hope you enjoy the comments below and it encourages you towards picking up the book again… or maybe for the very first time!

PS. I have a Tolkien YouTube channel that explores these amazing stories with inspiring reflections on them and interviews from Tolkiens scholars and authors.

1. Because when I read it my inner world is baptized anew.

2. Tolkien's whole world is aligned to foundational values. The trees may walk, but the reality is rooted in the Good (as opposed to evil), the True (as opposed to the false), and the Beautiful (as opposed to the grotesque.) That is what they strive to preserve, at great cost.

3. It always gives me a frisson of the "numinous" - of the wonderful & uncanny just lurking beyond the horizon or behind the trees.

4. I remember hearing decades ago that the more we re-read quality literature, the more deeply it reads us. Each rereading of The Lord of the Rings broadens my understanding of Tolkien's profoundly pro-human perspective, and calls forth greater empathy, interconnectedness, and hope.

5. A story about resilience and how even an ordinary person can save the world by overcoming adversity and temptation. That’s the reason I believe this story is unique. The main protagonist isn’t the strongest character, but someone small who bears a great burden.

6. Because it gave me true peace, I could escape to a world where I felt I belonged.

7. Because it’s a story of hope against all odds. Hope when there is no reason to have hope.

8. The Lord of the Rings transcends fantasy: it is a profound meditation on courage, sacrifice, and the resilience of hope in the face of overwhelming darkness. For me, is not just a story; it’s a guide on life, teaching that friendship and perseverance matter more than power.

9. Beyond it being a story of bravery, of hope through despairing circumstance, of living up to the expectations of you… It is also just an excellent example of male friendship.

10. It gives me courage.

11. It is the world I was looking for before I knew what I was looking for, and when I found it, I knew that was the place I longed for. It’s the historical version of the faerie world where everything is realistic. I was a child when I found it and it has stayed with me ever since.

12. It’s completely different from anything made nowadays it’s like an old story passed down and the perfect adventure epic

13. It shines with an inner light. That is the only way I can describe it.

14. I was raised in a Christian home, but in some real and true ways, my heart found heaven by wandering through Middle-earth.

15. You are transported into a world that is so beautiful that you understand why the stakes are so high to save it and it leaves you with the feeling that you too would have joined the fight to save it. The friendship, camaraderie, the love, the strength of the characters have.

16. Excellent prose, layers and layers of themes, deep characters, love of Nature permeates the whole thing.

17. The exquisite language that encompasses everything from simple pub talk to that of the elevated legendary heroes of old. The prose, the dialogues, the poems; the echoes of history, myths, and folk tales.

18. So many things… but one I’ve felt more strongly recently is themes of male friendship and vulnerability. With a modern onslaught of “toxic masculinity”, I think LOTR and even the hobbit offer a wonderful position of men being strong and courageous…..but also scared. I love seeing the characters often speak to their male friendship with love and compassion, instead of just being gruff and rough “with the boys”. While it hasn’t done it on its own, I think LOTR has helped me be more of a loving friend to my male friends and has encouraged me to be strong but also vulnerable, even in the middle of crisis.

19. It’s a return to moral clarity. The bad is portrayed as pure evil, the good is portrayed as unambiguously just. Sure, there’s some grey areas—as every story must have—but even in the wrestling of ambition, there’s an acknowledgement of what should be compared to what has been corrupted.

20. LotR reminds me that there is still good, light, and beauty in this world.

21. I love the interplay of homey things, sublime beauty, and heroism. Also, the moral clarity.

22. For me, I appreciated it so much the more after reading The Inklings biography by Phillip and Carol Zeleski. For Tolkien to lose his father, travel from South Africa to England, lose his mother, survive the trenches of World War I, and through it all hold fast to the stories and myths of old, and cling to a childlike sense of awe and wonder for this world and his abiding joy that stemmed from his Catholic Faith? People should pay very close attention to what a man like that has to say.

23. I love them because when I look at my own struggles, I don’t just see lonely little Alex trudging along. I see Frodo and Sam walking with him through the Plains of Gorgoroth. When I lament the injustices of the ruling class, I’m reminded that the King will have a crown again and everything sad will one day become untrue. When I lose a loved one, they remind me that death was the one secret gift given to man by Iluvatar. In short, I guess, I love them because they bring the clarity of hope through myth.

