OVER THE LAST four Sundays, we’ve reflected on the season of Advent, a time of preparation, expectation, and hope. For those who keep the tradition of an Advent wreath, the first Sunday would be the time to light the Prophets Candle, signifying the prophecies of old that pointed ahead to the coming of the Messiah, the one who would be born of a virgin. Next would be the Bethlehem Candle, prompting us to reflect on the story of Mary and Joseph’s difficult journey to the place where the Messiah would be born as prophesied. The following week, the Shepherds Candle would be lit in memory of the stunned men who were chosen to receive the joyous good news of the Messiah’s birth. On the Sunday before Christmas, the lighting of the Angels Candle recalls the divine messengers who brought those good tidings. And some add a fifth candle on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day: the Christ candle, celebrating the coming of the Christ-child.

As we’ve pondered the stories, we’ve relied on passages from Isaiah, Matthew, and especially Luke. But today, I want to turn to another “Christmas” story, one that usually isn’t considered as such. It’s not from the gospels, but from the letters of the apostle Paul.

Paul is writing from prison to his beloved friends in the Roman colony of Philippi, where Paul planted a church. He thinks of them warmly as partners in ministry and prays for them regularly. But he’s heard of tensions brewing among the believers, and wants to encourage them to be of one mind, especially with the ever-present threat of persecution. To bolster their unity, he urges them to follow the example of Jesus:

Who, being in very nature God,
    did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage;
rather, he made himself nothing
    by taking the very nature of a servant,
    being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
    he humbled himself
    by becoming obedient to death—
        even death on a cross! (Phil 2:6-8, NIV)

Jesus was equal to God, but for the sake of sinful humanity “made himself nothing” — literally, he “emptied” himself to take human form. This is what theologians call the Incarnation, the miracle of the immortal God coming to us in a body of mortal flesh.

Because Paul is aware of a conflict in the church that has the potential of creating division, he wants to point them in the direction of humility. Here, he does so by quoting what many biblical scholars take to be a hymn that was already circulating in the church. The hymn celebrates the humility of Jesus, of the God who would take on a mortal body to die on our behalf. The whole passage pulses with wonder and astonishment. God, the eternal sovereign of the universe, a servant? God, the Creator, walking amongst us as a creature, a human being? God, the immortal source of life itself, dying? And dying the worst, most shameful death imaginable?

If two people in the church are squabbling, singing such a song together and contemplating the lyrics just might help.

But I also want us to imagine what else the Incarnation entails even if the hymn doesn’t mention it. Jesus didn’t appear out of nowhere as a full-fledged adult, storming the halls of power and ready to rule as King. He came in the fullness of everything that it means to be human, with no compromise. He came to us as any other baby might, with a gush of amniotic fluid and tethered by an umbilical cord. It’s a messy business, and in Jesus’ case, was done without benefit of anesthesia or a sterile delivery room.

As a father who participated in the births of both of my children, I can say that the process is both glorious and miraculous in its own way. But there’s no getting around it: it is a messy and painful business. That part of the Christmas story will probably never be immortalized in stained glass.

The hymn doesn’t mention the utter vulnerability of an infant. It doesn’t muse about how dependent children are on the fallible adults around them. It doesn’t tell us how many splinters Jesus got as an apprentice carpenter, or whether he ever suffered through acne.

But this is part of the deal. This is part of what it means to empty yourself of glorious privilege and live as a flesh-and-blood human being. Jesus begins his human journey in an animal’s feeding trough, and the journey ends on a wooden cross.

This Christmas story reminds us not to romanticize the birth of Jesus. It invites us to wonder at the love and humility of a God who would dare to do such a thing, to enter fully into the messiness of human existence, our existence. As the writer of the book of Hebrews reminds us, Jesus is able “to empathize with our weaknesses” because he “has been tempted in every way, just as we are” (Heb 4:15).

Jesus, Immanuel, God with us, God for us, God taking on everything that it means to be us.

May your Christmas be blessed with wonder.