Tidings of Comfort and Joy
As a strong believer that Christmas music, decor, and general merriment shouldn't happen until after Thanksgiving, I can officially say, "Merry Christmas!" This week, I’m going to attempt to catch up to those of you who have been celebrating since August by listening to all the carols, hanging stockings, buying gifts, and perusing holiday recipes (okay, that last one I do year-round).
I love this season—but that's not always been the case. Many years, it's been filled with grief. I vividly remember the year that Advent for me didn't mean waiting for the birth of a Savior. It meant waiting for my mom to die. Doctors told her months before that she probably wouldn't make it until Christmas, and that year, I dreaded the holiday more than ever. It felt like her death sentence.
The holidays have a way of compounding our grief, don't they? When "Joy to the World" rings in our ears, we wish at times we could feel more joyful. Some years, maybe we feel all the feels of the holiday, but come December 26th, there's a letdown. That was it? we might think. The planning and preparing and excitement and anticipation seemed great while they lasted. But they don't last.
If we feel like that some years, I can't imagine how deeply the Israelite's felt that same sentiment throughout their history. In the book of Isaiah, the people are in exile in Babylon. They wonder where God is and question if he really was sovereign and powerful. If he was, why did the Babylonians win? Why did their gods seem more powerful than Yahweh? They're far from the temple where God dwelled and far from the land he gave them. Joy felt impossible. Hope seemed lost.
But through the prophet, God gave a word of comfort. "Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem," chapter 40 begins. The poem goes on to remind Israel that their sins have been forgiven, and their God, Yahweh, is the true God. He is sovereign over them, and because of his sovereignty and power, he actually has the authority and the ability to comfort them. The Babylonian gods are nothing. "The nations are like a drop from a bucket" (verse 15).
Yet no one compares to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. He is not only the true Creator God who rules and reigns, but he is also the very God who comforts us, strengthens us, and renews our hope—even when it feels like all hope is lost. Isaiah 40 says:
"Why do you say, O Jacob,
and speak, O Israel,
'My way is hidden from the LORD,
and my right is disregarded by my God'?
Have you not known? Have you not heard?
The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
his understanding is unsearchable."
–Isaiah 40:27-28
Our God reminds us that our hope doesn't depend on circumstances or meeting expectations. Israel's captivity was a huge blow to expectations—as was the baby born in a manger when they anticipated a powerful Messiah. Even for those who still believed when they saw that baby, for those who stuck with him throughout his life and ministry, there couldn't have been a greater blow to their hope than the crucifixion. Can you imagine the thoughts of Mary as she watched her son die? She was the same woman who knew the miracle of his conception and sang, "For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed" (Luke 1:48). But standing before that cross, where was God?
He was about to raise the dead.
Why, like Israel, do we say, "Where is God?" or "Why doesn't he do something?" I think we can ask the questions in our grief, but the comfort we need isn't merely in a change of circumstances. Our comfort is found in God himself—the everlasting, Creator God who never grows weary and who works in ways we cannot fathom, a merciful God who forgives sins and raises the dead.
Whatever your Christmas season looks like, I pray it's filled with the truest comfort. I pray you'll know that joy is possible, and hope is not lost. I pray we can sing of "tidings of comfort and joy," in a new and deeper way this season as we learn to know and trust the God of all comfort.
