For much of Christian history, the death of Jesus has been described as the moment when God’s justice was satisfied — when a divine penalty was paid. But what if the deeper biblical story tells us something far more intimate, and far more subversive?

What if the cross wasn’t about God needing suffering — but about God entering ours?

The story begins in Genesis 3:15, when God speaks to the serpent:

Verse 1

Midnight! Christians, it is the solemn hour
When the God-man came down to us,
To erase the stain of the whole world’s sin
And to halt His Father’s anger.
All the world trembles with hope
On this night that gives it a Savior.
People, fall to your knees—await your deliverance!
Christmas! Christmas! Here is the Redeemer!
Christmas! Christmas! Here is the Redeemer!

Verse 2

Verse 1

In a manger so small, ‘neath a cold winter sky,
shepherds tremble as the angels cry.
No throne, no crown, just straw and hay,
yet the King of Heaven has come to stay.
The night holds its breath in wonder,
as the Word becomes flesh and light,
and the silence of the stable
breaks the darkness of the night.

Chorus
Mene, Mene — Christ is coming soon,
Tekel — your burden He removes.
Upharsin — all you built will turn to dust,
but grace still calls to us.

There’s a deep fear that many Christians quietly carry: What will happen when I stand before God on Judgment Day? Will every sin I’ve ever committed be replayed like a courtroom record? Will I face the shame of all I’ve done wrong?

A friend once voiced this worry in a discussion about Matthew 25 — the passage where Jesus separates the sheep from the goats. Their concern was simple but piercing: Even if I’m one of the sheep, won’t I still have to face everything I’ve ever done wrong?

I responded with a story about a judge who, after hearing the same facts repeated, finally said, “That’s just not relevant.”

Verse 1 – Herod’s Slaughter

Tiny cries in Bethlehem,
Footsteps in the night.
Herod’s sword in trembling hand,
Silences the light.

Refrain

“I lost my job this month, right at the start of what was supposed to be the best month of the year… The most confusing thing is that I thought the job I lost was an opportunity from God too… I keep praying but it just hurts.”
— A Reddit user

I came across that post a few weeks ago. It’s raw, honest, and deeply human — the kind of lament that fills the Psalms and still echoes in modern hearts.
But beneath the pain is a quiet theology that many of us have inherited without realizing it — a belief that faith is supposed to protect us from pain, and that suffering means something has gone wrong in our relationship with God.

That’s not biblical faith.
That’s prosperity logic dressed in devotional language.

Recently, I came across a Reddit post that perfectly captured a common but dangerous way of thinking about faith. It read:

“I lost my job this month, right at the start of what was supposed to be the best month of the year. It was going to be the month I proposed to my girlfriend, the month we finished moving into our first house, and the month I started studying again to achieve the new goals I had spoken to God about. The most confusing thing is that I thought the job I lost was an opportunity from God too… I keep praying but it just hurts.”

It’s heartfelt and painfully honest. You can almost feel the writer’s exhaustion — the shock of losing not only a job but a sense of divine direction. And yet, this post reveals something deeper than personal pain: it exposes a quiet strain of prosperity gospel thinking that has seeped into everyday Christian life.

Verse 1

Is that all you see?
Lights from a store
Not a soul,
Nothing more
She weeps as she falls at His feet
Anoints Him in oil,
Her heart at His knees
“What a waste,” they said, “this could’ve fed the poor”
But it was more than oil — it was love poured to the King
And Jesus said, “She’s done a beautiful thing.”

Chorus

In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan

Earth stood hard as iron,

Every December, the same argument returns — the one about whether Christmas has become too commercial. For many, the lights, the music, and the shopping are proof that we’ve lost the “real meaning.” But maybe that’s not quite right.

I recently read Peter Kucenski’s “Be Unfair This Christmas”, a thoughtful meditation on how true generosity doesn’t calculate returns. It’s a strong piece, but it also risks drifting into that familiar anti-commercial sentiment — the moral pose that sounds holy but often ends up joyless. Sometimes, in trying to reject materialism, we accidentally reject love.

