The beauty and wisdom of iconography is that we can see old, familiar events in a new, restorative way. We are invited to contemplate the manger tableau in Bailey Hindmarsh’s Unto Us a Child is Born with wonder and with curiosity. Ironically, in Hindmarsh’s mini manger menagerie, the scene features paradoxical animals watching over the Babe, underscoring Isaiah’s prophesy. The absence of the traditional iconography of the Mother of God and Joseph with their child ignites our curiosity, imagining them on the periphery.

I wonder if this linocut print invites us to consider what kind of animal we might be and how we might behave. For instance, as a leopard, we sometimes change our spots depending on sticky situations, or we morph into timorous little lambs, uncertain whether or not to trust God. Other times, we act like a cowardly lion when living life on our terms, or we yearn for a life of ease like a foolish yearling wanting to nuzzle road apples and eat them, too.

Whatever the paradoxical animal we might experience at times—good, bad, or indifferent—one relationship impacts how we see God; sometimes the way we interact with God is contingent on the effects our fathers have had on us.

I wonder which, if any, of the following statements represent how you would announce the Son-providing God of the Bible: 1) God sent his son; 2) The Father sent his son; or 3) Abba—the Arabic word translated as Daddy—sent his son. Perhaps, these three demarcations differ for some readers depending on individual life experiences. For example, my father died of cancer when I was 16. My relationship with him was loving and nurturing in spite of family dysfunctions. He was not a hugger or a mess-up-my-hair kind of dad. Just 16, I was beginning to develop my personal values and adult decision-making ventures without the locking-horns angst toward parental authority. Conversely, my older brothers, who grew up in the 60s but didn’t remember it, fought with him. One particular day, when I was ten, I stood at the doorway, hearing my 16 year-old brother and Dad arguing in the house, wrestling and grunting, and then my brother running away, yelling.

As for biblical Old Testament stories, many fathers betray, belittle, and abandon their children: Isaac plays favorites (Genesis 25:28); passive David is nonplussed with his sons (II Samuel); and Mannasseh sacrifices his children (II Chronicles 33:1-6) to name a few. The Old Testament identifies God as Father 15 times. Besides his holiness, perhaps the noticeable omittance of identifying God as Father is partly due to poor examples of human fathers.

On the other hand, in the first four books of the New Testament, Jesus references God as Father over 165 times. Jesus, who arrives in a manger, grows to be the fulfilling-prophet Son of God, and announces truly good news: to whatever degree we have interacted with earthly fathers, we can vulnerably connect with our heavenly Abba…our Daddy. This is the cozy, compassionate Abba who “kisses each star,” longing to embrace us and kiss us; Abba who’s “thrilled to adopt the pulsar beat” and hold us close to his heart like John the Beloved resting on Jesus’ bosom; Abba who, because of the Son saying yes to everything his Abba asks, is “new-birthing us into fellowship” right now.

Imagine encouraging those you know and those you meet for the first time during these 12 days of Christmas, that they, like you and I, can know God as Abba intimately like he desires us to experience him. Jesus ushers into humanity a divinely deep relationship with Abba. This is gospel; this is good news.

New-birthing Us

A stable father sees his serene son

sleeping, starry-straw embracing him,

like a million galaxies one-by-one

smiling eternally, never growing dim.

Heavenly Abba kisses each star

thrilled to adopt the pulsar beat,

as Milky Way reads a heavenly memoir

narrating novae redemptive feat

So that kingdoms can come together fast—

the one way high in glorious heaven

then on earth with us, Peace-Prince at last

for that good, and just, and loving succession—

Our offspring spying who’s lying in the manger

relays unabashedly the greatest gospel news to say:

stable parents then saw their some-day Easter Son,

new-birthing us into fellowship with Abba today.

-Casey Giffen

Star of Wonder

An Epiphany Reflection 

 As you view Maureen Steward’s Star of Wonder, imagine being one of the three wise men standing in awe at the star of Bethlehem. The star has stopped. Beams of starlight reveal, reflect, and reinforce the ultimate reality of the incarnate Christ, your Messiah in flesh. Joy overwhelms you.

This is Epiphany.

          Consider what leads to this Epiphany. The wise men, also known as kings or Magi, had settled themselves in a receptive position long before setting out on their journey from the east. They learned to discern. That discernment resettles when the Magi avail themselves to trusting a mysterious dream and opting to travel back to their country by an alternate route rather than returning to the nefarious Herod determined to kill the Christ.

          At Monte Vista Chapel, formational conversations are encouraged in order to resettle us: we experience Abba’s love by observing what’s happening in our lives, we listen to the Holy Spirit’s invitation, and we cooperate intentionally as we journey with Jesus. This what-would-Jesus-do-if-he-were-in-our-shoes posture allows us to do life by discerning, and then produces wisdom to see the unseen and to hear the unheard. Epiphany invites us to sit with Jesus, allowing the Trinity not only to envelop us, but also allowing us to experience an “approximately correct” spiritual stance.

          Discernment, wisdom, epiphany…these are mysterious concepts, divine descriptors which humble us while any possible pride evaporates. If we tend to look for a self-imposed, epiphanic discovery—one where we are not comfortable with mystery but prefer knowing answers thus eliminating Trinitarian mysteries—we might undergo a season just like any other season. Perhaps Thomas Moore received an epiphany when he stated, “At best we can never be more than approximately correct when we speak about spiritual matters. The part that remains unknown and unspoken gives our words and ideas the emptiness they require.” This season of Epiphany provides a paradoxically “purposeful, selfless destination” where we die to our ways of searching for an epiphany yet live with our sitting in overwhelming joy. Set aside a sacred space for “emptiness” this season so that the Trinity can interact with you, fulfilling your longing to become and to do.