24. I love Lord of the Rings because it made me read again, I love it because Tolkien fought in WWI, the most horrific war in modern history, but he came back home and wrote this gem (at the time of another horrific war) which is bursting with beauty and hope, I love it because its spine is a simple character for whom the most important things were his home, his friends, his garden, and “the stories that matter”, I love it because every word of it is truer than a true story, and I love it because Faramir saves Éowyn from self-destructive darkness… and because Tolkien reminds us that, despite doing everything right and taking the Ring all the way to Mount Doom, fate needs to intervene for the task to be over.

25. The richness and beauty of the world presented to us, even as it is under attack. The sense of goodness that is lived rather than merely performed. The willingness of the protagonists to lose everything rather than give in to Sauron. A king who knows what it means to rule wisely. A wizard who gives counsel rather than bending others to his will. Ordinary people accepting impossible tasks. The sense that goodness can be known and is worth fighting for.

26. Moral role models. How they think and act gives me a good example. Not just having the correct moral beliefs, but the grace and harmony by which they execute it. Even Sauron is helpful for me in that it shows how his psychology traps his mind into a small world of assuming others are only motivated by power like him. Also, the transformations all the characters undergo.

27. I love reading The Lord of the Rings because it reminds me that the small things matter. A walk across a field, a meal shared, a fire tended—these are the moments that carry us. Tolkien’s story is full of battles and journeys, but what stays with me are the quiet gestures of friendship and the courage to keep going when the road feels long. That’s why I think it’s worth reading: it shows us that ordinary life, lived with care, is already part of a greater story.

28. Lord of the Rings shows our world as it actually is (despite being set in a fantasy world). Everything in Middle-Earth operates exactly as it should, exactly in correspondence with how our world works metaphysically. You read the story…and you know it is TRUE, on a level so deep you can't put it into words.

29. You’ll come away from it changed in some way, this masterful storytelling literally creates a before and after version of you. It’s the only way I can explain it. It’s that good.

30. I love it for the reverence it shows towards nature. People hyperbolically complain about Tolkien spending 3 pages describing a tree, but those lengthy passages full of nothing but nature are some of the greatest moments in literature, to me. Imagine being so enraptured with a tree you could spend whole paragraphs meditating on it? What a freaking JOY. That is how I aspire to live my life. I am in love with Tolkien's reverence for nature, & it comes through in such aching brilliance in LotR.

31. LOTR shows that despite evil, there is good, despite grief, there is hope, and despite failure there is redemption. It shows a world that is not at its height - throughout the story we see crumbling ruins and characters look back on previous ages, remembering great deeds of old. Yet still there are those who pursue the true, the good, and the noble. In this we can see something of our own world; although much has been lost over time, we may still strive for goodness in a world that is full of evil.

32. Because while it's dark and violent and sad, it's also full of light and hope, which we need, now more than ever.

33. Tolkien’s epic helped me understand the Bible more clearly — the kind of narrative it really is.

34. Its acknowledgement of tragedy. Lady Arwen must choose between her beloved and her family—for, literally, eternity, so far as anyone knows. Frodo finds he can’t destroy the Ring; its power is too great. Once the Ring is destroyed, Frodo cannot be healed by any power in Middle Earth from the wound he suffered; and the novel ends with parting. Not everyone gets their happily-ever-after.

35. It engages my imagination like no other book. Perfect balance of revealing enough detail for the reader to construct their own internal emotional picture of what is going on.

36. It is helpful to see that goodness is not necessarily easy at all. It encourages me to have heart.

37. I suppose it has to do with the feeing of advancement; of moving forward through the mystery. Making progress in a world of struggle. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s been my experience.

1. The world will still be a beautiful and wonder-filled mystery that is waiting to be enjoyed by those who slow down and have ears to hear and eyes to see.

2. Suffering and loss will come in ways that I cannot expect or dare to want — and God will still be perfectly able and inclined to do what He is in the business of doing, bringing beauty out of the ashes.

3. Some of the most meaningful and impactful moments of this next year will happen outside of my plans and schedule — when I allow myself to be interrupted and inconvenienced for the sake of others.

4. Embracing my limits and saying no to “good” things will simultaneously disappoint people and help keep me sane and faithful to what God has called me to.

5. My attitude in and around a certain circumstance will be the greatest determining factor of my enjoyment and experience of it.