My favorite version of A Christmas Carol is the George C. Scott one. In a pivotal scene, Scrooge grumbles about all the gifts people are buying, muttering about waste and foolishness. The Ghost of Christmas Present stops him cold:

We like our prophets loud, certain, and righteous. We prefer them when their words flatter our feelings, when their fury aligns with our own. But truth rarely comes wrapped in charisma. It often hides behind contradictions — in people who seem to bend rather than break, who say what the times will allow and act on what conscience demands.

Booker T. Washington was one of those prophets.

He is too often dismissed as an accommodationist, a man who made peace with white supremacy. Yet history shows something more complex. Washington was strategic, even subversive. Publicly, he preached patience and industry; privately, he funded anti-racist lawsuits, supported Black journalists, and quietly bankrolled efforts to challenge segregation. His book Up From Slavery was not naïve self-congratulation. It was bait — a narrative designed to open white purses so that Black children could have schools.

Verse 1

They stand on the shore with their books in hand,
Preaching chains as a holy plan.
Quoting prophets they’ve never read,
While the poor cry out for daily bread.
They talk of heaven, they talk of grace,
But build their kingdoms on another race.
They call it order, they call it right,
But truth is revealed in the light.

Pre-Chorus

In the humble stable,
in cold and poverty,
the holy little child is born
whom the world will adore.

Hosanna, hosanna they sing
with joyful hearts,
your shepherds and angels,
O King of light and love.

Come, let us adore,
come, let us adore,
come, let us adore
the Lord.

Intro

Oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah!
He’s rich as Midas, owns half the land,
But he’s shaking at shadows — oh, ain’t that grand!

Verse 1

When Chris Butler wrote in Christianity Today that both parties “need religious Americans to succeed,” which reflects how political parties rely on religious voters to win elections — a reality that reveals both opportunity and danger, he wasn’t wrong — but he revealed something deeply broken about our politics. In a nation where faith is often used as a prop to win elections, “Christ Alone We Need” was born out of holy frustration.

This isn’t a protest against faith in the public square. It’s a protest against faith being bargained away — traded for influence, proximity to power, or campaign promises that come at the expense of our most vulnerable neighbors.

“Christ Alone We Need” is a country-gospel anthem sung with a fierce, female voice — a sound that carries both tenderness and righteous fire. It declares that we won’t “beg” for political scraps or let parties define our morals.

When a college student turns in a paper that clashes with an instructor’s deepest identity or beliefs, grading can feel less like pedagogy and more like moral triage.
The recent case of Samantha Fulnecky, an Oklahoma college student who received a zero on her reaction paper about gender and biblical design, is a vivid example.

Fulnecky’s essay—rooted entirely in Christian theology—argued that erasing traditional gender categories moves society “farther from God’s original plan.” Her instructor, who identifies as transgender, gave her zero points out of twenty-five, citing the absence of empirical evidence and describing parts of her essay as offensive.

The decision ignited predictable outrage in the media. But beyond the culture-war headlines lies a deeper pedagogical question:

When Fox News reported that Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem recommended a “full travel ban” on nations “flooding” the United States with “killers and leeches,” the reaction was immediate and visceral. Some applauded her bluntness. Others recoiled at the rhetoric. But beneath the politics lies a deeper question — a moral and spiritual one.

What does it mean, in a nation that still calls itself “under God,” to speak of human beings as parasites? What does our faith say about fear, protection, justice, and the stranger among us?

It is not wrong to desire safety. Scripture affirms the right of leaders to protect their people. The Apostle Paul calls governing authorities “God’s servants for your good” (Romans 13:4). Nations are not anarchic; they have borders, laws, and duties to maintain peace.

Verse 1

Conditor alme siderum,
aetérna lux credéntium,
Christe, redémptor ómnium,
exáudi preces súpplicum.

Creator of the stars of night,
Eternal light of faithful hearts,
O Christ, Redeemer of us all,
Hear now the prayers your people call.

Verse 1

Snow is falling on the empty street,
The lights are warm but my heart skips a beat.
Your shadow lingers in every glow,
But I can’t love you now, I had to let you go.
The carols ring with what might’ve been,
Silent prayers for a love worn thin.

Chorus

Verse 1

In the still of the night,
Heav’n’s glory shines;
Calling tribes, every tongue
Into Your light.
From the lost and the weak
To the strong and free,
You are gathering all
Into unity.
Your promise remains
For each land and race:
One family of nations
In Your house of grace.

Pre-Chorus