For the Lowest of Lows…

Happy Christmas, friends.

First, my sincere thanks to everyone who shows up in this space—those who encourage me (and each other) through everyday life, help crowdsource wisdom and advice, and play a role in fostering joy in this little corner of the internet.

Second, if you’re new here, I’m a Christ follower. While my faith shows up organically in many posts, there are two days each year that I approach a bit differently: Good Friday and Christmas Eve.

These are the two posts I care about most. And, without fail, they are the hardest to write—not because I doubt what I believe, but because faith, by its very nature, can’t be fully conveyed with words alone.

This year, that tension has felt especially present. I want this space to be welcoming in a world that feels increasingly polarized. At the same time, my faith is centered exclusively on Jesus. I know that’s not a popular or comfortable claim. My hope—and my prayer—is that what comes through most clearly is not division, but love.

Regardless of background, most of us are familiar with the Christmas story.

From the very beginning, it unfolds in unexpected ways. Not with power or prestige, but with a young girl who hadn’t achieved anything noteworthy—she simply received what was offered to her.

Mary wasn’t wealthy or influential. She was available and receptive. And her response was adoration:

“My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has been mindful
 of the humble state of his servant…
He has brought down rulers from their thrones
 but has lifted up the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things
but has sent the rich away empty.”

A different translation puts it this way: “For He has regarded the lowly state of His maidservant.“

Nine months later, the announcement of Christ’s birth came first to shepherds—men on the margins, distrusted and overlooked. In ancient Israel, shepherds occupied the lowest rung of the social ladder. And yet, they were the first invited to adore the newborn King.

The baby they worshipped would grow up to be called a Friend of Sinners—a title meant as an insult, but one I can’t help imagining brought Him joy. Sinners are exactly who He came for. The tragedy is that those casting stones (metaphorical and literal) were sinners too, unwilling to recognize their own need.

I believe there is something in all of us that falls short of who we were meant to be. Call it sin. Call it brokenness. Call it the human condition. There is a gap between who we are and who we were created to be—and I don’t believe we can close it by effort alone.

I believe that through Jesus, God stepped into that gap.

We don’t like to talk about sin or absolutes these days. We prefer to believe that if we’re “good enough,” that should be sufficient. I don’t view things that way. Thankfully, this isn’t a sledgehammer to my self-esteem. It’s the quiet relief of realizing I could never be enough on my own—and I don’t have to be.

Like Mary, the only thing I can truly do is receive. And that will always require faith.

Faith isn’t as strange as we sometimes make it out to be.

Every one of us trusts things we can’t fully explain. We trust anesthesia to turn consciousness off—and back on—without fully understanding how it works. We live inside time without grasping what it actually is. (Reality? A construct?)

I don’t understand quantum physics, but I trust that it works. (To be fair even quantum physicists don’t really understand quantum physics. Take dark energy, for example, which makes up a huge proportion of the energy in our universe but it’s invisible and no one knows exactly what it is.)

We all choose what we trust.

If you don’t trust Jesus, perhaps you admire Him? Many people do! He’s often described as a good teacher, a moral example, someone worth emulating. And He is!

But goodness itself is a complicated concept. If good and evil are real—rather than purely subjective—then they can’t simply be matters of personal opinion. Someone, or something, has to define them.

So who gets to decide? Me? On what basis? How would I even measure whether I’m “good”? And if there is an afterlife—let’s call it Heaven for the sake of this post—how could I ever be confident I’d done enough to belong there? Is there some invisible set of scales tallying my actions over a lifetime?

And if there is… who’s holding them?

(I’m quite certain it shouldn’t be me.)

Admiration can inspire us—perhaps to be “good” people, whatever that definition entails.

But adoration changes us.

Music has a way of saying what I cannot. This song, in particular, has shaped my reflections this Christmas season:

There’s no room in the inn for a savior
There’s no power to claim for His own
Enthroned in a humble manger
And worshiped by the lowest of lows
Could’ve come down from Heaven in splendor
With ten thousand angels up by His throne
But He came back a helpless baby
He became the lowest of lows

…

He came like a lamb for the slaughter
But, one day He would come back to rule
When the darkness triumphs over
We will see the light burstin’ through
And the Heavens will open in splendor
And the Heavenly trumpets will blow
And the King of the Kings of the nations
Will return for the lowest of lows

Let us adore, let us adore Emmanuel
Let us adore, let us adore the Son of Man
God came to Earth, traded His throne
For the lowest of lows

– lowest of lows by Josiah Queen

What grace! What joy! Because I, Elisabeth, am the lowest of lows. And somehow, counterintuitively, that is where freedom lives.

The story of Christmas is that God came for me—not once I had everything figured out, but right in the middle of my flaws and limits. My only logical response is worship. Not because I’m worthy, but precisely because I’m not.

Christ’s birth flips the expected narrative on its head. A King forgoing power and prestige, becoming lowly. A King worshipped by outcasts and sinners (women! shepherds!). A King come to rescue those who could offer nothing but their adoration.

I respect the diversity of beliefs represented here. You may agree with me, reject this entirely, or land somewhere in between. But all of us place our hope somewhere.

I’ve made my choice.

For me, the only natural response is adoration—of my Friend, my Saviour, my Jesus.

Merry Christmas, friends.