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1 Kings 11:43

Soloman’s Christmas

This chapter closes the curtain on Solomon’s life, not with fanfare, but with a funeral dirge. The chronicler does not mention more of his accomplishments or wisdom but records the sad reality that “his heart turned away from the Lord” toward the idols of his foreign wives. What a tragic epitaph for a man who once built the temple of God and filled it with praise. It is striking that the chapter is not about Solomon’s glory but about his enemies—Hadad, Rezon, and Jeroboam—each named as an instrument of divine discipline. As long as Solomon walked with God, the writer cared to record his every act, but when he turned from God, his story dimmed like a candle burned down to its wick. Dilday writes, “As soon as he forsook Yahweh, he became insignificant, an empty vessel discarded by the wayside.” The light of his wisdom faded into shadow, and the kingdom that once glittered like gold began to crack like a broken ornament after Christmas morning cleanup.

It is a sobering reminder for us who decorate, celebrate, and sometimes overindulge during the holidays. Solomon’s story is not so far removed from our own tendency to exchange substance for sparkle. His downfall came not through war or poverty, but through comfort, pleasure, and compromise—three forces that still have a way of pulling hearts from the center of devotion. The same man who once wrote Proverbs warning against the seductions of folly became her most prominent student. It is as if he hung all the tinsel of his success but forgot to keep the light plugged in. The wisest man in history finally confessed in Ecclesiastes, “It’s all worth nothing. The best thing for man is to enjoy his work and obey God.” Experience was his teacher, but the tuition was high. We can learn from his lessons without repeating his failures. Paul reminds believers, “Do not lie to each other, for you have stripped off your old sinful nature… Put on your new nature, and be renewed as you learn to know your Creator and become like him.” (Colossians 3:9–10)

At Christmas, we celebrate the coming of a greater Son of David, whose wisdom never waned and whose heart never strayed. Jesus, born in humility, grew in wisdom and favor with God and man, and unlike Solomon, He finished His course in perfect obedience. His kingdom does not crumble with age or fade with wealth but shines eternally with grace and truth. The angel told Mary, “He will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.” (Luke 1:33) Solomon’s glory ended in darkness, but in Bethlehem’s stable, light broke through again—light that no silence, sorrow, or sin can ever eclipse.

Luke 1:78-79

The Benedictus

Mary’s song, the Magnificat, was followed by the second Christmas song ever written—the Benedictus. The opening line in the Latin Vulgate reads, “Benedictus Dominus Deus Israel,” or, “Praise be to the God of Israel.” It was sung by an elderly priest named Zechariah, who had just regained his speech after nine long months of silence. When the angel Gabriel first announced that he and Elizabeth would have a son, Zechariah responded not with faith but with skepticism. Asking for a sign, he got one—though perhaps not the kind he expected. His voice was taken from him until the baby’s birth. When it finally returned, it came out in melody rather than conversation. Some scholars see Zechariah’s silence as symbolic of the four centuries of silence between the Old and New Testaments, a long pause before God’s symphony of salvation began again.

Those 400 years between Malachi and Matthew were often called “the silent years.” No prophets thundered, no visions blazed, no divine messengers knocked at temple doors. But as in every great story, the silence was not the end—it was the setup. When God first spoke creation into being, He said, “Let there be light,” and light shattered the darkness. John’s Gospel picks up that theme when he declares, “In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:4-5) God was preparing the stage for a sunrise. The angelic announcements to Zechariah and Mary, the meeting of two expectant mothers, and the song of Mary herself were all like faint streaks of pink on the horizon before dawn. If you’ve ever sat in the dark waiting for the first glimmer of morning coffee—or light—you know the feeling: anticipation, tinged with hope, ready to burst into joy.

When John was finally born, the dawn broke. Zechariah’s tongue was loosed, and his song poured out like sunlight. In obedience to the angel’s instruction, he named his son “John,” though it broke with family tradition. His song, filled with over thirty echoes of Old Testament promises, ends with radiant prophecy: “Because of the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high, to give light to those who sit in darkness… and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” (Luke 1:78-79) The long night of silence was over. The Light of the world was rising.