6. Going outside and taking a walk around nature will always help to encourage my soul, reset my perspective and ease my burden.

7. Reading a good fictional story will teach me powerful truths and realities about life in ways that I cannot receive or learn from lectures and lessons.

8. I am going to drop the ball, make a mess and take steps backwards — and Jesus’ grace will not only fill the gaps but strengthen me to get back up and keep going with joy.

9. It will always feel much better to be spent in the service and love of others than to selfishly reserve my energy and just think about myself.

10. Cynicism will rob you of the joy, wonder and gratitude you were meant to live with.

A Bonus one: Spending time doing what you enjoy (for me, reading Tolkien and smoking a pipe) is not a waste of time but a necessary way to remind myself that all of life is a gift from God to be received, stewarded and enjoyed!

You can watch the sermon here.

The Christmas Scandal

It’s Christmas time and we’re celebrating the coming of Christ. We’re looking from the angle of God’s glory being seen in the lowest places. Last week we saw how God chose the lowliness of Mary to bring forth Christ. Lowliness is not something to try to fix or cover, but to embrace. Today we are looking at the lowly manger and the birth of Christ.

But before we look at that, I want to share a danger I feel in this season. I am, and we are, in danger of missing the real shock of Christmas! It has become, for some, too predictable, too easily explained, too normalized. We have sprinkled too much “Holiday” glitter over the nativity scene. We have commercialized it and domesticated what is really a wild thing.

How do we know this has happened to us?

Because we aren’t startled anymore. We aren’t left speechless in awe. We think we can wrap our minds around it and make sense of it. We feel things in our hearts like: “Of course Christ came as a baby…” We can explain it theologically, recite the Scriptures, sing the songs. We have missed the scandal of God coming as a newborn.

I think the word scandal is appropriate: It means something that incites outrage or offense. How can the Creator of 2 trillion galaxies coming as a fetus not be a scandal? How can the Holy God being birthed by a sinner not offend our thinking? It is offensive to our culture, to our expectations of God, to the way the world works.

So here is my concern for this message and series as we teach the Bible: Any increase of understanding without an increase in awe is a dangerous trajectory. God forbid we fill our minds with good theology while our hearts remain unmoved.

My hope isn’t that you just learn something new today. My hope is for a fresh sense of wonder that leads to a fresh response of worship.

In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria. And all went to be registered, each to his own town. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. (Luke 2:1-7)

The question we want to ask and answer is this: Why did Jesus have to come in this way? Why did he have to go this low?

A Lowly Scene

Let’s return to the verse: Luke 2:7 - “And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.”

Part of how we increase our wonder is to slow down to think through these things. Familiarity is an automatic killer of awe – and so let’s work to see this with fresh eyes.

The Setting

“There was no place, no room for them in the inn.” Everyone was traveling back for the census - family homes were filled with people. We are told that the “the inn,” the guest room, is full, no regular rooms left. Think about this: Jesus gets squeezed out, he is pushed out to the margins. This is Immanuel God with us – and there is no room for Him! Kings have palaces and the true King has no room to call his own. But the story goes even lower.

The Manger

Normal homes had a common family room and a lower level with a stone floor. It was like our version of the garage – where animals would take shelter at night. This is where Mary gives birth. The only space available – alongside animals. Jesus is placed in a stone or wooden trough where cows and donkeys would feed. This is not a clean, nice oak-stained wooden manger with velvet cloth draped over. This is where dirty animals eat: think of the filth and the smell and the dirt. I am not sure you can be born in a lower or dirtier place. Think about it: God chooses to be born in this low, dirty place. This was not where normal births took place – it wasn’t common or expected. God is making a statement about Himself, His lowly heart, His mission.

Just when you think Jesus can’t go any lower...

The Birth

To understand this moment we have to fight the urge to “Disnify” it. I enjoy the song “Silent Night” - but I don’t think “all is calm” is helpful. All wasn’t calm, clean and perfect. Birth is messy, loud, unpredictable, painful. Mary felt real pain. There were no epidurals. No heart monitors. It was scary.

And let’s ponder the form Jesus chose to take: a newborn baby. Newborns are helpless, messy, crying, not useful and needy. They are fully dependent, not able to do anything on their own. Can you pause and imagine God becoming a newborn? This is God, in flesh, becoming the lowest, you can’t go lower. Helpless but still sinless. Dependent but still Creator. Man but still God.

