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Hope for the Fatherless

We tell two stories around Christmas. One is Christian, while the other is mostly sentimental. The first story begins (at least in the Gospel of Luke) with an elderly priest named Zechariah serving faithfully at the temple. Luke tells us that Zechariah and Elizabeth, his wife, both loved the Lord and likely harbored some hope for Israel to be freed from Roman oppression. The angel Gabriel gives life to their hope by announcing that this barren couple would have a son who would herald the coming Messiah. From there, the story moves to a young woman in Nazareth named Mary. The wonder of her pregnancy would surpass that of Elizabeth. Instead of being barren, Mary is a virgin. Instead of preparing the way for the king, her child would be the King himself, created within her womb by the power of the Spirit, God come to dwell among us. 

We need not rehearse all that follows, save to say that shepherds and angels show up in abundance. The Lord of the universe enters the world through a virgin and spends his first night well loved in a humble manger. This is our Christmas story, rightly celebrated as the beginning of a new era in human history.  The other story that dominates the Christmas cards, songs, and movies we’ve come to love centers around a different kind of family. This is the all-American nuclear family, gathered around the tree in matching pajamas and exchanging presents as Nat King Cole croons in the background. Our image of family at Christmas—well-decorated, wealthy, happy, and intact—actually sits uneasily beside the gospel of the first.  I have no problem with churches that laud family togetherness during the holidays. Nonetheless, for children without a mother or a father, it can feel like a second Christmas story reserved for the elite. James Stewart, after much travail, may return to a family and community that loves him, but the rest of us may not get our It’s a Wonderful Life happy ending. 

I think of my own upbringing without a father. Around the holidays, my mother came home haggard to deal with children eager for the energy that she spent at work to keep the creditors at bay.  As a boy, I was envious and curious about the kind of family Christmas we didn’t have. Were our festivities second-class because they did not resemble what I saw on television? As I looked to the church, I wondered which Christmas story we celebrated the most and which had room for the prayers of a child who had been abandoned.  Tucked away in a forgotten corner of Luke’s infancy narrative, an angel charts the way forward for all God’s children. Despite often going overlooked, this exchange between Gabriel and Zechariah proves staggering in its relevance. Speaking of John the Baptist, Gabriel says, “And he will go before him in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, to make ready for the Lord a people prepared” (Luke 1:17, ESV).

According to Gabriel, John would prepare Israel for the Messiah by turning the hearts of fathers toward their children. The healed family, then, is a manifestation of the coming messianic age.

Gabriel’s words actually echo Old Testament prophecy. The idea that the last days would be marked by the reconciliation of fathers and children was a part of Malachi’s vision of eschatological renewal: “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes. And he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers, lest I come and strike the land with a decree of utter destruction” (Mal. 4:5–6, ESV).

Opinions vary over why Malachi highlights family reunions. The best interpretation seems to be that the prophet builds upon his earlier criticism of fathers in Malachi 2:10–16. There, he castigates the men of Israel for abandoning the wives of their youth. These divorces were a part of a larger pattern of unfaithfulness in Israel that included idolatry and flagrant disregard of God’s commands.

Let me be clear: Not every divorce is the result of a man’s callousness toward God, his wife, and his children. Life is more complicated than that. But when children are abandoned, that leaves its mark. Malachi claims that “Elijah” would undo that harm by calling the fathers to repentance. Luke, in turn, picks up on this same theme when he describes the coming work of John the Baptist. He would turn the hearts of fathers toward their children.

The reconciliation between parent and child during the holidays, then, has the ability to transcend mere sentimentality. It can be gospel work.

For someone who longed to have both parents at Christmas and other celebrations, Gabriel’s prophecy brought real comfort. It showed me that there was a place in the Christmas story for families like mine. The two Christmas stories (the incarnation of the Son and the joy of family togetherness) are not so far off after all.

It is interesting to note that neither Malachi nor Luke mention the full reunion of the husband and wife, even though the passages do envision some restored relationship between the father and his children. This broken but redeemed relationship, in its very messiness, testifies to the Messiah’s ability to put back together what sin has torn apart.

What are we to do now with Gabriel’s declaration that John the Baptist would turn the hearts of the fathers toward the children? First, in our preaching and teaching, Christians should recognize that Christmas, for some sons and daughters, reminds us of what we are missing. We must give space for the holidays to be hard while comforting families with an embodied gospel.

During the second Sunday of Advent, we remember the prophets, especially John the Baptist. This Sunday could be a time in which we can call upon parents to be reconciled to those they have wronged.

Still, not every story will have a tidy ending. My mother and father did not get back together. My father and I did not make amends until I had my own children and wife. We never shared that idealistic Christmas.

