Dost thou in a manger lie?
Words: Jean Mauburn, 1494; trans. Elizabeth Charles, 1858
Tune: Mauburn
Dost thou in a manger lie,
who hast all created,
stretching infant hands on high,
Savior, long awaited?
If a monarch, where thy state?
Where thy court on thee to wait?
Royal purple, where?
Here no regal pomp we see,
nought but need and penury:
why thus cradled here?
"Pitying love for fallen man
brought me down thus low;
for a race deep lost in sin
came I into woe.
By this lowly birth of mine,
sinner, riches shall be thine,
matchless gifts and free;
willingly this yoke I take,
and this sacrifice I make,
heaping joys for thee."
Fervent praise would I do to thee
evermore be raising;
for thy wondrous love to me
thee be ever praising.
Glory, glory be for ever
unto that most bounteous Giver,
and that loving Lord!
Better witness to thy worth,
purer praise than ours on earth,
angels' songs afford.
Selah.
Showing posts with label Incarnation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Incarnation. Show all posts
Monday, December 28, 2009
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Bethlehem: The place where God’s love broke in
Where love breaks in
This is what happens when God’s power breaks in: darkness is cast out. The power of evil spirits is broken and driven away. The Holy Spirit creates a pure atmosphere, one of unity and of peace.
The little stable in Bethlehem was a place where God’s love broke in. While on earth, Jesus expected God’s kingdom to break in. His expectation was that light must break in upon this darkened earth. He saw that death had heaped up a barrier so that light could not come into life on earth. Therefore he sacrificed his life so that in the area of death an opening might be made; so that there might be a rift in the layer of gloomy fog around the earth – an opening through which the light of God could come in. If a house has even only one window where the sun shines in, it can no longer be dark inside the house.
If Jesus opens a breach in death then God’s kingdom comes down to this earth. This was the faith that the early Christian church had when they waited for the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. They were determined to wait until the flame of the Spirit, like the star over Bethlehem, should come down at this one place. And this did happen; it came.
From the place where a stream enters, it pours out into the entire world. Where love breaks in, all other forces yield. Jesus was victorious on the cross, not by a greater force, but by a greater power – the power of love – in comparison with which all force is nothing. No human force is able to achieve anything in comparison to the power of love.
The birth of Jesus is the in-breaking of the power of love.
Eberhard Arnold
This is what happens when God’s power breaks in: darkness is cast out. The power of evil spirits is broken and driven away. The Holy Spirit creates a pure atmosphere, one of unity and of peace.
The little stable in Bethlehem was a place where God’s love broke in. While on earth, Jesus expected God’s kingdom to break in. His expectation was that light must break in upon this darkened earth. He saw that death had heaped up a barrier so that light could not come into life on earth. Therefore he sacrificed his life so that in the area of death an opening might be made; so that there might be a rift in the layer of gloomy fog around the earth – an opening through which the light of God could come in. If a house has even only one window where the sun shines in, it can no longer be dark inside the house.
If Jesus opens a breach in death then God’s kingdom comes down to this earth. This was the faith that the early Christian church had when they waited for the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. They were determined to wait until the flame of the Spirit, like the star over Bethlehem, should come down at this one place. And this did happen; it came.
From the place where a stream enters, it pours out into the entire world. Where love breaks in, all other forces yield. Jesus was victorious on the cross, not by a greater force, but by a greater power – the power of love – in comparison with which all force is nothing. No human force is able to achieve anything in comparison to the power of love.
The birth of Jesus is the in-breaking of the power of love.
Eberhard Arnold
Friday, January 02, 2009
Love all lovely, love divine
Love came down at Christmas
Words: Christina Rossetti, 1885
Tune: Hermitage
Love came down at Christmas,
love all lovely, love divine;
love was born at Christmas:
star and angels gave the sign.
Worship we the Godhead,
love incarnate, love divine;
worship we our Jesus,
but wherewith the sacred sign?
Love shall be our token;
love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
love for plea and gift and sign.
Selah.
Words: Christina Rossetti, 1885
Tune: Hermitage
Love came down at Christmas,
love all lovely, love divine;
love was born at Christmas:
star and angels gave the sign.
Worship we the Godhead,
love incarnate, love divine;
worship we our Jesus,
but wherewith the sacred sign?
Love shall be our token;
love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
love for plea and gift and sign.
Selah.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
O the strength of infant weakness, if eternal is so young!
Where is this stupendous stranger?
Words: Christopher Smart (1722-1771), alt.
Tune: Rustington
Where is this stupendous stranger?
Prophets, shepherds, kings, advise.
