Have you ever had a “fair-weather” friend? You know, the kind that pledges their unfailing loyalty to you. Promises to be there for you through thick and thin. Proclaims their undying love for you. But then, the moment the going gets tough, they get going. The kind of friend that, when you need them most, when you need them to be there for you, they’re nowhere to be found.
Hopefully you’ve had some real friends, true friends. Who, when the going gets tough, show up. Who are there for you through thick and thin. A fair-weather friend is really no friend at all. Their love doesn’t run deep. They really don’t love you at all. A true friend is a friend who shows up. Who is there with you, through it all.
One of the most frequent questions I get asked—actually it’s usually put in the form of a statement, a declaration—is, if I already believe in a God of love, why do I need Jesus? Why do I need to believe in Jesus? Why does Jesus matter?
While there are many things to say in response, not least of which is the necessity of Jesus for salvation, the simple answer—without getting into a lot of depth about how Jesus saves us—the most simple answer, the most basic answer, the most fundamental answer, which meets the question, this “declaration”, on its own terms, is that, if you don’t have Jesus, you don’t have a God of love. Without Jesus, you can’t have a God of love. Without believing in Jesus, you can’t believe in a God of love.
Because without Jesus, without Emmanuel, God-with-us to the radical degree that Jesus is with us—becoming fully human—God is like a fair-weather friend. Without Jesus, God is no better than a fair-weather friend.
A transcendent God who has never experienced the things we go through in our full humanity is a distant God. A God who really isn’t with us.
As we’re about to celebrate Christmas, this is what it’s really all about is Emmanuel: God-with-us. The Incarnation. God taking on flesh and blood. Christians celebrate the fact that God is with us in this event, the event of the Incarnation—and to the most radical degree possible. He couldn’t be any closer, being with us, by our side, through all we go through.
As Hebrews 4:15 indicates, Jesus shared all of our human weakness, being tempted in every way we are—in short, he was like us in all things but sin. Or as Philippians 2:6-11 describes, Jesus emptied himself of his divine prerogatives in order to come to earth and fully embrace our humanity: Though he was in the form of God, he took on the form of a human being, even a servant, a slave, and then went to a death, the most debased death possible, on the cross. He emptied himself of all of his divine prerogatives so that he could become truly human.
At the same time, he remained fully divine. He didn’t lose his divine identity. He couldn’t. When on earth, though fully human, he was still the eternal Son of God. That’s exactly what this astounding act of (divine) self-emptying reveals: We can’t empty ourselves of something we don’t have, all the prerogatives of divinity; he can, precisely because he is fully divine.
Jesus’ divine identity was not diminished, even in the slightest, by him becoming human. It was—and, through all eternity, always remains—essential to his nature, his person. His divine identity is what enabled him to fulfill all that he came to earth to accomplish. In perfect obedience to and trust in the Father, he was able to tap into the supernatural insight and power intrinsic to his nature. But he had to depend of the Father for this, in the same way all humans do.
This is why John’s Gospel records Jesus saying that he only does what he “sees” the Father doing—in all things, he follows the Father’s lead. He never “exploits” for himself, as Philippians 2:6-11 puts it, the divine prerogatives that are essential to his nature. Instead, he allows the Father to determine when and where he can use his miraculous powers for the sake of ministry, for the sake of preaching the Gospel and meeting the dire needs of the people he encounters.
Though he was omniscient, all knowing, he freely gave up that omniscience. That’s why you see Jesus praying so much—he has to pray to the Father and rely on the Father and trust the Father the exact same way we do. The exact same way we have to go to God to discern what God’s will is for our lives. Or to seek comfort. Or to experience communion with God. Or the ability to do the things God is calling us to do. To be sure, the supernatural insight or power the Father unleashed in him far exceeds what we normally receive in prayer. But this was because of his unique identity and so he could fulfill his unique mission.
Just think about is: As the eternal Son of God, he didn’t need to pray. He experienced the full glory of total communion with the Father and the Holy Spirit, the perfect intimacy of their unmediated presence. It is only because he became fully human that we see him praying so often in the Gospels. Although his relationship to the Father is categorically different than ours, his access to him comes through the same channels that it comes to any of us.
