We have lit three candles. The first reminded us of hope—the promise planted in Genesis 3:15 that God would not leave us in exile. The second reminded us of peace—God building the tabernacle and temple, refusing to abandon His people despite their rebellion. The third reminded us of joy—the prophets speaking into Israel’s darkness with prophetic certainty that light is coming.
Now, we light the fourth candle—Love—and we arrive at the manger. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. The culmination of all presence theology: Immanuel—God with us.
Love is not sentiment. It is presence made permanent. This photograph was taken on the first day I met Peter Lekombe in Kenya. Peter is one of those rare souls who embodies the self-giving love of God. He loves well, loves deeply, and willingly goes to any lengths to see more people come to know the love of the Father. In his life, I have witnessed what it looks like when someone chooses presence over distance, when love becomes not just a belief but a way of being. This is what God did at the incarnation. He did not love us from afar. He drew near. He took on flesh. He entered our world.
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” — John 1:1–5 (ESV)
John opens his Gospel not with genealogy or birth narrative, but with eternity. He takes us back to Genesis 1:1—”In the beginning”—and introduces us to the Word who was with God and who was God. This is not a new character in the biblical story. This is the One through whom all things were made. The Creator. The Life. The Light.
But John does not leave us in the cosmic. He moves from eternity to incarnation with breathtaking simplicity:
“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.” — John 1:14 (ESV)
The Word became flesh. The Creator became creature. The One who spoke galaxies into existence took on lungs and breathed the air He made. The Light of the World entered the world as a vulnerable infant, dependent on a teenage mother in a borrowed stable.
This is love. Not distant affection, but radical proximity. Not benevolent observation, but full participation. God does not merely send help. He becomes the help. He does not merely offer presence. He becomes the presence.
The Greek word translated “dwelt” in John 1:14 is eskēnōsen (ἐσκήνωσεν)—literally, “He tabernacled among us.” John is making an unmistakable connection to Exodus 40. Just as the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle in the wilderness, now the Word—the glory of God—takes on flesh and dwells among His people.
But this time, the dwelling is not temporary. The tabernacle was portable. The temple could be destroyed. But the incarnation is permanent. God does not take on flesh for a season and then lay it aside. The resurrection proves that Jesus’ humanity is eternal. He ascended in a glorified body and will return in that same body. The Word became flesh and remains flesh forever.
This is the culmination of every dwelling place God built. The garden, the tabernacle, the temple—they all pointed forward to this moment. God does not merely visit. He moves in. He pitches His tent in the center of the camp and refuses to leave.
“And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with great fear. And the angel said to them, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.'” — Luke 2:8–12 (ESV)
The first announcement of the incarnation goes not to kings, not to priests, not to scribes, but to shepherds. Shepherds were among the lowest in the social order—ceremonially unclean, economically vulnerable, socially marginalized. And yet they are the first to hear the good news of great joy.
This is the pattern of the incarnation. God does not come to the powerful and work His way down. He comes to the lowly and lifts them up. He is born in a stable, announced to shepherds, and laid in a feeding trough. The King of Kings enters the world with no fanfare, no royal procession, no palace. Just a mother, a manger, and the animals who share the space.
The sign the angel gives is striking: “You will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” The sign of God’s presence is vulnerability. The proof of His love is humility. The Savior of the world is a helpless infant who cannot feed Himself, cannot speak, cannot walk. This is how God chooses to draw near.
The New Testament uses the Greek word agape (ἀγάπη) to describe the love of God. It is not eros (romantic love) or philia (brotherly affection). It is self-giving, sacrificial, covenant love. It is the kind of love that seeks the good of the other regardless of cost.
John writes:
“In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.” — 1 John 4:9–10 (ESV)
Love is not an attribute God possesses. Love is who God is. And the incarnation is the fullest revelation of that love. God does not love us from a safe distance. He does not send a representative. He comes Himself. He takes on flesh. He enters our pain, our brokenness, our mortality. And He does it willingly, joyfully, because this is His nature.
The cross is implicit in the cradle. The baby in the manger is born to die. He will grow, teach, heal, and reveal the Father. And then He will be betrayed, beaten, and crucified. He will absorb the full weight of human sin and rebellion. And on the third day, He will rise, conquering death and opening the way for humanity to return to the presence of God.
The incarnation is the beginning of this work. The manger is the first step toward the cross. And both are acts of love—self-giving, covenant, unrelenting love.
No other religion has a god who becomes human to save his people. The gods of the nations remain distant, aloof, unapproachable. They demand sacrifice but offer no presence. They require worship but give no love. Ishtar does not take on flesh to redeem her followers. Rama and Buddha do not become incarnate to restore communion. Allah does not enter history as a vulnerable infant.
But Yahweh does. The God of Israel is the God who pursues. He is the God who refuses to stay distant. He is the God who loved the world so much that He sent His only Son—not as a conquering warrior, but as a baby born in a stable. He is the God who tabernacles among us and will not leave.
This is the scandal of the incarnation. This is the glory of Christmas. This is love—presence embodied, presence made permanent, presence that will never leave us or forsake us.
Advent invites us to live in the tension of the already and the not yet. Christ has come. The Word became flesh. Immanuel—God with us—has been born. The light has dawned. The darkness has not overcome it.
And yet, we still wait. We wait for the day when He will return, when every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. We wait for the new heavens and the new earth, where God will dwell with His people forever and there will be no more tears, no more pain, no more death. We wait for the final fulfillment of the promise planted in Genesis 3:15.
But we do not wait in uncertainty. We wait with confident expectation. We light the fourth candle and we remember that God is faithful. He kept His promise the first time. He will keep His promise the second time.
The manger reminds us that God draws near. The cross reminds us that He paid the price. The empty tomb reminds us that He conquered death. And the ascension reminds us that He is coming back.
We celebrate Christmas because love is not an idea. Love is a Person. And His name is Jesus—Immanuel, God with us.
From one man He made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and He marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands. God did this so that they would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from any one of us. Acts 17:26-27