Luke 1:78-79, Psalm 14:5-7

When Dreams Come True!

The people of God had been living for centuries in what David called “the valley of the shadow of death.” Generation after generation clung to the promises God had made from the very beginning—that one day, a Redeemer would come to crush the serpent’s head and end death’s dominion. Then, in a humble stable in Bethlehem, the promises found their fulfillment in the birth of a baby. The songwriter captured it perfectly: “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.” Humanity had waited so long for this child, the one through whom heaven’s light would pierce earth’s gloom. As the poet wrote, “Do not ask for whom the bell tolls—it tolls for thee.” But now, the bell that had rung for death would soon ring for life, because the long silence of sorrow was about to be broken by a newborn cry.

Zechariah’s song, the Benedictus, celebrates not himself or his son John, but the Redeemer John would proclaim. After nine months of holy silence, Zechariah burst forth in praise, announcing that the ancient promises to Abraham and David were now being fulfilled. His song declares, “Because of the tender mercy of our God, with which the Sunrise from on high shall visit us, to shine upon those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death.” (Luke 1:78–79) John’s birth signaled that the dawn was about to break. Like a herald standing on a mountain shouting “The sun is rising!” he called all who would listen to prepare their hearts. His message was simple but urgent: open the doors of your life and let the light in. The dark valley of sin and despair would not last forever. The long night was giving way to morning, and the angels were already rehearsing their song.

When Jesus entered the world, the sleep of death was shattered forever. The Apostle Paul later wrote, “Awake, sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” (Ephesians 5:14) The best dreams come true when we wake up to the reality of redemption. Eugene Peterson paraphrased it beautifully in The Message: “God turns life around. Turned-around Jacob skips rope; turned-around Israel sings laughter.” At Christmas, laughter and light return to the world. The night has passed, the Daystar has risen, and Bethlehem’s baby has turned mourning into music. The valley of shadows has become the dawn of everlasting joy.

Ephesians 5:20

There’s Always Something!

The Bible tells us to be thankful, but some days it feels like that command was written for someone else. When life goes sideways, when plans crumble, or when the car refuses to start in the cold, “thank you, Lord” does not exactly roll off the tongue. The truth is, we do not always feel thankful. Paul’s admonition to “give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:18) can sound overly cheerful to those trudging through disappointment or pain. Yet gratitude, in Scripture, is not tied to circumstance but to confidence—confidence that God remains faithful even when our feelings falter. When Paul declared, “I can do all things through Christ,” (Philippians 4:13) he was not bragging about strength training; he was describing the secret of contentment—how to sing in the sunshine and in the storm. Still, I sometimes wonder: isn’t it hypocritical to say “thank you” when you don’t feel it? Shouldn’t sincerity count for something?

Nike says, “Just Do It.” Scripture might paraphrase that to mean, “Just Thank Him.” Gratitude is not hypocrisy when it’s obedience. When we thank God through gritted teeth, it’s not false piety; it’s faith in motion. Feelings may lag behind, but obedience often leads the way. Many of us have practiced “hypocritical Thanksgiving” in the wrong way—smiling through gritted teeth at family dinners, pretending to be grateful for the casserole no one can identify. True thanksgiving, however, is not about pretending; it’s about trusting. When we say “thank you” even in sorrow, we are not trying to impress anyone—we’re inviting the Holy Spirit to transform our outlook. Gratitude is not always spontaneous; sometimes it’s strategic. Like exercise, it feels forced at first, but afterward, the heart beats stronger. Our duty to give thanks opens the door for God to change duty into delight.

Matthew Henry once demonstrated this kind of holy humor after being robbed. In his diary, he wrote, “Let me be thankful first, because I was never robbed before; second, because although they took my purse, they did not take my life; third, because although they took my all, it was not much; and fourth, because it was I who was robbed, not I who robbed.” That is gratitude with perspective. Paul told the Ephesians, “Give thanks always and for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” (Ephesians 5:20) Jesus modeled this when He gave thanks before breaking the bread that would symbolize His suffering. Even in His darkest hour, thanksgiving preceded the miracle. Real gratitude is not about how we feel—it’s about who He is.

Psalm 105:1

Just say it: “Thank You!”