Lead me to my Master's manger,
show me where my Savior lies.
O Most Mighty! O Most Holy!
Far beyond the seraph's thought:
art thou then so weak and lowly
as unheeded prophets taught?
O the magnitude of meekness!
Worth from worth immortal sprung;
O the strength of infant weakness,
if eternal is so young!
God all-bounteous, all-creative,
whom no ills from good dissuade,
is incarnate, and a native
of the very world He made.
Alleluia!
Selah.
Words: Christopher Smart (1722-1771), alt.
Tune: Rustington
Where is this stupendous stranger?
Prophets, shepherds, kings, advise.
Lead me to my Master's manger,
show me where my Savior lies.
O Most Mighty! O Most Holy!
Far beyond the seraph's thought:
art thou then so weak and lowly
as unheeded prophets taught?
O the magnitude of meekness!
Worth from worth immortal sprung;
O the strength of infant weakness,
if eternal is so young!
God all-bounteous, all-creative,
whom no ills from good dissuade,
is incarnate, and a native
of the very world He made.
Alleluia!
Selah.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The scandal of God as a child
A glimpse of divine love: infinite, yet scandalous to human reason
Is the Incarnation too hard to bear? In human pride, yes it is. In human theology, yes it is. And yet, here we see that accepting God the child, as a child, is a first step to human wholeness: God becomes the divine Son to us, as we accept Him as the child. The miracle of love is wrought in us when we come to Him as a child, daring to accept in Him the unity of His will: “He has not two thoughts about us,” MacDonald says. He only has one, and this is love, infinite love. Here we find a God who “finds His blessedness in the outgoing of blessedness.” Here we find the true meaning of the self and the other, the gift and giver. Here we find the unity of God’s will, and its incredible power: the will of God will be done for His children, simply because God is a child to them; His love cannot be forever disappointed because He gives in simplicity of will, not for himself, but for His loved ones. In weakness God conquers all.
And yet, it is precisely this dimension of God – God the child, God the joyfully tender, God the self-giving – that human reason, human pride, rejects. When we see God like this: with childhood in divine nature, completely self-giving to the point of death, it shocks us. We want that not for ourselves; neither do we want it for God. And so we steer Him away from the cross: “Far be it from you, Lord!”
However, though it be scandalous at first, let us stop here a little while, and see if there is merit in God the child! Perhaps it will be here that healing begins – as the heart bows to the inner meaning of gift and giver, and dances again as a child with the Child, the Son of Man, our God!
A healing scandal: God as child, gift and giver
George MacDonald
But the word of one who has seen this truth may help the dawn of a like perception in those who keep their faces turned towards the east and its aurora; for humans may have eyes, and, seeing dimly, want to see more. Therefore let us brood a little over the idea itself, and see whether it will not come forth so as to commend itself to that spirit, which, one with the human spirit where it dwells, searches the deep things of God. For, although the true heart may at first be shocked at the truth, as Peter was shocked when he said, “That be far from thee, Lord,” yet will it, after a season, receive it and rejoice in it.
Let me then ask, do you believe in the Incarnation? And if you do, let me ask further, Was Jesus ever less divine than God? I answer for you, Never. He was lower, but never less divine. Was He not a child then? You answer, “Yes, but not like other children.” I ask, “Did he not look like other children?” If He looked like them and was not like them, the whole was a deception, a masquerade at best. I say He was a child, whatever more He might be. God is man, and infinitely more. Our Lord became flesh, but did not become man. He took on him the form of man: He was man already. And He was, is, and ever shall be divinely childlike. He could never have been a child if He would ever have ceased to be a child, for in Him the transient found nothing. Childhood belongs to the divine nature.
Obedience, then, is as divine as Will, Service as divine as Rule. How? Because they are one in their nature; they are both a doing of the truth. The love in them is the same. The Fatherhood and the Sonship are one, save that the Fatherhood looks down lovingly, and the Sonship looks up lovingly. Love is all. And God is all in all. He is ever seeking to get down to us — to be the divine man to us. And we are ever saying, “That be far from thee, Lord!” We are careful, in our unbelief, over the divine dignity, of which He is too grand to think. Better pleasing to God, it needs little daring to say, is the audacity of Job, who, rushing into His presence, and flinging the door of His presence — chamber to the wall, like a troubled, it may be angry, but yet faithful child, calls aloud in the ear of him whose perfect Fatherhood He has yet to learn: “Am I a sea or a whale, that thou settest a watch over me?”
Let us dare, then, to climb the height of divine truth to which this utterance of our Lord would lead us.
