Love That Came Low

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Philippians 2:6-8 — Though he 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.

The stable smelled of straw and the faint warmth of animals. In Mary’s arms lay a newborn—small, fragile, and yet impossibly weighty in the gravity of His presence.

His breathing was soft and rhythmic, anchoring the room in a stillness Mary had never known. She laid Him gently in the manger, adjusting the swaddling as Joseph watched, eyes wide with a kind of awe that left him steadying himself against the wood.

Everything about Him felt ordinary and extraordinary all at once.

The animals shifted closer, curious and calm. Mary’s mind struggled to hold the paradox before her: this tiny, vulnerable child was the promised Messiah—the Son of God—choosing straw over a throne. She brushed her fingers across His delicate hand, and the truth settled in her chest like a weight and a wonder all at once.

Love had chosen humility.

Joseph leaned in, one hand braced against the manger. Mary watched Jesus curl His fingers the way newborns do—reaching for nothing, and yet somehow reaching for everything. Each small movement felt like a quiet declaration: heaven had entered the world without spectacle, without force, without defense.

Outside, the world slept on, unaware. But inside this simple shelter, love had lowered itself so completely that even a young mother could cradle Him without fear.

This was what the words would later try to capture:

“Though He was in the form of God, He did not consider equality with God something to be grasped. Instead, He emptied Himself, taking the form of a servant… humbling Himself to the point of death.” (Philippians 2:6–8)

But before those words were written, they were lived—first in a manger.

Mary exhaled slowly, as though her heart was finally catching up to what her hands were holding.

And somewhere in that quiet, a question began to rise.

If God Himself was willing to come this low for the sake of love…
what might that mean for us?

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • What part of Jesus’ humility stands out to you most in this scene?
  • Why do you think God chose to enter the world quietly rather than with power and spectacle?
  • Where in your own life might God be inviting you to release status, control, or self-protection?
  • How does understanding Jesus’ willingness to “empty Himself” shape the way you see love?
  • What would it look like for you to reflect Christ’s humility in one small, intentional way today?
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Tiny Gifts, Big Riches

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Colossians 3:16 — Let the message about Christ, in all its richness, fill your lives. Teach and counsel each other with all the wisdom he gives. Sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs to God with thankful hearts.

I remember the story Penny shared about a Christmas when money was scarce, and she had three daughters counting on her. She prayed openly, asking God for a way to make the morning feel like a celebration, even if the gifts were small.

Her solution was simple but perfect. Instead of gifts, she spent less than fifty dollars on little trinkets, wrapped them, and hid them throughout the house. She wrote clues on index cards and turned her home into a treasure hunt.

On Christmas morning, she handed the first clue to her daughters. The house erupted with sound. Feet hit floors. Voices bounced off walls. Each small treasure found became a prize. Each discovery turned into a shared favorite memory.

Penny watched her daughters and realized that joy can arrive in small packages. Laughter and excitement filled the holes in their family’s hearts that riches could not reach.

Later, Penny reflected on the lessons those lean years taught her daughters and herself — lessons that stayed with them long after the gifts were gone:

  • Creativity blooms when the cupboards are bare.
  • Laughter carries farther than money ever could.
  • Giving does not have to cost anything; it can be time or a kind act.
  • Family presence outweighs possessions.
  • Discontentment shrinks as appreciation grows.
  • Hard times teach lessons that last a lifetime.

Toward the end of the story, she shared a verse with me, the one she had read to her girls each Christmas: Colossians 3:16. “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God.” That moment tied everything together.

It reminded her—and me—that they were never poor. Not then. Not now. Every Advent season, I return to that line. If the Word dwells in us, if gratitude fills our homes, and if He is already here celebrating with us, who among us could ever not call ourselves rich?