The Psalmist gives simple yet profound advice: “Sing out your thanks to Him” (Psalm 147:7). He adds in Psalm 105:1, “Give thanks to the Lord and pray to Him.” Gratitude, it seems, belongs in both song and speech. Paul echoes this theme in Philippians 4:6 when he writes, “Tell God what you need, and thank Him for all He has done.” There is something profoundly healing in that combination—ask honestly, and thank freely. Yet our society has developed a curious allergy to public gratitude. I recently read about efforts in some southern states to reinstate the Ten Commandments in schools and even return prayer to classrooms. It reminded me of the 1963 Supreme Court case that banned prayer in public schools. The offending prayer, written by kindergarteners, was hardly controversial: “We thank you for the flowers so sweet; We thank you for the food we eat; We thank you for the birds that sing; We thank you, God, for everything.” One might think such a prayer could only offend birds or flowers. But Madalyn Murray O’Hair, who led the charge against school prayer, went so far as to object to astronauts praying in orbit. She said their prayer from space was a “tragic situation.” Evidently, even gratitude was too close to heaven for her liking.

Something happens to the heart when it forgets how to say “thank you.” Gratitude, like oxygen, sustains the soul. When we cut it off, everything starts to suffocate. Paul warned about this very thing in Romans 1:21: “For although they knew God, they did not honor Him as God or give thanks to Him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened.” A thankless spirit is not simply bad manners; it is spiritual decay. Dr. David Soper, in God Is Inescapable, once wrote that the difference between a prison and a monastery is the difference between griping and gratitude. If that’s true, then a person who complains in comfort is as bound as one who rejoices in chains. Gratitude transforms walls into windows.

Ultimately, gratitude finds its fullest expression in Jesus Christ. The night before His crucifixion, “He took bread, and when He had given thanks, He broke it” (Luke 22:19). In His darkest hour, thanksgiving still flowed from His lips. Paul wrote that in the last days, people would become “lovers of self, lovers of money… ungrateful” (2 Timothy 3:2–5). Yet Christ shows us another way. Gratitude is not just good manners—it is the melody of redemption. When Jesus gave thanks in the face of death, He turned a cross into a doorway and despair into song.

Psalm 147:7

Gratitude in your heart

Thanksgiving may have passed, but I am not done with it yet. My leftovers may be gone, but my gratitude should not be. I keep thinking about how we say “Thank You” to God for all He has done and continues to do. From the dawn of creation to the present day, God’s people have been called to “give thanks in all things.” Psalm 147:7 says, “Sing out your thanks to Him; sing praises to our God.” I doubt the psalmist meant we should only do that once a year, right after the pumpkin pie. As Christmas approaches, my thoughts turn toward the greatest gift ever given—the gift of Jesus Christ. The turkey may be gone, but the tune of thanksgiving should linger. Christmas carols, in that sense, are just Thanksgiving hymns with tinsel.

As it was for Israel in the Old Testament, it is for the Church today: we are a worshipping community called to make our gratitude audible. Paul told the Colossians, “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly… as you sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God.” (Colossians 3:16) Singing is not filler between sermons—it is theology with a melody. Psalm 100 invites us to “enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise.” Gratitude turns the ordinary into worship, and worship turns the weary heart into joy. Deep within every person is a thirst for God, a longing that nothing else can quench. The psalmist said, “As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for You, O God.” It is that longing which finds satisfaction only in communion with Him. Psalm 16:11 explains it perfectly: “In Your presence there is fullness of joy; at Your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” The joy of gratitude is not found in what we possess, but in the One who possesses us.

But let us not mistake motion for emotion. Singing thanks to God must come from the heart, not just the hymnbook. John Piper once wrote, “Without the engagement of the heart, we do not really worship.” It is possible to sing every verse of “How Great Thou Art” and still miss the point entirely. Jesus warned, “These people honor Me with their lips, but their heart is far from Me.” (Matthew 15:8) True gratitude sings not because the tune is familiar, but because the heart is full. So even as Thanksgiving fades and Christmas draws near, may our songs still rise—not out of habit, but out of joy. After all, the manger was the beginning of a melody that never ends.