I hope you have a fresh awe for what took place on this night.

We might think that this all is wild and shocking - and it is.

But there is something more wild and that is the reason why Jesus came.

A Cosmic Reason

Let’s think back to our questions: Why did Jesus have to come this way? Why did he have to go this low?

Jesus didn’t stoop this low to just show off His humility or meekness. Jesus didn’t come as a baby just for shock factor or to be different. God came in this way because His cosmic rescue mission depended on it. God’s plan of redemption couldn’t have happened any other way than this.

What was the rescue mission of Jesus?

For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross. (Colossians 1:19-20)

In the beginning Heaven and Earth were one (Garden of Eden) – humanity and God united in love. But sin severed the union and caused a fracture that split the Universe. There was hostility and division between Heaven and Earth – creation and Creator. It wasn’t just man that was separated by sin but creation itself – all things groan! God’s mission was restoring that relationship – bringing peace in place of division. The goal was always this: God dwelling with man, walking with us in relationship!

On the cross, Jesus becomes the sacrifice, paying the judgement, bringing peace by His blood. He is the substitute in our place. Jesus is where Heaven and Earth meet and are unified in harmony once again! Jesus’ rescue mission is cosmic in size and scope – redeeming the cosmos! He is doing nothing less than restoring all that has gone wrong.

And this is where the lowly birth of Jesus comes in…

If Jesus is where Heaven and Earth would be re-united – then God must become man. The rescue doesn’t work unless He becomes like one of us – lives and dies as one of us.

Because God’s children are human beings, made of flesh and blood, the Son also became flesh and blood. For only as a human being could he die, and only by dying could he break the power of the devil, who had the power of death. (Hebrews 2:14-15)

It was mankind that sinned and went astray and so Jesus comes as the perfect man. The Bible says it this way: the first Adam brought death through his sin. The second Adam brings life through his obedience. Jesus is the second Adam, He is the begenning of the New Creation! In order for God to save humanity, He had to stoop so low as to take on flesh.

C.S. Lewis illustrates this powerfully by writing:

“God really has dived down into the bottom of creation, and has come up bringing the whole redeemed nature on His shoulders. One has a picture of someone going right down and dredging the sea bottom. Or else one has the picture of a diver, stripping off garment after garment, making himself naked, then flashing for a moment in the air and then down through the green and warm and sunlit water into the pitch black, cold freezing water, down into the mud and slime, then up again, his lungs almost bursting, back again to the green and warm and sunlit water, and then last out into the sunshine, holding in his hand the dripping thing he went down to get. This thing is human nature; but, associated with it, all nature, the new universe.”

This is what is happening in Christmas — Christ, the God-man, diving to the bottom of creation to rescue us!

Jesus descends so low so that He could bring all of creation up in His ascension.

Why come as a baby? Why a manger? Why afflicted and tempted? Why death? He had to stoop so low - because this is where all of creation has gone. All of creation was at rock-bottom - in the depths of sin and darkness with no way out. And out of His deep love for us – He dives down to the bottom to rescue us.

Psalm 40:2 says, “He lifted me out of the pit of destruction, out of the mud and mire.”

Jesus could only lift us out of our pit if He first descended down into it with us. He enters into the mess, the dirt, the darkness, the filth of human nature. He doesn’t throw us a ladder down from Heaven to climb out: we could never do it! Jesus comes down to us and puts us on His shoulders - and carries us home!

It’s one thing to say God came low – but there is another level of shock to this:

Though Jesus was in the form of God, he did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him… (Philippians 2:6-9)

Just as Lewis talks about the diver, stripping off his garments and diving down, Christ - the God-man – casts away the privileges and protections of being God! He doesn’t just go low while guarding Himself. He feels the very lowness we feel. He becomes vulnerable to pain, to rejection, to grief, to loss, to ache. The sharpness of the hay against His skin was the most pain He had felt. He is: “the man of sorrows,” “acquainted with grief,” “tempted in every way we are.”

What a God! That He would allow Himself to feel the fire, the darkness, the pain. He then dies, going to the lowest place – and resurrects, bringing us up with Him!

Jesus comes low in His birth - this is good news. But what is he doing now, today? What does this mean for you and I when we find ourselves at rock-bottom?