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • When have you experienced joy that didn’t depend on money or material things? What made that moment meaningful?
  • Colossians 3:16 speaks of letting Christ’s message “dwell richly” in us. What fills your home most often during this season — stress, comparison, or gratitude?
  • How might creativity and thankfulness grow when circumstances feel limited?
  • What simple traditions or shared moments have shaped your faith more than gifts ever could?
  • In what ways might God be reminding you this season that you are already rich in what matters most?
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Finding Jesus on the Long Road

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Psalm 16:11 — You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.

The star hovered above the horizon calling them forward like a song. The Magi trudged onward, carrying treasures, hope, and exhaustion. Each step felt heavier than the last, yet the drumbeat of hope continued.

The villages they passed offered little—some bread as well as suspicion. Still the star hung unwavering above them as if to say, “Joy to the world! The Lord is come!”

The desert wind cut across their faces as they paused to rest. But the melody continued in their bones: “Let earth receive her King; let every heart prepare Him room.”

They pressed on. They had studied the stars for decades, and they knew the signs. The long-awaited Savior had come. He was deserving of their gifts of praise and so much more.

When the star finally rested above a small house, they approached slowly, holding their breath, hearts pounding.

Inside, a child lay in wide-eyed wonder. The Magi laid down their gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Kneeling, they felt layers of joy rise—relief, awe, and nearly weightless gladness.

Here He was, the promised Messiah. He comes to make His blessings flow. He, alone, rules the world with truth and grace.

A dream warned them not to return the way they had come, and they obeyed. Everything—the star, the dream, the child waiting—reminded the Magi why they had kept walking. Every sleepless night, every risk, every mile in the dust had led them to this.

And the joy they felt was worth it all because the song in their hearts came from Him.

As they knelt, the Wise Men finally understood the truth Scripture had been pointing to all along: “You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” (Psalm 16:11)

And now, kneeling before the child, he felt joy like never before that comes from finally arriving where you were meant to be, from standing before the One who makes every sacrifice matter.

Today, no matter what journey you are on, keep moving toward Him because…oh, the wonders of His love. Bring your gifts, bring your heart, and follow the signs.

And when you find Him, the joy waiting for you will rise like a song—let heaven and nature sing, because He is always worth the journey.

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • What journey are you currently on that feels long, uncertain, or exhausting? How might God be using it to draw you closer to Him?
  • The Magi kept moving even when the road was hard. What helps you continue seeking Jesus when joy feels distant?
  • Psalm 16:11 says joy is found in God’s presence. Where do you usually look for joy first — and how might that need to shift this season?
  • When have you experienced joy not because circumstances were easy, but because you sensed God was near?
  • What gift — time, attention, trust, worship — might God be inviting you to lay at His feet this Christmas?

L Y R I C S 

Joy to the world the Lord is come
Let earth receive her King
Let every heart prepare Him room
And Heaven and nature sing
And Heaven and nature sing
And Heaven and Heaven and nature sing

We will sing sing sing
Joy to the world
We will sing sing sing

Joy to the world the Savior reigns
Let men their songs employ
While fields and floods rocks hills and plains
Repeat the sounding joy
Repeat the sounding joy
Repeat repeat the sounding joy

We will sing sing sing
Joy to the world
We will sing sing sing

He rules the world with truth and grace
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness
And wonders of His love
And wonders of His love
And wonders of His love
And wonders wonders of His love

(We will sing sing sing)
We’re singing we’re singing
Joy to the world
We will sing sing sing

Joyful joyful we adore Thee
God of glory Lord of love
Oh Lord of love
Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee
Opening to the sun above

Joy to the world
(Joyful joyful we adore Thee)
We adore You God
(God of glory Lord of love)
There’s no one like You
No one like You God
(Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee)
Opening to the sun above

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A Man on Fire

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Isaiah 58:10 – If you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness.

When a man has been cold long enough, he either grows numb or he learns how to make his own fire. Charles Dickens learned to make a fire, and he did it with a pen.

London was not gentle that year. 1843. Smoke and industry had squeezed the city until people’s hands were thin and their patience thinner. Dickens had known hunger; as a boy he had watched his family struggle because of money. He himself had married, worked, risen, and stumbled again. Now there were more mouths and fewer coins.

