Month: December 2025

Fear Not: Anxiety Doesn’t Get the Final Word

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Advent Devotional
Scripture: Isaiah 41:10

In 1933, at the height of the Great Depression, President Franklin D. Roosevelt offered words that steadied a shaken nation: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Those words did not end the economic crisis, but they did something equally important—they reminded people that fear must not be allowed to paralyze the soul.

Centuries earlier, God spoke a remarkably similar message through the prophet Isaiah to a people who were discouraged, displaced, and afraid. To them, the Lord said: “I am the Lord, your God, who grasp your right hand; it is I who say to you, ‘Fear not, I will help you.’” These are not the words of a distant deity issuing commands from afar. They are the words of a God who draws near—who takes people by the hand like a loving parent guiding a frightened child through the dark.

Isaiah goes on to paint vivid images of renewal and restoration. He describes deserts transformed into lush gardens, rivers flowing through dry land, and barren places bursting with life. These are not merely poetic flourishes; they are promises. They testify to what God can do when hope feels exhausted and the landscape of our lives seems stripped bare. God specializes in bringing life where we see only loss.

We catch glimpses of that promise in our own time. After hurricanes or tornadoes, entire neighborhoods can appear devastated…homes flattened, trees uprooted, familiar landmarks erased. At first, the destruction feels overwhelming. Yet slowly, almost imperceptibly, rebuilding begins. New houses rise. Trees are replanted. Life returns. What once looked like total ruin becomes a place of renewal and hope. This is the kind of transformation Isaiah envisions when God promises to make “rivers flow on the bare heights.”

The spiritual writer Thomas Merton once observed, “Hope is not something that comes with proof. It is not seen. It is given in the dark, when everything else is doubtful.” Isaiah’s words are precisely that kind of hope—a gift offered not when circumstances are ideal, but when fear and uncertainty press in most heavily.

Advent is a season that meets us in that very space. It does not deny the darkness of the world or the weight we carry. Instead, it announces that God has not abandoned us. God is still grasping our hand. God is still turning deserts into gardens. God is still at work, quietly and faithfully, even when we cannot yet see the results.

So whatever burdens or anxieties you carry today, hear this ancient promise as if it were spoken directly to you: “Fear not, I will help you.” This assurance is not just for Israel long ago. It is for us here and now, as we wait and watch for the coming of Christ—our Emmanuel, God-with-us.

Prayer:
Gracious God, when fear grips our hearts, anxiety invades our thoughts, and the future feels uncertain, remind us that you are near. Take us by the hand, steady our steps, and renew our hope as we wait for the coming of your Son. Help us trust your presence in the darkness and your promise of new life. We place our fears in your care and rest in your unfailing love. Amen.

The Ongoing Challenge of Learning Contentment

On By barrysnotesLeave a comment

Of all the spiritual disciplines, I think that contentment may be the toughest to learn. The challenge is ongoing.

It isn’t that I don’t want to be content—I do. It’s that we live in a world wired to keep us restless. A consumerist economy whispers that the next upgrade, the newest version, or the latest device will finally deliver satisfaction. At the same time, my own temperament nudges me toward constant evaluation: fix what is broken, mend what is fractured, restore what has fallen apart. Those instincts aren’t wrong, but they can easily pull my soul out of rhythm.

That’s why the apostle Paul’s words feel both comforting and challenging: “I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances” (Philippians 4:11). Contentment, Paul reminds us, is something learned—not instantly acquired, not naturally absorbed, but gradually shaped through trust and practice.

G. K. Chesterton observed, “True contentment is a real, active virtue—not a passive or timid acceptance of things as they are.” His words help me remember that contentment isn’t complacency. It is the courageous decision to embrace this moment with gratitude rather than wait for the perfect one.

Many people now take pictures with their phones using filters—adjusting brightness, warmth, and contrast to create a more polished version of reality. Contentment works in the opposite direction. Instead of filtering our lives to hide imperfections, contentment allows us to see clearly, without distortion. It shifts the focus from what is missing to what is meaningful, helping us recognize beauty in what we already have.

