Eskenawson, don't you get it? God moved next
door. Hey, this week on the Semiseminary, and
we arrive at the fourth and final Sunday of Advent,
the Candle of Love, but not the Hallmark kind,
not the feeling you fall into and climb out of.
We're talking about love that moves in. Love
that takes on weight. In this episode titled,
When Love Refuses to Stay Abstract, we open the
gospel of John and listen as eternity puts on
skin. This isn't sentiment. This is incarnation.
The word became flesh and that changes everything.
Now, wherever you're listening from, your kitchen,
your commute, the dark quiet of a late night,
I want you to imagine something real. You're
stepping into a small town church on the Sunday
before Christmas. Four creeks under old boots.
The air smells like coffee and winter coats.
Few kids are squirming in the pews and someone
you've known your whole life just nodded your
way. It's not fancy, but it's sacred. Because
in this place, the word is still becoming flesh
every time we make room for it. So settle in.
Let your heart listen like it's in that room
with us because love is about to show up. And
I'll see you on the other side. Okay, buds. We,
my church friends, we have made it. Four candles
on the wreath. Hope, peace, joy. This morning,
the last one before Christmas, love. And I want
to say this right off the bat carefully because
I think love might be... The most overworked
word in our language. The world uses it constantly,
but almost never precisely. We love pizza. We
love weekends. We love our kids. We love the
idea of justice as long as it doesn't really
cost us anything. We love with words that don't
cost us anything. with gestures that keep us
comfortable. World talks about love as a feeling
that you fall into or climb out of, a preference,
a vibe, a branding strategy. Love, according
to the world, is something you express when it's
convenient and retract when it becomes uncomfortable.
It's something you feel. Until you don't feel
it anymore. Then, you're free to walk away. But
Advent keeps refusing to let us use love in the
abstract. Because Advent insists that love doesn't
stay an idea. Love shows up. Love moves in. Love
takes on weight. And by the time we've got to
the fourth candle, Advent has quietly dismantled
every counterfeit the world has to offer. Hope
didn't come as optimism. It came as a child.
Peace didn't come as just calmness. It came from
a shoot coming out of a stump. Joy doesn't arrive
to us as entertainment. As recognition before
comprehension. And now, love. Not sentiment.
Not romance. Not slogans. Love arrives as the
word made flesh. So. Before we rush to Christmas
morning, because the moment we step out of those
doors, I know every single one of us will start
rushing towards Christmas again. Before we rush
to mangers and to carols and to wrapping paper,
Advent slows us down one last time and says,
if you want to understand love, you have to look
where God chose to dwell. So let's do that. Let's
do it together. Now, right off the bat, I believe
if you're writing the story, this is not how
you do it. You don't introduce love by talking
about eternity. You don't begin a birth story
by reaching all the way back to before time itself.
You don't. talk about flesh by starting with
the word. And yet, that is exactly what the apostle
John does. In the beginning, not Bethlehem, not
Nazareth, not Mary. In the beginning, before
manger, before starlight, before breath. John
pulls the camera all the way back to creation
itself and says, if you want to understand what
is about to happen, you need to understand who
has always been. The word with God was God. And
everything else that exists, everything that
breathes, burns, blooms, breaks, came into being.
Through the word. And this, friends, is not soft
language. This is cosmic language. And then,
almost without warning, John brings it crashing
down to earth. The word became flesh. Not idea.
Not metaphor. Not illusion. Flesh. Muscle. Bone.
Skin that can bruise. Lungs that can fill and
empty. A body that can be touched and wounded.
And then John uses a word that matters more than
we usually notice. The word dwelt among us. The
word there in Greek is eskinosin. It means pitched
a tent. Tabernacled is actually what the word
means. Moved in, took up residence. What does
that mean for us outside of the abstract? God
didn't shout love down from heaven. God didn't
mail out love from a distance. God didn't outsource
love to the angels. God moved into the neighborhood.
That's where Advent takes its final stand. Friends,
tune your ears to the reading of the gospel account
according to John, the first chapter of his gospel
account, beginning verse 1. 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 came into being through him.
and without him not one thing came into being.
What has come to being in him was life, and the
life was the light of all people. The light shines
in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome
it. There was a man sent from God whose name
was John. He came as a witness. To testify to
the light so that all might believe through him.
He himself was not the light, but he came to
testify to the light. The true light which enlivens
everyone was coming into the world. He was in
the world and the world came into being through
him. Yet the world did not know him. He came
to what was his own. And his own people did not
accept him. But to all who received him, who
believed his name, he gave power to become children
of God. Who were born not of blood or of the
will of the flesh or of the will of man, but
of God. And the word became flesh and lived among
us. We have seen the glory. Glory as of a father's
only son. Full of grace and truth. This is the
words of the Lord. And I wonder if you hear it.
Not just the poetry of it, but the scandal lying
beneath it. He came to what was his own and his
own people did not accept him. Love showed up.
And was refused. That's not a footnote. That's
the hinge to the whole story. The creator of
everything entered creation. And creation said,
no thank you. The hands that shaped mountains
came to touch human skin. And human skin pulled
away. The voice that spoke light into existence
came to speak grace into human ears, and those
ears refused to listen. And still, still, the
word became flesh. Love didn't wait for acceptance.