Then one night, with frost crunching beneath his boots, a different kind of idea tapped him on the shoulder.

It was the idea of a story rooted in memories of his own fear, his father’s shame, and the ache of seeing children robbed of joy. And it was set in that stubborn season that insists on light even when the world feels dim. Christmas.

He imagined a man who hoarded his heart.
A haunting that revealed who he had become.
A redemption so unexpected it felt like a miracle.

Charles felt a thrill. He rushed home to begin writing. He wrote with such intensity and inspiration that his family heard him crying out character names from downstairs. His youngest children peeked in, half frightened, half delighted.

Their father was on fire—in the best way.

Six weeks went by. He barely stopped to eat. The pages stacked up. And when he finished, he held a little book that felt like it could breathe on its own.

The publishers balked. The story was too strange, too risky, and too expensive to print with so many illustrations. So Charles did something bold—he paid for it himself. He staked what little he had on a Christmas dream.

And it worked. It more than worked.

A Christmas Carol spread across England like warmth from an open flame. It sold out in days. People read it aloud, wiping their eyes. Through it, Parliament discussed the morality of poverty. Businesses softened their policies. And Charles Dickens accidentally became the patron saint of Victorian Christmas.

But here’s what I love most: the story wasn’t really about a grouchy old man.

It was about grace slipping into the corners of a weary world.

It was about how a single act of generosity can lift a life.

It lived out Isaiah’s promise: “If you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry… then your light will rise in the darkness.”

And rise it did.

Every December, we step into the world of Dickens—one where compassion is celebrated, hearts can soften, and hope refuses to stay quiet.

And maybe that’s the invitation for us today:

To look around our own streets and see who is burdened.
To listen for that quiet inner nudge that whispers, “You could help.”
To believe that what we give—kindness, forgiveness, presence, generosity—can ripple farther than we will ever see.

After all, one man’s desperate December once warmed an entire world.
Who’s to say what your small spark might do?

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • Where do you see “the hungry and the oppressed” around you today? Is God nudging you toward someone who needs compassion or encouragement?
  • What small act of generosity could become a spark of hope for someone else this week?
  • Is there a place in your own life where God is inviting you to “spend yourself” — your time, your presence, your kindness — more freely?
  • When have you felt your own “light rise in the darkness” because someone showed up for you? How can you pass that forward?
  • What could change in your home, workplace, or relationships if you lived with the belief that even small kindnesses matter deeply?
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Christmas for the Forgotten

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Luke 19:10 — For the Son of Man came to seek and save those who are lost.

Evelyn had barely put the car in park before her kids launched themselves toward her parents’ porch like small rockets. She smiled. The house stood there just as she remembered it, lights glowing, wreath crooked, and the faint smell of woodsmoke drifting from the chimney.

More than anything, she longed for a hug from her mother that would make the whole world feel steady again.

She made it only a few steps before her father stepped outside with his coat already buttoned. “Keep your jacket on,” he said. “The jailhouse asked for us to swing by tonight. They could use a piano player for their Christmas Eve service.”

Her first thought was that she could really use a cup of coffee. Her second thought was that she really didn’t want to, but this was exactly the kind of detour her father believed in. There was no getting out of it. So, she climbed into the truck, hymnal in hand, and told herself that she could warm up later.

The jailhouse was bleak, but the piano, by some miracle, was in tune. When she began “Joy to the World,” the men sang like they meant it. Their voices carried the weight of long roads and hard stories.

After a few carols, her father prayed, and a guard motioned for Evelyn to follow him down a narrow hallway. He led her to a room where there was a handful of inmates, all women, sitting in a circle in metal chairs.

When she asked if they wanted to sing, they nodded. After “Away in a Manger,” one of them spoke. “My little boy loves that one.”

The others began to speak too — about children they missed, choices they regretted, and the thin threads of hope they still held. When Evelyn prayed for them, most wanted prayer only for their children.