At its core, contentment is a commitment to simplicity. It rearranges my priorities so that my mission becomes primary, and the tangible resources in my portfolio become tools rather than trophies—means rather than measurements. When I practice contentment, life no longer feels like an expanding inventory but an emerging story.

Something transformative happens in that shift. Relationships rise to the forefront, while possessions return to their rightful place. People become essential; stuff becomes expendable. My life becomes more like a conduit than a reservoir—a channel through which blessings flow freely into the lives of others, not a storage unit where blessings are archived, counted, and guarded.

To live with contentment, I must return again and again to one foundational truth: my self-worth is neither inflated nor deflated by my net worth. My value does not hinge on what I own, what I accomplish, or what others think of me. My identity is rooted in something deeper and more enduring—worth that was instilled and endowed by my Creator.

Contentment, then, is not resignation. It is not passive acceptance. It is the steady confidence that God’s grace is sufficient in this moment, this season, this chapter—whatever it may hold. It is the quiet courage to trust that I already have what I need to live gratefully and faithfully today.

I’m still learning this discipline. Perhaps you are, too. But each day offers a new lesson, a fresh reminder, and a renewed opportunity to loosen our grip on accumulation and tighten our embrace of gratitude.

“Be Near Me, Lord Jesus”: 10 Christmas Carol Lyrics That Speak into Our Grief

On By barrysnotesLeave a comment

Christmas is often a season of joy, but for many, it can also bring waves of grief as we remember loved ones who are no longer with us. Often their absence speaks more loudly at Christmas.

Perhaps you can identify with the grieving individual who said, “I see you in the lights on the tree and the ornaments we used to hang each year. I hear you in the carols we loved to listen to together. I miss you so much this year, but I feel you all around.” 

Music radiates a therapeutic quality. For those who are grieving, Christmas carols go a step further. These enduring songs can speak comfort, hope, and peace to an aching soul.

If you are feeling a heavy sense of loss this Christmas season, lines from these 10 carols can remind you of God’s presence and promises even as you navigate your grief:

1. “The thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices.” (from O Holy Night) In moments of weariness and grief, these words remind us that hope can restore and renew our spirits. The birth of Christ is a beacon of renewal, bringing joy even to heavy hearts.

2. “Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask Thee to stay close by me forever, and love me, I pray.” (from Away in a Manger) A tender prayer for God’s nearness, this stanza offers reassurance that Jesus is with us, even in our deepest sorrow.

3. “Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.” (from Hark! The Herald Angels Sing) These words proclaim peace—not just in the world, but in our hearts. They remind us that God’s grace sustains us, offering comfort when grief feels overwhelming.

4. “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.” (from O Little Town of Bethlehem) Grief often amplifies our anxiety about the future, but this lyric reminds us that Christ’s birth intersects with our hopes and our fears, offering peace and reassurance.

5. “O rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.” (from It Came Upon the Midnight Clear) This carol reminds us to pause and find rest for our weary souls. In our grief, we can find comfort in the message of peace and hope proclaimed by the angels.

6. “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: ‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep.'” (from I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day) Written during a time of personal sorrow, this carol especially speaks to those who feel abandoned in their grief. It reminds us that God is present and actively working for our good.

7. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.” (from Silent Night) The serene imagery of this carol invites us to embrace stillness, trusting in the calm and brightness that God’s presence brings, even in the midst of pain.

8. “Let every heart prepare Him room.” (from Joy to the World) Grief can leave an emptiness in our hearts, but this stanza invites us to make room for Christ, who fills us with peace, hope, and joy.

9. “Born to set Thy people free; from our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in Thee.” (from Come Thou Long Expected Jesus) This carol expresses a deep longing for freedom from life’s burdens and rest in Christ’s presence.

10. “Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.” (from O Come, O Come, Emmanuel) This ancient carol speaks directly to those in sorrow, promising that God is with us. Emmanuel—God with us—is a powerful reminder that we are never alone.