When Jesus exercised omniscience during his public ministry, it was only because he was depending on the Father to provide him with it. He had freely given up the divine omniscience no human being has. That’s why in Mark 13:32 Jesus states that he doesn’t know the day or the hour of his return, the End of the World. Only the Father knows. And apparently this was not one of the things the Father deemed that Jesus needed to know in order to fulfill his mission. Thus, Jesus was limited in his knowledge, the same way that we are.
Though he was all-powerful, omnipotent, Jesus became vulnerable. He became a weak and fragile human being. From the moment he was born into this world as a helpless baby, he lived a humble life, completely subjecting himself to all our human vulnerability. He didn’t live as a king, in nobility, protected by an army of guards, waited on hand and foot. No, even though he was the king of the universe, he relentlessly lived the life of a servant, of self-sacrificial love.
Though he was eternal, immortal, he suffered death. One of the worst tortures, in fact, ever devised by human beings. He tasted every last drop of its dreadful horror. In the agony in the garden, we vividly see Jesus experiencing that same dread, terror, and angst we feel in the face of death.
Indeed, if Jesus knew for sure that he would be raised three days later, then death wouldn’t have been all that problematic for him. Sure, it would have been awful going through the excruciating pain of crucifixion. But it wouldn’t have been nearly as agonizing, as terrifying. If Jesus had no doubt that his crucifixion was simply the doorway to an unimaginably greater glory, if death wasn’t the ultimate unknown to him that it is for us, he wouldn’t have asked the Father to spare him from this fate. In the face of death, we can be certain that Jesus felt the same dread we feel and had to trust, just as we have to, that the Father would raise him up as well.
Yes, Jesus emptied himself of all his divine prerogatives so that he could be with us— to the most radical degree possible. Flesh and blood. Like us in all things but sin. Fully human.
And that’s what a God of love—if God really is love—has to do. What is logically necessary for God to do to be a God of love. Otherwise, a God who never experiences the limitations of knowledge, the very same angst and uncertainty that plagues us, because he’s omniscient; a God who is so powerful he never experiences human vulnerability; a God who’s eternal and immortal and has no idea what it’s like to experience death, or just to dread it, is a God who really isn’t with us. At all.
Have you ever noticed how good it feels to have somebody really listen to you, to be fully present to you? Even when you’re in the midst of some of your darkest and most difficult times? Even though your circumstances don’t change? Even when your circumstances can’t be changed, as in the death of a loved one, or end of a relationship that can’t be repaired? How, no matter how dark and difficult your circumstances may be, when you have someone—a faithful friend—who will sit there and listen to you, it dramatically changes things? How it brings surprising but sweet comfort, a profound level of healing that is difficult to put into words but which completely transforms your perspective?
And have you ever noticed how much more powerful it is when the faithful friend who gives you this gift of their presence is someone who has gone through the same kind of experience you’ve had?
Over the years as a pastor, I’ve had the opportunity to speak with many combat veterans, first while working in a shelter where many had been completely broken by the hell of war. Listening to their stories, I always felt so helpless, so incompetent to help them. I’m sure at some level it felt good to have someone listen so attentively. But only a combat veteran can really help someone who is struggling with the hell of war themselves.
There’s a great book by Henri Nouwen, a classic book, called The Wounded Healer. The premise is that the people who are in the best position to help others are those who have gone through the same experience themselves. The best healers are those who have been wounded in the same way.
But think about how powerful this is. It’s not erasing what happened. You can’t. It’s not providing some sophisticated, psychological therapy, treatment program. It’s not drug treatment or anything else. It’s simply having somebody present to you. Who’s with you. Who will accompany you. Who will sit and truly listen to you. Somebody who understands what you’ve gone through because they’ve been there themselves be with you.
That’s what Emmanuel is all about. The transcendent God of the Universe truly with us. Because he has become like us in all things but sin. Because he’s been through every experience that we go through. He understands us. He “gets” us. Perfectly.
Over the years as a firefighter we had a number of fatal fires. After a fatal fire, the fire department usually provided a Critical Incident debriefing. They would bring in professional counselors to talk to us, first as a group and then individually, if we wanted to. Very few of us wanted to. These professionals did the best they could, but those sessions weren’t really helpful to us as firefighters.
One of the worst fires we ever responded to was one where two young children and their grandmother died. It was a Martin Luther King Jr. holiday and the grandchildren had slept over their grandmother’s apartment because there was no school that day. While every death was heartbreaking for us, the thing that made that fire one of the most heartbreaking was how close we were from getting them out alive. Nothing would have changed the outcome. We responded as quickly as we could. But we were mere moments away from being able to save them.