Does it not lead us up hither: that the devotion of God to His creatures is perfect? that He does not think about himself but about them? that He wants nothing for himself, but finds His blessedness in the outgoing of blessedness.
Ah! it is a terrible — shall it be a lonely glory this? We will draw near with our human response, our abandonment of self in the faith of Jesus. He gives himself to us — shall not we give ourselves to Him? Shall we not give ourselves to each other whom He loves?
For when is the child the ideal child in our eyes and to our hearts? Is it not when with gentle hand he takes his father by the beard, and turns that father’s face up to his brothers and sisters to kiss? when even the lovely selfishness of love-seeking has vanished, and the heart is absorbed in loving?
In this, then, is God like the child: that He is simply and altogether our friend, our father — our more than friend, father, and mother — our infinite love-perfect God. Grand and strong beyond all that human imagination can conceive of poet-thinking and kingly action, He is delicate beyond all that human tenderness can conceive of husband or wife, homely beyond all that human heart can conceive of father or mother. He has not two thoughts about us. With Him all is simplicity of purpose and meaning and effort and end — namely, that we should be as He is, think the same thoughts, mean the same things, possess the same blessedness. It is so plain that any one may see it, every one ought to see it, every one shall see it. It must be so.
He is utterly true and good to us, nor shall anything withstand His will.
Selah.
Is the Incarnation too hard to bear? In human pride, yes it is. In human theology, yes it is. And yet, here we see that accepting God the child, as a child, is a first step to human wholeness: God becomes the divine Son to us, as we accept Him as the child. The miracle of love is wrought in us when we come to Him as a child, daring to accept in Him the unity of His will: “He has not two thoughts about us,” MacDonald says. He only has one, and this is love, infinite love. Here we find a God who “finds His blessedness in the outgoing of blessedness.” Here we find the true meaning of the self and the other, the gift and giver. Here we find the unity of God’s will, and its incredible power: the will of God will be done for His children, simply because God is a child to them; His love cannot be forever disappointed because He gives in simplicity of will, not for himself, but for His loved ones. In weakness God conquers all.
And yet, it is precisely this dimension of God – God the child, God the joyfully tender, God the self-giving – that human reason, human pride, rejects. When we see God like this: with childhood in divine nature, completely self-giving to the point of death, it shocks us. We want that not for ourselves; neither do we want it for God. And so we steer Him away from the cross: “Far be it from you, Lord!”
However, though it be scandalous at first, let us stop here a little while, and see if there is merit in God the child! Perhaps it will be here that healing begins – as the heart bows to the inner meaning of gift and giver, and dances again as a child with the Child, the Son of Man, our God!
A healing scandal: God as child, gift and giver
George MacDonald
But the word of one who has seen this truth may help the dawn of a like perception in those who keep their faces turned towards the east and its aurora; for humans may have eyes, and, seeing dimly, want to see more. Therefore let us brood a little over the idea itself, and see whether it will not come forth so as to commend itself to that spirit, which, one with the human spirit where it dwells, searches the deep things of God. For, although the true heart may at first be shocked at the truth, as Peter was shocked when he said, “That be far from thee, Lord,” yet will it, after a season, receive it and rejoice in it.
Let me then ask, do you believe in the Incarnation? And if you do, let me ask further, Was Jesus ever less divine than God? I answer for you, Never. He was lower, but never less divine. Was He not a child then? You answer, “Yes, but not like other children.” I ask, “Did he not look like other children?” If He looked like them and was not like them, the whole was a deception, a masquerade at best. I say He was a child, whatever more He might be. God is man, and infinitely more. Our Lord became flesh, but did not become man. He took on him the form of man: He was man already. And He was, is, and ever shall be divinely childlike. He could never have been a child if He would ever have ceased to be a child, for in Him the transient found nothing. Childhood belongs to the divine nature.
Obedience, then, is as divine as Will, Service as divine as Rule. How? Because they are one in their nature; they are both a doing of the truth. The love in them is the same. The Fatherhood and the Sonship are one, save that the Fatherhood looks down lovingly, and the Sonship looks up lovingly. Love is all. And God is all in all. He is ever seeking to get down to us — to be the divine man to us. And we are ever saying, “That be far from thee, Lord!” We are careful, in our unbelief, over the divine dignity, of which He is too grand to think. Better pleasing to God, it needs little daring to say, is the audacity of Job, who, rushing into His presence, and flinging the door of His presence — chamber to the wall, like a troubled, it may be angry, but yet faithful child, calls aloud in the ear of him whose perfect Fatherhood He has yet to learn: “Am I a sea or a whale, that thou settest a watch over me?”
Let us dare, then, to climb the height of divine truth to which this utterance of our Lord would lead us.