Later that night, Evelyn stepped back into her parents’ warm home and wrapped her arms around her mother. She had begun the night wanting comfort, but instead found herself offering it to women who carried stories heavier than anything she had expected.

That night, Evelyn realized that Christmas was never meant to stay inside warm houses or familiar routines. It was meant to reach every place where people still wonder if light can break through the dark.

And as she held her mother tightly, she felt so grateful that her dad made sure she went to serve at that prison tonight. She remembered what scripture says in the book of Luke. “For the Son of Man came to seek and save those who are lost.”

You see, God sends good news to the poor and binds up the brokenhearted.

So friends, as you move through this season, I want to encourage you. Perhaps consider telling someone else the story that changed everything. The one about that Holy Night in Bethlehem. There is no telling whose heart might be waiting to hear about the hope you have inside you.

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • Who in your life might feel “forgotten” or outside the warmth of community this Christmas—and how could you reach out to them?
  • When have you entered a place or situation you didn’t want to be in, only to discover God was already there at work?
  • What places or people do you tend to overlook because they feel uncomfortable, inconvenient, or unfamiliar?
  • How does Jesus’ mission—to seek and save the lost—shape the way you see the people around you?
  • Are there conversations or relationships where you’ve been hesitant to share the hope you carry? What would it look like to take a step of faith?
  • What would it mean for you to allow Christmas to go beyond your traditions and into the broken, hurting spaces where light is needed most?
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Life Is Better Together

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Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 – Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!

When I was twenty-two, I packed up my life and moved to Alabama for Bible school. I pictured calm mornings reading my Bible, a bit of solitude, and space to figure out my life.

Instead, I got fifteen roommates.

You see, one of the dorms across campus was still under construction so they packed all of us under one roof. I don’t know if you can picture that many men in a six bedroom house, but it was wild.

The walls were thin so there was always noise— laughter, footsteps, someone playing music way too loud. There was no real privacy, no way to escape the chaos, and I just had to keep reminding myself this was temporary.

At first, I was frustrated. I couldn’t retreat into myself like I was accustomed to. But little by little, that crowded house started to change me.

Our resident advisor, Dougie, led weekly Bible studies that became the heartbeat of our little house. We prayed together, wrestled with truth, joked through exhaustion, and reminded each other to keep showing up.

In between the noise and the shared meals and the endless laundry, something steady was forming — a kind of community I had never known before.

I could not isolate myself when I wanted to, but I actually found that was a good thing. Other people were always there for me — just like Scripture teaches, ‘Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil.’” Instead of retreating, God had put people in my life I could talk to when I felt insecure, aggravated, or ashamed. And it made all the difference.

Two months later, when most of the guys moved out, I felt something I did not expect — grief. I had come to love that loud, messy, inconvenient community. It had shaped me. It sharpened me. And it taught me that life is not meant to be navigated alone.

It also reminds me of how the first followers of Jesus lived — the way they shared everything, broke bread together, prayed side by side, and carried each other’s burdens. There was beauty in the simplicity of it, in how natural it was to belong to one another.

That picture from Acts has always stayed with me. They were people doing life together too. They were finding joy in the mess of faith and friendship.

Looking back now, I wonder: when was the last time I truly leaned into the discomfort of biblical community and let it shape me? And maybe the better question is: what might happen if I did it again? And I hope you will ask yourself that too.

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • When has God used community to encourage or challenge you in a season when you wanted to be alone?
  • Who in your life lifts you up when you fall — and how might you do the same for them this week?
  • Are there areas where you’ve been trying to handle life on your own that God might be calling you to share with someone?
  • What makes true biblical community both messy and beautiful?
  • How can you be more intentional about leaning into the kind of connection that shapes your faith?
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From Hiding to Joy

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Ephesians 5:8 — For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light.

The dinosaur pajama top had Eli trapped, and his mom was having a harder time getting it off than she expected.

Every tug made Eli squirm, and his frustration bubbled up in every little squeal. So she started hiding her face behind the shirt and popping out with a grin. “Peekaboo!”