Christmas carols are not just songs of celebration; they are also prayers, petitions, and promises of God’s love and presence. For those grieving, these words offer a unique blend of comfort and hope, pointing us to the truth that Christ came to bring peace and healing to a broken world.

Don’t hide during the holidays. Light the candles, prepare the meal, and sing the carols. Alan Wolfelt suggests, “During your time of grief, the very rituals of the holidays can help you survive them.”

This Christmas, may the timeless words of these carols bring you comfort, reminding you that light often shines brightest in the shadows.

(Barry Howard is a retired pastor who now serves as a leadership coach and columnist with the Center for Healthy Churches. He and his wife live on Cove Creek in northeast Alabama.)

Even Toys Have a Story to Tell at Christmas

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Music is a central part of our Christmas celebration. Carols, concerts, chorales, and cantatas all enhance our journey to the manger. But there’s something extraordinarily uplifting about hearing the voices of children singing.

On Sunday morning, the First Kids Choir of First Baptist Church of Gadsden brought sparkle, color, and childlike joy to the sanctuary as they presented The Carol of the Toys: A Christmas Story, a delightful musical written and published by Semsen Music. With lively melodies, playful characters, and a meaningful storyline, the presentation filled the room with both laughter and reverence.

The sole purpose of the church isn’t to have fun. The church exists to worship God, share the good news, nurture faith, build community, and serve God by serving others. But sometimes we need to be reminded that doing the work of the church—and sharing the good news—can also be a lot of fun.

This musical was fun. It imagines a world where toys come to life—dolls, stuffed animals, candy canes, a robot, a racecar, and more—and each one joins a whimsical search for the true meaning of Christmas. Their journey leads them far beyond the wrapping paper and bows as they search for the missing member of their menagerie: the baby Jesus.

One upbeat number featured the toys realizing there must be more to Christmas than decorations, tapping out the cheerful line, “We’re searching for the meaning—something bright, something true!” Another musical moment offered a gentle reminder as the chorus softly sang, “Follow the star… it will lead you to the King.” These brief refrains helped guide the toys—and the congregation—toward the heart of the nativity story.

Threaded throughout the musical was a theme simple enough for children to grasp yet profound enough for adults to ponder: Even toys have a story to tell at Christmas.

And what a story they told. Through their colorful costumes, energetic voices, and spirited dancing (yes, these Baptists can dance), the children conveyed a message that resonated far beyond the stage. Their performance reminded us that the Christmas story is not bound to a single age group, culture, or generation. It speaks through Scripture and song and—even more delightfully—through a cast of animated toys brought to life by children who believe in the story they’re telling.

The musical reached its apex when the holy family arrived, one by one. First came a melodious Mary, also searching for the baby Jesus. Then a jiving Joseph entered, whose dance steps could put the most devout Pentecostal to shame, joining Mary and the children in their search. When the Christ child finally appeared in a tethered gift box—symbolizing that he had been lost or overlooked in the hustle and bustle of Christmas—the toys celebrated that the child had been found and the nativity was complete.

The musical concluded with the toys gathered around the manger, singing that Christmas is ultimately about God’s love made visible in Jesus. The final moments echoed with wonder as the children sang about the joy found “in a tiny child who changes everything.”

In a season often crowded with shopping lists and schedules, The Carol of the Toys offered a refreshing reset—an invitation to slow down, listen, and rediscover the miracle at the center of it all. It also issued a gentle reminder not to leave Jesus behind in the clutter.

This Christmas, may we remember that even toys have a story to tell—and every good Christmas story leads us to Jesus.

At the First Baptist Church of Gadsden, it was the joyful voices of children who pointed us all toward that hope, that light, and that love.

(Barry Howard is a retired pastor who now serves as a leadership coach and columnist with the Center for Healthy Churches. He and his wife live on Cove Lake in northeast Alabama.)