Does it not lead us up hither: that the devotion of God to His creatures is perfect? that He does not think about himself but about them? that He wants nothing for himself, but finds His blessedness in the outgoing of blessedness.
Ah! it is a terrible — shall it be a lonely glory this? We will draw near with our human response, our abandonment of self in the faith of Jesus. He gives himself to us — shall not we give ourselves to Him? Shall we not give ourselves to each other whom He loves?
For when is the child the ideal child in our eyes and to our hearts? Is it not when with gentle hand he takes his father by the beard, and turns that father’s face up to his brothers and sisters to kiss? when even the lovely selfishness of love-seeking has vanished, and the heart is absorbed in loving?
In this, then, is God like the child: that He is simply and altogether our friend, our father — our more than friend, father, and mother — our infinite love-perfect God. Grand and strong beyond all that human imagination can conceive of poet-thinking and kingly action, He is delicate beyond all that human tenderness can conceive of husband or wife, homely beyond all that human heart can conceive of father or mother. He has not two thoughts about us. With Him all is simplicity of purpose and meaning and effort and end — namely, that we should be as He is, think the same thoughts, mean the same things, possess the same blessedness. It is so plain that any one may see it, every one ought to see it, every one shall see it. It must be so.
He is utterly true and good to us, nor shall anything withstand His will.
Selah.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Where is this stupendous stranger?
Prophets, shepherds, kings, advise!
Words: Christopher Smart (1722-1771)
Tune: Rustington
Where is this stupendous stranger?
Prophets, shepherds, kings, advise.
Lead me to my Master's manger,
show me where my Savior lies.
O Most Mighty! O Most Holy!
Far beyond the seraph's thought:
art thou then so weak and lowly
as unheeded prophets taught?
O the magnitude of meekness!
Worth from worth immortal sprung;
O the strength of infant weakness,
if eternal is so young!
God all-bounteous, all-creative,
whom no ills from good dissuade,
is incarnate, and a native
of the very world He made!
Selah.
Words: Christopher Smart (1722-1771)
Tune: Rustington
Where is this stupendous stranger?
Prophets, shepherds, kings, advise.
Lead me to my Master's manger,
show me where my Savior lies.
O Most Mighty! O Most Holy!
Far beyond the seraph's thought:
art thou then so weak and lowly
as unheeded prophets taught?
O the magnitude of meekness!
Worth from worth immortal sprung;
O the strength of infant weakness,
if eternal is so young!
God all-bounteous, all-creative,
whom no ills from good dissuade,
is incarnate, and a native
of the very world He made!
Selah.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Mary the unwed mother, the refugee
The Incarnation in cultural terms
Philip Yancey
Perhaps the best way to perceive the “underdog” nature of the Incarnation is to transpose it into terms we can relate to today. An unwed mother, homeless, was forced to look for shelter while traveling to meet the heavy taxation demands of a colonial government. She lived in a land recovering from violent civil wars and still in turmoil situation much like that in modern Darfur, Iraq, or Somalia. Like half of all mothers who deliver today, she gave birth in Asia, in its far western corner, the part of the world that would prove least receptive to the son she bore. That son became a refugee in Africa, the continent where most refugees can still be found.
I wonder what Mary thought about her militant Magnificat hymn during her harrowing years in Egypt. For a Jew, Egypt evoked bright memories of a powerful God who had flattened a pharaoh’s army and brought liberation; now Mary fled there, desperate, a stranger in a strange land hiding from her own government. Could her Baby, hunted, helpless, on the run, possibly fulfill the lavish hopes of His people?
Philip Yancey, The Jesus I Never Knew, 40.
Philip Yancey
Perhaps the best way to perceive the “underdog” nature of the Incarnation is to transpose it into terms we can relate to today. An unwed mother, homeless, was forced to look for shelter while traveling to meet the heavy taxation demands of a colonial government. She lived in a land recovering from violent civil wars and still in turmoil situation much like that in modern Darfur, Iraq, or Somalia. Like half of all mothers who deliver today, she gave birth in Asia, in its far western corner, the part of the world that would prove least receptive to the son she bore. That son became a refugee in Africa, the continent where most refugees can still be found.
I wonder what Mary thought about her militant Magnificat hymn during her harrowing years in Egypt. For a Jew, Egypt evoked bright memories of a powerful God who had flattened a pharaoh’s army and brought liberation; now Mary fled there, desperate, a stranger in a strange land hiding from her own government. Could her Baby, hunted, helpless, on the run, possibly fulfill the lavish hopes of His people?
Philip Yancey, The Jesus I Never Knew, 40.