A Beautiful Implication

There is good news: Christmas wasn’t a one-off miracle. It was a revelation of God’s heart.

For thus says the One who is high and lifted up, who inhabits eternity, whose name is Holy: “I dwell in the high and holy place, and also with him who is of a contrite and lowly spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly, and to revive the heart of the contrite.” (Isaiah 57:15)

“Contrite” means crushed, devastated, beaten down. “Lowly” means humiliated, demoted, diminished in worth.

Some of you feel this way: crushed, defeated, ashamed, weary, beaten down by life. You have a smile on your face but inside you feel like you are at rock-bottom. Some of you feel too dirty - too messed up - too far gone. You think that you have to clean your life up before God will come near and help.

But here is the Good News of Christmas:

Just as Jesus entered the lowly mess of the manger and put His glory on display, Jesus is still choosing to enter the low, dirty mess of our hearts and bring His life. God chooses to go to the broken, the crushed, the least, the lost, the last. He enters our places of shame, of fear, of regret, of loneliness, of burden.

He enters not to shame or accuse, but to revive and restore! To breathe life where there is death, hope where this is despair.

Jesus has entered into my own lowly places – where I was crushed and humiliated:

When I felt too weak to fight sin and walked around feeling dirty and fake. When I was hurt by the closest of friends and felt betrayed and alone. When I have failed and dropped the ball and felt inadequate and ineffective. Christ has been faithful to descend into my mess, my lowly estate and revive me!

You might think you are too dirty, too much of a mess, but I have good news for you: The mess and dirtiness of your life does not repel the risen Jesus, it actually draws out His love all the more.

If Christmas shows us anything, it’s that God loves to dwell in the low and dirty places. He comes down low to the pits and He lifts us up and out!

This is the scandalous good news of Christmas.

I want to make a case for why books (I am intentionally focusing on stories of fiction) are some of the greatest gifts you can give. Below you’ll find three simple reasons, and a list of good books to buy for adults and kids alike.

Three Reasons to Gift Good Books

1. Books stir up the imagination.

This doesn’t mean a good toy doesn’t. I think a product like Lego is some of the best for stimulating imagination. My kids can sit with a pile of those colorful blocks and create wild and beautiful things for hours. But the list of toys and gadgets that offer this is short (and growing shorter). On the other hand, stories are like portals into untold worlds. They whisk kids off into lands of peril and wonder, where the laws of physics are broken and what they think about life is turned inside-out and upside-down. Good stories cause the reader to think deeply, to stretch beyond the limitations of their own world and break into new perspectives — or, as C.S. Lewis would argue in his essay On Stories, to come back into this world seeing with new eyes and appreciation the things that were always here:

“The value of the myth is that it takes all the things we know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by ‘the veil of familiarity.’ The child enjoys his cold meat, otherwise dull to him, by pretending it is buffalo, just killed with his own bow and arrow. And the child is wise. The real meat comes back to him more savory for having been dipped in a story…by putting bread, gold, horse, apple, or the very roads into a myth, we do not retreat from reality: we rediscover it.”

But why is imagination so important? Isn’t imagination just a throwaway addition to real life? Lewis argued that “Reason is the natural organ of truth; but imagination is the organ of meaning.” While reason helps us process factual information and truth, our imagination helps us process meaning — and meaning is something we cannot live without as humans! We need meaning infused into everything we do, we need to make sense of the story we are living in, we are wired for it and nothing less, and we shrivel up if we lose it. Imagination helps us stitch together a more cohesive story of this world and our lives.

2. Books are better than screens.

I am not a luddite. I use technology and am thankful for what it can do to help. But I am also not ignorant to the destructive pull of screens. I’ve seen kids waste away in front of phones, tablets and TVs. Sure, there are fun shows to watch and movies to enjoy (we watch them as a family) — but if you are thinking of a gift to give, I beg you to consider a good book. A screen is filled with content you can’t often control and wouldn’t want to teach your kids. They are exposed to things they should never be exposed to and are worse off for it (I shouldn’t need to cite any evidence as it is all around nowadays, but here is a good book on this). It’s no secret that screens and apps are literally engineered to take captive, to steal and exploit your attention. They are wired to be addictive in the worst of ways. Because of this, a screen is something where you can easily isolate yourself from the world around you — it is made to suck you into its own vortex and cause you to think that what it is showing you is true reality. Books on the other hand, while they immerse you into their world, allow you to put it down and still continue to live in that adventure in the real world. Good stories can steel your spine with courage and soften your heart to love. They draw you in to push you back out, while screens often only suck and take and distort.

