By this point in December, love has been merchandised within an inch of its life. It jingles in ads that say if you really love someone, you should buy them a luxury car with a bow the size of a house.

But Advent tells another story. God did not arrive in a grand gesture—no skywriting, no fireworks, no leather interior with heated seats. Love slipped into a Bethlehem stable, swaddled in rags. 

This is not the love we usually want. We’d prefer it to be shiny and obvious. Instead, God gives us the kind of love that chooses vulnerability. A baby who cannot even hold up his huge noggin. A terrified teenage mom. And a dad who's trying to believe this is not all a terrible mistake.

And yet—this is the love that remakes the whole world. Not quick or efficient, but slow and human. Love that needs to be changed and snuggled. Love that grows up to sit with outcasts and weep at gravesides and promise that nothing—not even death—can separate us from God.

So here we are, a few days from Christmas, and maybe the invitation is to look for love in small ways. In a text that says, “Made it home safe.” In a neighbor shoveling your walkway. Love in the God who came close, unnoticed but never unneeded.

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