On this night of candles and carols, Matthew 1:23 quietly announces the wonder at the center of it all: a promised Child, born of a virgin, bearing the name Immanuel—God with us. This is not just a Christmas slogan; it is the blazing center of God’s plan from before the foundation of the world. The holy God who seemed distant on Sinai and hidden behind the veil has chosen to draw near in a Person you can know, love, and trust. Tonight is not primarily about our traditions, but about His decision to step into our darkness with His own light.

God With Us, Not Against Us

Immanuel means that the God who owes us nothing has come close, on purpose. Think about that: the One we have sinned against, ignored, and resisted does not come first as a Judge with a sword but as a Baby with a heartbeat. Matthew is clear that this Child is the long-awaited fulfillment of God’s promise, not a last-minute rescue attempt. God wrote Himself into the story He authored, so that we would know beyond doubt that His heart is to save, not merely to expose our guilt. As Paul later asks, if God is for us, who can be against us (Romans 8:31)?

But “God with us” is also confrontational. A holy God drawing near exposes what is unholy in us. The manger leads to the cross; the Child came so that He might “save His people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21). Immanuel is not a vague comfort; it is God Himself coming close enough to bear your sin, to call you to repentance, and to give you a new heart. On this night, it is not enough to be moved by the story. The living Christ stands at the door of your life, calling you to turn from sin and trust Him as Savior and Lord.

God With Us in the Ordinary and the Hard

When the Son of God took on flesh, He did not choose a palace, a powerful family, or an easy life. He chose a young, unknown couple, a feeding trough, and the scandal of a pregnancy no one could explain. From His first breath, He was acquainted with misunderstanding, poverty, and danger. That means there is no “ordinary” place or painful corner of your life where He is unwilling to walk. He knows what it is to be tired, overlooked, and pressed on every side. God with us means God understands us—not from a distance, but from the inside.

Because He has walked our path, He is a merciful High Priest who can sympathize with our weaknesses (Hebrews 4:15). When your prayers feel weak and your faith feels small, He is not rolling His eyes; He remembers what it is to be hungry, lonely, and sorrowful to the point of death. Tonight, as you think of Bethlehem, dare to connect that stable to the very moment you are in: the family tension, the grief you carry into another Christmas, the temptation you are tired of fighting. God with us means you never have to say, “No one understands,” because the One who does is right here, inviting you to draw near to His throne of grace.

God With Us—and in Us

The story of Immanuel does not end with a baby in a manger or even with an empty tomb. The risen Christ poured out His Spirit so that God would not only be with His people but in them. Scripture calls this staggering reality “Christ in you, the hope of glory” (Colossians 1:27). The presence that once dwelled in a tabernacle and then in a temple now dwells in men and women, boys and girls, who bow to Jesus as Lord. Christmas is not just about remembering a birth; it is about recognizing that the living Christ takes up residence in every true believer.

And this is going somewhere. Revelation speaks of a day when a loud voice from the throne will declare that God’s dwelling is with humanity in a final, unbroken way, and He will wipe away every tear. The Immanuel of Bethlehem is the King of that coming city. Tonight, His nearness is both comfort and commissioning. If God is with you and in you, then your home, your workplace, your neighborhood can become little outposts of His presence. The question is not whether He is willing to be near, but whether you will yield every part of your life to His rule.

Lord Jesus, thank You for coming near as Immanuel, for saving me and making Your home in me. Help me today to live as one carried, cleansed, and sent by You, so that others may see that You are truly God with us.

The great deficiency to which I refer is the lack of spiritual discernment, especially among our leaders. How there can be so much Bible knowledge and so little insight, so little moral penetration, is one of the enigmas of the religious world today. I think it is altogether accurate to say that there has never before been a time in the history of the church when so many people were engaged in Bible study as are so engaged today. If the knowledge of Bible doctrine were any guarantee of godliness, this would without doubt be known in history as the age of sanctity. Instead, it may well be known as the age of the church's Babylonish captivity, or the age of worldliness, when the professed Bride of Christ allowed herself to be successfully courted by the fallen sons of men in unbelievable numbers. The body of evangelical believers, under evil influences, has . . . gone over to the world in complete and abject surrender, avoiding only a few of the grosser sins such as drunkenness and sexual promiscuity.

That this disgraceful betrayal has taken place in broad daylight with full consent of our Bible teachers and evangelists is one of the most terrible affairs in the spiritual history of the world. Yet I for one cannot believe that the great surrender was negotiated by men of evil heart who set out deliberately to destroy the faith of our fathers. Many good and clean-living people have collaborated with the quislings who betrayed us. Why? The answer can only be, from lack of spiritual vision. Something like a mist has settled over the church as "the shroud that enfolds all peoples, the sheet that covers all nations" (Isaiah 25:7). Such a veil once descended upon Israel: "For their minds were made dull, for to this day the same veil remains when the old covenant is read. It has not been removed, because only in Christ is it taken away. Even to this day when Moses is read, a veil covers their hearts" (2 Corinthians 3:14-15). That was Israel's tragic hour. God raised up the church and temporarily disfranchised His ancient people. He could not trust His work to blind men.

The Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give His life a ransom for many. - Matthew 20:28

As a king might enter poor men’s huts, and learn their condition, and live their lives, and share their squalor, and weep their tears, and staunch their wounds, so Christ wills to be born that He may help and serve us. He comes "not to be ministered unto, but to minister." The infinite condescension of the incarnation, looked at as I have suggested it must be looked at, is the fit vestibule to a life likewise marked by infinite condescension and lowliness. He comes to serve. Think of the outward circumstances of the life; of how He stole into the world, as it were, in lowly guise, and choosing the condition of poverty. Think of how, all through His life, you find unwearied diligence, readiness to help everybody, whatsoever their weakness, their need, to turn away from no vileness, to be disgusted by no profanity, to despair of no abject or alienated heart. He ever recognises the claims of others upon Him, and never thinks of His claims upon them except for their good. He requires nothing, never for a moment shows that He thought of Himself, but for ever devotes His loving heart and hand, His wise words. His miracle working power, to the blessing of men.

Such a life stands absolutely alone. There is not a flaw in this marble, not a black vein running through it that spoils the statue, not a speck. No man can put his finger upon any action recorded of Jesus Christ, and say, He did that for His own advantage. He did that from a motive that centred upon self.

Do not let us forget that in this we have Christ’s revelation of God. The Highest of all is highest, in order that He may stoop to the lowest, and being Lord of all serve the needs and supply the emptiness of every creature that lives.

That revelation of the Master’s relation to us is not antiquated by His present exaltation. He is still your Servant and mine, ready to help and to succour. And, more wonderful than all. He has given it us, as the highest conception that we can form of the heavenly world, that He Himself will come forth and gird Himself, and serve them who have been His servants here.

That life of service was also a true revelation of the law of His kingdom and of the true greatness and blessedness of men. He proposes His own utter self-suppression and devotion to our advantage, as the pattern to which all professing Christians are to conform. In Him we learn the dignity of service; in Him we learn the obligations of superiors. This example is meant to shame us out of our self-seeking, vulgar ambition, and misuse of advantages which raise us above our fellows. It says to us all, "Do not stand on your rights; forget your claims; consecrate your capacities to your brethren’s service, and learn that position means obligation, and that the only true order of rank in Christ’s kingdom is determined, not by what we are, but by our use of what we are to help all who will accept our help." Does the world believe that the servant of all is the chiefest of all? Does it believe that the chiefest of all should be servant of all? Does the Church believe it? Do we? Do we act as if we did, either in regard to our judgment of others or to the regulation of our own lives?