Titus 1:16

Denying Christ by Works

When Paul warned Titus about false teachers, he summed up their problem in one sharp sentence: “They profess to know God, but they deny Him by their works.” (Titus 1:16) The statement can be understood in two ways, and both fit. On one hand, Paul could be saying that their behavior—rebellion, greed, and deceit—betrayed their confession. On the other hand, he may be referring to their obsession with religious “works,” such as circumcision, as proof of righteousness. In either case, the message is the same: their lives, not their lips, revealed what they truly believed. When people rely on good deeds to earn God’s approval, they are not just mistaken—they are denying the sufficiency of Christ’s work on the cross. It is as though they are saying, “Nice try, Jesus, but I’ll finish this myself.” That kind of thinking not only misunderstands grace; it insults it. Salvation by self-effort is like trying to jump the Grand Canyon with a pogo stick—ambitious, perhaps, but doomed from the start.

The Galatians faced the same confusion when false teachers convinced them they could “improve” on grace. Paul challenged them bluntly: “Did you receive the Spirit by works of the law, or by hearing with faith?” (Galatians 3:2) They knew the answer—it was faith, not performance. Yet human nature still whispers, “Surely, I can do something to help.” Even the prodigal son, returning home in rags, offered to become a hired servant so he could earn his keep. The father, however, ignored that suggestion entirely and threw him a party instead. God’s love works the same way. He doesn’t want employees; He wants children. Yet we keep trying to clock in and impress the boss. We measure ourselves by checklists, rituals, and rule-keeping, forgetting that the point of the gospel is not better behavior—it’s new birth.

Arthur Pink captured it well: “It is not what we can do for God, but what God has already done for us.” When the Philippian jailer cried, “What must I do to be saved?” Paul replied, “Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and you will be saved.” (Acts 16:31) Jesus Himself defined “the work of God” as simply this: “to believe in the One He has sent.” (John 6:29) Our salvation rests not on what we accomplish, but on what Christ accomplished. As Paul wrote, “We know that a person is not justified by works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ.” (Galatians 2:16) In other words, the only “work” worth trusting is the one already finished—nailed, sealed, and declared complete at the cross.

Titus 1:15

A Guilty Conscience

God has given us all things for our enjoyment, and Paul reminds Timothy, “Everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving.” (1 Timothy 4:4) That is a wonderful verse to quote when enjoying dessert—or even a second helping of it. Yet, there have always been those who try to make us feel guilty for enjoying God’s blessings. The false teachers in Galatia did just that, adding restrictions and rules to the Gospel, turning joy into judgment. Their favorite tool was guilt. It is a subtle weapon that works well on sincere people, and it robs believers of the freedom that Christ purchased. They condemn others for smiling too easily, laughing too loudly, or living too freely in grace. But when guilt becomes a form of manipulation, it ceases to be spiritual and becomes toxic. The Gospel is not a system of control but a proclamation of liberation.

Still, we all know something about guilt. David, the man after God’s own heart, felt it deeply and often. Guilt, when used rightly, can lead to confession and renewal. As long as we live in close fellowship with God, our consciences act like spiritual smoke alarms—they may be loud and irritating, but they keep us from burning down the house. John writes, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9) James adds another layer, saying that true healing can come from confession not only to God but to one another. “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.” (James 5:16) It is remarkable how much lighter life feels when we stop pretending and start confessing. Guilt that leads to confession is a gift; guilt that leads to despair is not. The difference lies in who is holding the gavel—God or man.

False teachers love to point fingers; Jesus loves to wash feet. The law reveals our sin, but only Christ removes it. Hebrews says, “How much more will the blood of Christ…purify our conscience from dead works to serve the living God.” (Hebrews 9:14) Christ’s blood does what no sacrifice, no ritual, no self-punishment could ever do—it cleanses completely. God does not condemn the sinner who comes to Him; He forgives, restores, and renews. His kindness, not His condemnation, draws us back. “Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith,” the writer of Hebrews says, “with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience.” (Hebrews 10:22) That is guilt-free grace—the freedom to live forgiven, laugh redeemed, and enjoy everything God has made with thanksgiving.

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