Love doesn't require readiness. Love didn't demand
a clean place to land. Love came anyway. That's
the part that wrecks me every single time. This
is not love that responds to our worthiness.
This is a love that creates worthiness by arriving.
This is love that says, I know you're not ready,
but I'm coming anyway. So let me ask you something
gently. These are tough times, holidays. When
you hear the word love, what rises up in you?
Warmth? Suspicion? Fatigue? Because for some
of us, love is exhausting. Something we are expected
to give endlessly. Something that keeps demanding
more. Without ever resting us. You've been told
love is sacrifice. And it is. Somewhere along
the way, you started believing that sacrifice
meant emptying yourself until there's nothing
left. That love meant giving and giving and giving
and giving until you can't remember the last
time somebody gave to you. And for others, love
feels unsafe. Because love once came with strings
or conditions or disappointment. Maybe, maybe
you grew up in a house where love was a currency
used to control you. Where approval was given
or withdrawn based on your performance. Where
you learned early on that love was something
that you had to earn, not receive. Maybe people
who said they loved you also hurt you. Maybe
the word itself feels like a trap now. Promise
never really delivers. For some of us, Love feels
abstract because you rarely experience it embodied,
stayed with, showed up, refused to leave. You've
heard people say the words, but the words never
really took on weight with you. The words never
really moved in. The words walked out when things
got hard. So when the church lights the candle
of love, Some of you aren't thinking about romance
or joy. You're thinking, can I trust this? And
this is an honest question. And God doesn't answer
it with just more words. Advent answers that
question with a body. Now let's be honest. This
is where love usually breaks down for us. Because
the world trains us to think love as intention
without incarnation. I love you, but don't ask
me to stay. I care, but don't ask me to change.
I support you, but I don't want to be inconvenienced.
Sound familiar? The world's version of love is
safe, abstract, and controllable. It's love you
can express at a distance. Love that never requires
proximity. Love that sounds good on a greeting
card, but dissolves when it has to walk through
a hospital room or sit through a hard conversation
or stay up throughout the night with someone
who is falling apart. It's love that can remain
theoretical. Love that doesn't have to enter
into conflict. Love that doesn't risk rejection.
Love that doesn't get its hands dirty. And sometimes,
friends, if we are honest, that version of love
sneaks right into the church as well. We talk
about love, but we keep it vague. We preach love,
but we don't let it interrupt us. We celebrate
love. but we refuse its weight. We're happy singing
about love on Sunday morning. We're less happy
when love asks us to sit with someone whose politics
makes us uncomfortable. Or when love asks us
to forgive someone that hurt us deeply. Or...
When love asks us to stay in a difficult marriage,
a difficult friendship, a difficult community.
Because incarnate love costs something. Because
flesh can be wounded. Presence can be rejected.
Proximity can be painful. And the world would
much rather talk about love than receive it.
From a God who gives it. John refuses here to
let love be vague. He tells us exactly what it
looks like. Love looks like the eternal word
refusing to stay disembodied. Love looks like
God choosing vulnerability over distance. Love
looks like divine glory. wrapped in ordinary
flesh. John says, and the word became flesh and
lived among us, and we have seen his glory. Notice,
seen, not inferred. This isn't love that has
somehow been deduced by logic. It's love that
we have witnessed. Then John says something almost
scandalous. Full of grace and truth. Not grace
without truth. Not truth without grace. Grace
that tells the truth. Truth that arrives gently.
That's incarnational love. And later, John will
say it even more plainly in his first letter.
He says, Beloved, let us love one another because
love is from God. Everyone who loves is born
of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does
not know God, for God is love. And please catch
that. God is love, not God has love. Not God
is really good at the love bit. God feels love.
No, God is love. It's his very nature, his identity.
Love is the substance of his being. Every single
thing he does flows from love because he cannot
act outside of his nature. And then John goes
on to say, in this love, not that we love God,
but that he loved us and sent his son. And please
see what John is doing here. He's defining love
by God's actions, not ours. We don't get to define
love by our feelings or our efforts. We can only
recognize it in what God has already done. Love
is not our initiative. Love is our response.
That's why the Advent season keeps whispering
to us, receive. You don't generate love, you
encounter it. Paul, he puts it this way in Romans.
For while we were still weak, at the right time,
Christ died for the ungodly. Indeed, rarely would
anyone die for a righteous person. Though, perhaps
for a good person, someone might actually die.
But God proves his love for us in that while
we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Not
Christ died for us once we improved, once we
understood, once we finally deserved it. Love
came first. That's grace. That's always been
grace. And the word dwelt is the key. John is
deliberately echoing Exodus. The place where
God's presence settled among Israel in the wilderness.