That’s the hardest thing for a firefighter, or any emergency responder for that matter. When you know that you came that close to saving someone, you second guess everything you did. What if you did things just a little bit faster, could you have gotten them out alive? Even though we knew we couldn’t have done anything more, this was the type of traumatic incident that would haunt us most.
But in that Critical Incident debriefing the fire department didn’t bring professional counselors in to talk to us. Instead, they brought in other firefighters who had also been trained in doing this kind of critical incident debriefing. In other words, they were fellow firefighters. Who had been there. Who had done the job. Who understood what it was like to go to a fatal fire and have somebody die who you were so close to being able to save. Who knew exactly what it was like to be haunted by questions about whether we could have done more.
That session was so helpful. So healing. Not just the fact that we could talk to fellow firefighters who understood what we were going through. But also because it started a conversation among ourselves, where even after that debriefing we could talk to one another. Because we tended to bottle it in, their presence enabled us to talk to one another about that fire and over time it proved powerful, healing.
Having somebody who will be there listening to you, who understands you, who’s been there before, who sticks with you through thick and thin is such powerful and even transformative experience. It is one of the most profound experiences we can have in life.
And if there is a God who loves us, then that God must be willing to do the same, to be with us through it all, to do what it takes to really understand what it is like to be human, to know what it’s like to be in our skin—literally!
For God, for the eternal, transcendent, infinite God, that means nothing less than taking on human form, becoming real flesh and blood, to do all that Jesus does in the Incarnation. This is the only way God can be Emmanuel, God-with-us.
Otherwise, if God doesn’t become Incarnate, then God is no better than a fair-weather friend. To say that God is love is meaningless. If God doesn’t do all that we see Jesus doing, then all talk about a God of love is empty. Shallow. Hollow.
God can’t be love unless God is also Emmanuel.
But, if you’ve ever been in the position of trying to help someone out who’s going through a difficult time, if you’ve ever been there for a friend, you know that it costs you something. For one, it costs you your time. Time is precious, and we’re all very busy. So it takes a lot of your precious time to sit with somebody who is going through one of their darkest and most difficult times.
But it’s also hard just to just sit and listen attentively, because our natural response is to want to fix things. We want to swoop in and make everything right. To just sit and listen is hard, because it makes us feel helpless. The only thing we can do is help bear the other person’s burden.
And that’s probably the most difficult thing of it all: Not simply the sacrifice of time, not simply the sacrifice of just being present and not trying to fix the situation—which in most cases can’t be fixed—but to be willing to shoulder the other person’s burden. The hardest thing is that you end up carrying their burden as well. Indeed, that’s what is so helpful—having someone else who is willing to walk with them and help “carry” their burden enables them to unload some of it.
But that means you don’t walk away from those conversations the same. If you’ve really done that for somebody, for a friend, if you’ve been with them in those difficult and dark times, you know that when you walk away from those conversations you walk away carrying (part of) their burden. You can’t just shut your mind off to what you’ve heard. You carry their burden with you. It costs you to be there for them.
It’s no different for God. Except that the cost for God was infinite in measure. The cost for us is always finite. But the cost for God is infinite because in order for Jesus to be Emmanuel, in order for him to be God-with-us, to be fully human, to truly understand us, from the inside out, he had to give up his divine prerogatives. He had to give up the perfect bliss he had as God from all eternity. It cost him dearly.
And yet, that’s how much he loves us. He loves us enough to give up his divine prerogatives: The omniscient God taking on all the limitations of human knowledge; the omnipotent God becoming completely vulnerable to hunger, thirst, exhaustion and everything else we have to go through; the eternal God assuming our mortality, including the dread we feel in the face of death.
The eternal Son of God was wounded for our sake so that he could be the ultimate wounded healer.
But that’s how much he loves us. And that is an awesome thought. In fact, it’s the most awesome thought there is.
And so, as we approach Christmas, I pray that you have the most blessed Christmas, that your Christmas is everything that you could desire it to be and more.
But above all, I pray that this Christmas you will experience Emmanuel, God-with-us. God with you. The God who loves you so much he paid an infinitely immeasurable price to be your Emmanuel.
May you know the glory of Emmanuel this Christmas!
Merry Christmas!