Still, I think that our reconciliation in the last years of his life had some of the gospel in it. It was a foretaste of the coming kingdom in which all our disappointments will be overcome.

Esau McCaulley is assistant professor of New Testament and early Christianity at Northeastern Seminary. He writes about New Testament scholarship, Anglicanism, and the black experience for The Living Church and his blog, Thicket of the Jordan.

A Candid Conversation on Race, Grace, and the Church

I woke up last Wednesday to the killing of Alton Sterling.

I woke up last Thursday to the killing of Philando Castile.

I woke up last Friday to the killings of Lorne Ahrens, Michael Smith, Michael Krol, Patrick Zamarripa, and Brent Thompson.

And all along, I hoped that I was still sleeping, that I would simply wake up from this nightmare that is America’s relentless plight. Yet reality refused to stop haunting me. I realized afresh that some citizens of the land of the free are, in fact, not free from the effects of sin on race and justice.

Many talk about the unique history between blacks and whites in our land. In too many churches, however, many brothers and sisters never talk about it, making these subjects gaping holes in our discipleship.

One of the best ways to ensure Christians absorb the world’s teaching on race and justice is to never address these issues in our churches. Avoidance will protect unity, we quietly think. Here’s the reality, though: Ignoring this discussion only entrenches ignorance and sows the ground for disunity. And if our “unity” cannot withstand conversations about these topics, we may have a faux unity. Nevertheless, many—often from the majority culture—forbid this conversation since they have the power to stifle it; some ignore this conversation out of fear since they’re not sure how to handle it; others forgo this conversation since it simply does not cost them much to pass on it, despite what it may cost their black brothers and sisters.  

Keeping a Promise

So I thank God that after this last week my church didn’t remain quiet. After all, we promised each other we wouldn’t. When Christians join our church, they take a vow. They agree, among other things, to give up their powers, fears, and privileges—to “endeavor with tenderness and sympathy to bear each other’s burdens and sorrows.” So reads our church covenant, our family promise.

Last week offered ample opportunity to uphold that promise, didn’t it? Yes, horrific things happen each week, but last week many in our congregation hurt in a particularly challenging way. In my own hurt, I talked to Jonathan Leeman.

Jonathan is my friend and fellow pastor; he’s a model of advocating for the marginalized. He’s white, I’m black, and we’re brothers in the deepest sense of the word. We’ve talked about many things, including what it’s like to be white and black and yet in the same family—God’s family. Jonathan has asked me good questions, hard questions. Though many believers often have a zeal for unity but not according to knowledge (Prov. 19:2), Jonathan seeks knowledge like Proverbs 4:7 bids us. And he’s done so in the context of our friendship, on the appeal of love. I’m grateful for him.

Having a Conversation 

After the tragedies of last week, Jonathan and I thought it might serve our church to have a conversation—which we would’ve had anyway—in front of our church. This conversation is one way we thought to bear one another’s burdens. So we tried to clear up assumptions and to hope for all things by graciously asking each other a few questions. Using that line from our church covenant—the one about bearing each other’s burdens and sorrows—as the framework for our discussion, we asked each other some questions during our Sunday evening service:

1. What was it like to be in your shoes this past week?
2. Should we be equally sad about all suffering?
3. What threats did this past week present to our church?
4. What lessons does Scripture have for our church in light of this past week?
5. When a week like this occurs, what gives you hope? 

The conversation, for both Jonathan and myself, felt like walking through a minefield. It was enjoyable but tricky. Jonathan said wonderful things about those in the majority giving up power and taking initiative; and he demonstrated it by inviting me to talk about my experience. This was huge, not because blacks know everything—full disclosure: we don’t—but because blacks have so often not had a voice. 

We talked about “Black Lives Matter” vs. “All Lives Matter,” the benefits of friendship, and the perils of social media discussions on race and justice issues. We discussed how Jesus entered our experience and sought justice, and what that means for us. We talked openly and honestly, since our friendship is grounded in the gospel. We know we have no righteousness to prove and no ethnic identity or privilege to protect, because Jesus is our justification. What he’s done for us frees us to speak transparently and meekly in a way that sounds foolish to the world. We prayed the conversation would be helpful for many, and we hope it will be for you, too.

Though the past week was a nightmare, I hope the Lord will use it to further bring about Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream. Many pastors have been working hard to love their people well in these days. This conversation was our imperfect attempt to do just that.

Editors’ note: Isaac Adams and Jonathan Leeman will join Russell Moore, Kevin DeYoung, and Curtis Woods for a 9Marks panel on “Race, Political Partisanship, and the Unity of the Church” at TGC’s 2017 National Conference, April 3 to 5 in Indianapolis. We hope you will join us.