Remember the word eschatosin? A tent. A structure
made of skin and poles. Not a palace. Not a temple
yet. Just a place in the middle of the camp where
glory could dwell. Where the holy could meet
the ordinary. The cloud by day, the pillar by
night. The presence of God settling into a tent
among the wandering, complaining, frequently
unfaithful people. God didn't wait around for
Israel to get its act together. He didn't pitch
his tent outside the camp until they proved themselves
worthy. He moved right into the middle. Right
where the failure was. Right where all of the
grumbling was. Right where the golden calf had
just been built. Same God, same movement. God
has always chosen presence over perfection. In
the wilderness, when Israel grumbled. In exile,
when Judah had failed. In occupied territory,
under the boot of Rome. And now in flesh. Jesus
is not God visiting briefly. Jesus is God making
a home. And this should be really good news when
you think about it. Because what that means is
it means that love is not something God just
does occasionally. Love is who God is expressed
spatially. God doesn't just love you, God chooses
to be with you. And not occasionally, all the
time. God's love is not conditional upon your
actions. That's Emmanuel, God with us. Not God
over us. Not God watching us. Not God judging
us from afar. Not God sending messages and waiting
for the proper response. God with us, eating,
sleeping, weeping, walking dusty roads, sitting
at tables with sinners, touching lepers, washing
feet, bleeding on wood. Love doesn't keep its
distance. Love moves in. So here's the invitation
for this. final Sunday of Advent. Stop trying
to keep love in the abstract. Stop waiting to
feel worthy of it. Stop imagining love as something
you must earn or maintain. Love has already moved
in. And if you want to respond to love, you don't
climb, you don't perform, you don't perfect yourself.
You make room. Room for God's presence in your
heart. Room for interruption. Room for grace
that tells the truth and a truth that heals you.
And I wonder what that might look for you this
week. Maybe that means letting love reach some
of those places that you have kept guarded. The
shame you've hidden, the failure you've never
confessed, the wound you bandaged but never let
anyone see. Maybe it means staying present where
you've withdrawn, sitting in the awkwardness,
leaning into the discomfort, not running when
a relationship gets hard. Maybe it means forgiving
someone who hasn't earned it yet. Because you
finally understand you haven't earned it yet
either. Maybe it means trusting that God's nearness
is not a threat. That when God moves in, he doesn't
move in to condemn, he comes in to dwell. And
here's what I've learned. I know you cannot manufacture
incarnational love. You can only receive it.
And then... Slowly, imperfectly, with tons of
stumbling, you can let it reshape how you show
it to other people. Love's not an idea to agree
with. Love is a presence to receive. Picture
it with me. Not a throne, not a spotlight, not
a distant God. But the word. Breathing. Sleeping,
crying, dwelling. Love didn't shout from heaven.
Love pitched a tent and it's still here. That's
the word Advent has built upon all month long.
Not sentiment, not emotion. Not a vague wish
for the world to be nicer. Incarnation. Love
with skin on it. Glory that bleeds. God who refuses
to stay safe in eternity and instead looks on
the vulnerability of the human body in a borrowed
room in an overcrowded town in the armpit of
the Roman Empire. Four weeks ago, we lit the
candle of hope. And hope came as a child, not
a strategy. Three weeks ago, we lit the candle
of peace, and peace came as a shoot from a stump,
not a treaty. Two weeks ago, we lit the candle
of joy, and joy came as recognition before comprehension,
a baby leaping in the womb. And now love. Love
comes as flesh, as dwelling, as Emmanuel. And
John wants you to know that's not just Bible
history, that's invitation. Word is still becoming
flesh in every place you're willing to make room
for it. And in a few days, some of us will gather
with family, easy or complicated. Some of us
will be alone. Some of us will be remembering
someone who isn't there anymore. Some of us will
be celebrating. Some of us will be enduring.
Wherever you are, whoever you're with, whatever
you're carrying, remember this. Love's already
arrived. So may the love that moved toward you
before you understood it stay with you this week
and into the new year. May the God who chose
flesh choose every part of your life you thought
was unworthy of his presence. May the word that
dwelt among us dwell in the rooms you've been
afraid to unlock. May the light that took on
flesh shine in the darkness you've been hiding.
And may you discover, not someday, not abstractly,
but right here, right now, that love has already
arrived. So go in peace and remember. The light
that took on flesh will be leading you all the
way home. Amen. Amen. Let's be honest. Love is
a loaded word. Some of us grew up hearing it,
but not feeling it. Some of us gave it and got
burned. Some of us are still waiting for it to
come back. We've been told love is something
you earn, something you perform, something you
say when you want something in return. And in
a world like that, it's hard to believe in a
love that actually shows up. A love that moves
in when everyone else walked out. But Advent
won't let us settle for the world's cheap definitions.
Because the Gospel of John tells us plainly,
the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. didn't
send a feeling, he sent himself. So, if your
heart's a little tired, a little guarded, a little
unsure of whether love is worth trusting anymore,
then friend, this episode, this message is for
you. And if that message hits home, if this little
podcast has been a reminder that grace still
speaks through the static, Throw your like in
the offering plate, not for me, for the ones
still tuning in. You can click subscribe if you
want, if you want to keep walking with us through
Christmas, maybe even into the new year, not
to support a brand, but to say, I'm still listening.
Word is still becoming flesh. Love is still moving
in. And friend, until next time, be blessed.