Eli’s laughter erupted like tiny fireworks, and his two teeth shone in a gummy smile. His shirt tugged, the game continued, and suddenly peekaboo was everything to him.

Soon, it grew into hide-and-seek. Eli and his older sister, Maya, ran through the house in a blur of giggles and fun. Eli, thinking he was clever, crouched behind the couch careful not to be seen.

Maya would count, loud and patient, then creep forward, calling, “Where’s Eli?” Her voice danced around him. And just when he thought he had escaped, she’d leap from around the corner with a triumphant, “I got you!” and his laughter would erupt again, unstoppable.

Eli thought he was hidden, but of course, he wasn’t. He was visible all along.

Sitting on the couch, watching them, his mom felt a sudden pang and tenderness. She recognized this behavior. It reminded her of all the ways people, including herself, try to hide their own struggles, mistakes, pain, shame, and fear.

We tuck them away like they’re fragile treasures, hoping no one will notice. Hoping somehow we can escape being found. But God sees. People see. And hiding never heals. It only delays the comfort and connection that we’re wanting and needing all along.

She thought about Adam and Eve hiding in the garden. Even back then, God was asking where they were. He knew, but all along, it was a tender invitation back to love.

Eli’s laughter echoed again. Maya’s shout bounced off the walls. And in that moment, surrounded by sunlight and giggles and the smell of pancakes, Mom felt the truth: life is better when we are found. So come into the light.

Scripture says in Ephesians 5:8, “For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light.”

So she leaned back and breathed in the noise, the chaos, the joy, the connection. Stop hiding, she thought. Let someone see. Let yourself be found.

Healing doesn’t start in secret. Healing starts in the laughter and the light. And when we finally stop hiding, the love that we wanted along can finally reach us.

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • What “hiding places” do you run to when you feel afraid, ashamed, or unworthy?
  • How does it change your view of God to remember that His call to “come into the light” is an invitation, not a condemnation?
  • When have you experienced the relief of being fully seen and still loved?
  • Who in your life might need your encouragement to “come into the light”?
  • What’s one small step you can take today to be more open—with God, with others, or even with yourself?
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Leaving a Legacy of Faith

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Psalm 78:4 — We will not hide these truths from our children; we will tell the next generation about the glorious deeds of the Lord, about his power and his mighty wonders.

The grandkids were over again, racing through the living room. Tom sat back in his chair, letting their laughter echo through the house. He could not help but think how quickly time flies by.

He had raised his kids, watched them start families of their own, and now he was back to building forts in the living room with three wide-eyed grandkids.

They asked a hundred questions a day, most of which he did not have answers to. He wished he had more time to try.

It seemed like his wife Melody felt the same way. Later that evening, she turned over in bed and asked, “Tom, who is going to teach them truth when we are gone?”

That question led them to an unusual decision. A few weeks later, they added Christian radio to their will.

For Tom, it was not about control or making demands. It was about trust. He remembered how many times a simple song on the radio had steadied him in a storm, how a timely word had reminded him he was not alone. If it had carried him through, it could carry them, too.

He thought of the Israelites stacking stones beside the river as a marker for the children who would come later. “We will tell the next generation the praiseworthy deeds of the Lord, His power, and the wonders He has done.” His marker just happened to ride the airwaves, carrying truth to anyone willing to listen.

He could not choose the paths his grandchildren would walk. But he could leave a trailhead, a reminder pointing toward something real.

Someday, he thought, one of those little ones might turn the dial and hear hope when they need it most.

And maybe that is the invitation for all of us—to make sure someone else has the chance to hear hope when they need it most. After all, what better legacy could there be that’s worth tuning into?

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • What kind of spiritual legacy are you leaving for the next generation?
  • Who first helped you hear the truth about God’s love—and how can you pay that forward?
  • How can you use what you have today (time, resources, or influence) to help others encounter hope tomorrow?
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Learning to Live and to Give

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Proverbs 3:9-10 — Honor the Lord with your wealth and with the best part of everything you produce. Then he will fill your barns with grain, and your vats will overflow with good wine.

