For a child will be born for us, a son will be given to us, and the government will be on his shoulders. He will be named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace. Isaiah 9:6
When was the last time you felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for your freedom? Has it been a while? It has for me.
When I turned eighteen, I drove to the army recruiting office in the basement of our local post office and registered for the draft. Because America was deeply involved in the Vietnam War, avoiding or overlooking this registration was frowned upon by the federal government—kind of like armed robbery was strongly discouraged. The following year, the first draft lottery was held. A guy reached into a huge bowl filled with 366 ping-pong balls; a date was printed on each of them. One by one he pulled the balls out and announced the date. If your birthday was the date written on the first ball, you were number one and you were headed to Vietnam. Right then. By the time my birthday (February 28) was called, the guy was up to number 299. My future wasn’t going to include army fatigues.
However, because the conflict in Southeast Asia happened during my lifetime, I have been drawn to the stories of battle, especially the horrific accounts of prisoners of war. I have read stories of men who made up entire code languages for undetected commu- nication with their fellow prisoners. I have read about men for whom the promised em- brace of their families and the smell of fresh, clean air drove them to survive the torture.
These were accounts of men who suffered such atrocity that only one thing could possibly keep them alive. That thing was hope.
Sometimes the verses that we read today get lost in Christmas . . . “For a child will be born for us, a son will be given to us” (v. 6). In the frantic hustle of wrapping paper, tree trimming, and travel, we forget the setting in which these words were first spoken. The Jews were in a living nightmare. Centuries of hostile external forces and internal corruption had laid their precious nation to ruin. There was nothing left for them—nothing except hope—hope for a Rescuer, hope for a Savior, hope for a loving and forgiving Messiah.
So God sent His Son, the incarnation of Himself—God with skin on (along with ev- erything else that makes someone human). A Son who would redeem Israel and all humankind, past, present, and future. A Conqueror who could set all captives free.
I’m sure that I have never wanted anything as much as the POWs wanted their freedom or the Israelites longed for a King. I haven’t been surrounded by these kinds of hostile forces, and I have not lived as disobediently as the Jews. Or have I?
Come to think of it, I’ll bet that if I could see the forces swirling around me that would seek to destroy me (see Eph 6:12), I would long for release from this smelly prison. And if I could see, in the cold light of day, the abject sinfulness of my own life, my heart would be filled with shame.
Isaiah’s message to his suffering people is a message for you and me. We are prisoners of a war between principalities and powers. We are in desperate need of Someone to save us from our cold hearts of rebellion.
Imagine if we woke up every day to the sounds of American choppers bringing us to freedom, or if we could hear the cries of our bitter enemies cowardly retreating from the presence of our sovereign Father. What if we felt the thrill of this kind of freedom every morning? What if we saw Someone save us and our captive family’s life every day?
What would this be like?