3. Books are better teachers.

Very few people like to be lectured to and told how to live, especially kids (though I might add adults to this as well). But there is something strange and wonderful that happens in books — even and especially with fairy-tales and great works of fiction. Somehow, through the adventures, you begin to learn and be shaped. This doesn’t happen directly but rather subconsciously, at levels we cannot see or label. You begin to observe how the characters live, what choices they make, what consequences they must endure and rewards they get to enjoy — and without even knowing it, you begin to absorb high virtues and examples of wise living. It does its job so effectively maybe because it comes slipping in through the back door, unnoticed and yet warmly received. Our guard is down, our heart is open and the seed of courage, kindness, nobility and faithfulness are planted. Good stories also help teach us new ways of living because the reader can place themselves within the life of the characters. They can see themselves in the sorrow, in the joys, in the confusion — and this bond helps to make us feel invested, which makes us think of our own lives and decisions.

Good stories can also teach us wisdom that we have lost in our modern culture (this is also why reading books from older authors is necessary). Our ancestors had an ancient wisdom that, to us modernized people, might seem outdated, but is needed more than ever. To learn from the past is to steward the present and prepare for the future. Stories help us do all of this in a powerful way.

But wait…

I can almost hear you saying as you read this: “This is great and all… but my kids are not readers.”

That’s fair. I wasn’t much of a reader at all until late in high-school. But to my awareness, this was less because I did not have the capacity for such an activity and more because the environment I grew up in was one where we didn’t do much talking about books or reading collectively together. It wasn’t valued or encouraged. I wonder what would have happened if it was… And I do have some semblance of an idea to a possibility, for we have made our home a place of books and reading good stories from the earliest of ages. Now, as they turn 10 and 13, they can’t put books down. We read at bedtime, we read in the morning, we listen to audiobooks in the car (this is a great way to get kids started on stories before they can read). It was never forced, it was just normal - and what was normal became enjoyable and desired and cherished. Your kids don’t have to reach some quota for reading per month or year - but introducing good stories into their lives at early ages will open up their eyes, hearts and minds to new worlds that few other things have the power to do.

A Short List of Books Worth Gifting

These books will fill you with wonder, make you cry, shout, feel more alive, ache and long for a better world… (And yes, these are for kids and adults, you are never too old to read a fairy-tale)

• The Narnia Series

• The Hobbit

• The Lord of the Rings

• The Wingfeather Saga

• Impossible Creatures

• King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table

• The Green Ember Series

• Giant (a fictional book on C.S. Lewis)

Remember that one wild moment in time
back when we measured seconds and days
when we were alive in the land of death
and yet dying to find real life —
hanging by threads and hidden behind veils
we spun and toiled and stretched wide
grasping for air, trying to clinch mist

Remember that strange awareness of pain
the sudden ache and swift stab of sorrow
when we would lose much and feel lost
as all things seemed to slip away from us
like castles set on sinking sand —
the warmth of tears were our only comfort

Remember when we looked upon the heavens
as our heads were cradled in the cool grass
eyes wide as we stared at the glittering stars
lost in the wonder of a thousand galaxies —
the world felt like a myth too large for us
our brains throbbed as we lingered on the truth 
that life was both mystery and gift

Remember when we longed for Him
like a patch of dry land swallows up the rain
we hungered and prayed and begged
searching in a thousand different things
never feeling at home or at rest —
until we stumbled upon that buried treasure 
and drank of that new wine 

Remember when He came to us
threatening to tear apart the fabric of nature
frail skin holding back infinity 
the inside bigger than the outside
as pure love touched foolish things
forsaking power He bent low —
and exchanged His life for ours
the Universe still trembles in reverence

Remember when we hoped for this
of living in that new world —
healed, changed and wholly happy
not just filled, but brimming over
like waterfalls feeding into rivers
that native dream we were born with
now the address of our new home
where we sing with redwoods and robins
and feel the joy of the never-ending feast

I had this random thought before going to bed of thinking back on our lives from the vantage point of eternity — what would it be like if we thought back a million years from now? Would it all seem so strange now that we are truly home and healed? I would love to know your thoughts…