I moved to Alabama with more faith than funds.

Ministry school felt like the next right step, and I did it because I was desperate. I needed God’s help with real struggles, and I needed older, wiser Christians to steady me.

But I wasn’t wise with money. I had just graduated from a four-year university, and until then, I had lived for the weekend and was having fun having fun.

And as you can see, I needed to grow—in more ways than one.

Now I was hours from home, without a safety net. I believed God called me here, but I knew faith alone wouldn’t pay the bills. If I was going to stay, I had to learn how to honor Him with my finances.

So I got a job at McDonald’s. It was grease-on-the-sleeves, hard work. And to my amazement, living on a budget actually worked.

My tuition? Paid. Grocery bills? Paid.

But then came my student housing bill. I handed it to the church secretary, and after checking her computer, she looked up and said, “David, it seems someone anonymously paid your rent for the rest of the year.”

My jaw hit the floor.

In that moment, I felt the weight of undeserved kindness. Somebody, flesh and blood like me, gave in a way that felt radical. It felt like the love of God. That gift bought me time to breathe, to study, and to save for a missions trip I knew I was called to take. It changed me. It made me want to be that kind of giver, and to live wisely and open-handed.

That year taught me something important: money isn’t a word to avoid in church. If we learn to honor God with it, He can use us to point others toward hope.

So, whether you’re in need or in abundance today, let your budget reflect faith in tomorrow. Live generously. Save with purpose. And let God write a better story with what’s in your hands.

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • When has someone’s generosity reminded you of God’s love for you?
  • What would it look like for you to “honor the Lord with your wealth” this week?
  • How could your giving become part of someone else’s story of hope?
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Small Offerings, Big Impact

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1 Corinthians 3:6-7 — I planted the seeds in your hearts, and Apollos watered it, but it was God who made it grow. It’s not important who does the planting, or who does the watering. What important is that God makes the seed grow.

The first time I hosted Bible study at my little downtown rental, it felt like feeding five thousand men with a sack lunch.

The group had started with Trace and Jordan in an old warehouse in Bawcomville. They were the kind of leaders you look up to—the ones who make you believe God really can use ordinary people. But Trace was heading back to college, and Jordan was packing for Tennessee.

The study that had changed my life—teaching me freedom, confession, and brotherhood—was about to dissolve. I couldn’t let that happen.

I looked at my two-bedroom house and thought, I’ve got room. I can at least open the door.

So I did.

And thirty men crammed into my living room like sardines in a can. The air smelled like coffee and old sneakers, voices tumbled over each other, and the floorboards groaned under the weight of laughter and prayer. It was loud, crowded, messy—and it was holy ground.

But leadership wasn’t glamorous. Some nights were heavy. Preparation felt like work, and hosting went way too late into the evening. Yet other nights, the room buzzed with the unmistakable presence of God.

Men confessed secret struggles. Some found faith for the first time. Others discovered brothers who became closer than family. Darkness lost its power under the light of truth.

And I learned something. The miracle wasn’t in my ability to lead. It was in simply making room.

That’s how the kingdom works. God takes what little we can give—time, space, a shaky “yes”—and He multiplies it until lives are changed.

Paul once reminded the church in Corinth that believers should live differently than the world—choosing grace and reconciliation over division.

“The very fact that you have lawsuits among you means you have been completely defeated already. Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be cheated?” — 1 Corinthians 6:7

In other words, sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is open our hands, make space, and trust God to move through it.

We bring our loaves and fish. He feeds the multitude.

And the glory is always His.

 

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

  • When has God used something small you offered—your time, space, or effort—to grow something bigger than you expected?
  • In what ways are you planting or watering in someone else’s life right now?
  • Are there areas where you need to trust God for the growth instead of trying to make it happen yourself?
  • How can you make room this week for God to move through your “yes”?
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