Parable of the Stolen Baby Jesus

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Every year, families, churches, and communities across the country set up nativity scenes in homes, along roadsides, in front of churches, and in town squares. These displays serve as seasonal reminders of the Christmas story, which includes the journey to Bethlehem, the birth of baby Jesus, and the presence of the angels and shepherds.

During my first Christmas serving as pastor of First Baptist Church in Pensacola, I learned that Eliot and Frances Dobelstein, long-time members of the congregation, had faithfully displayed a nativity scene on the southwest corner of the church lawn every Advent since 1972.

One afternoon, Eliot and Frances stopped by my office to share the story behind the display and the challenges they faced in maintaining it. Because the manger scene sat along a busy street, it often became an easy target for mischief. Over the years, various characters were defaced, rearranged, or occasionally went missing. Shepherds and wise men would disappear, only to be discovered days later in odd places. But the most frequent victim was the baby Jesus. More than once, someone had plucked the baby from the manger, leaving only an empty trough between Mary and Joseph.

Despite these frustrations, Eliot never gave up. Whenever a piece went missing, he replaced it. He secured the figures as best he could and made extra trips past the display to discourage would-be pranksters.

But in 2007, to prevent the baby Jesus from being taken yet again, Eliot decided enough was enough. Determined to prevent another “messianic kidnapping,” he wrapped a sturdy chain around the baby Jesus and fastened it with a padlock. To conceal the chain, he draped a worn blanket over the figure, giving the appearance of swaddling clothes.

“No one’s taking Jesus this year,” he thought confidently.

But he was wrong.

A few days before Christmas, Eliot walked into the church office looking more discouraged than I had ever seen him. The baby Jesus was gone—again.

Sam Solomon, our maintenance supervisor, and I followed Eliot to the scene. There, in the empty manger, lay the broken remains of the chain. Someone had come with bolt cutters, snipped through the links, and made off with Jesus once more.

For the first time, Eliot looked genuinely defeated. He sighed heavily and shook his head. “I don’t know what else to do,” he said.

Still unwilling to leave the manger completely empty, he placed a small bundle of hay in the trough and covered it with the same blanket—creating the impression that the baby Jesus was still there. But Eliot, Sam, and a few staff members knew the truth: this year, the manger held no Christ child.

Yet the story wasn’t over.

When Sam arrived at church early on January 2—the first day the office reopened after the New Year’s holiday—he noticed something propped against the glass doors of the atrium. He left it there for me to see when I arrived a short time later.

At first glance, it looked like a forgotten doll. Perhaps a child had dropped it or a neighborhood dog had dragged it there. Maybe one of our homeless friends had slept by the door and left it behind.

But as I approached, I recognized it immediately. It was the missing baby Jesus, with a folded note was taped to its chest.

Scrawled in uneven handwriting were these words:

“I took this before Christmas, and I have not been able to sleep much since then. I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. So I am bringing it back home.”

I stood there for a moment, letting the words sink in. I hadn’t expected that.

I hated that Jesus had been stolen, especially after all of Eliot’s efforts to secure the display. Yet somehow, I found comfort in the return of that simple plastic figure—the one meant to represent the Savior of the world.

After sharing the news with our staff, I called Eliot.

“I thought you’d want to know,” I said. “The stolen baby Jesus has been returned.”

I could hear the relief in his voice.

Later that day, as I reflected on what had happened, I found myself wrestling with an unexpected question: What do you do with a stolen Jesus?

And then it struck me. The only thing you can do with a misplaced Jesus is bring him back to his rightful place in your life story.

Perhaps you have mis-taken Jesus, and you need to bring Jesus home to where he belongs.

Or maybe, you are the one who has wandered away, and this year, you are the one who needs to come home.

Comfort and Joy: Navigating Grief During the Holidays (2025)

On By barrysnotesLeave a comment

The holidays arrive each year wrapped in ribbons of nostalgia, music, gatherings, and celebration. But for those who are grieving, this season can feel less like “the most wonderful time of the year” and more like an emotional obstacle course. Bright lights can intensify the shadows. Joyful songs can amplify the silence. Festive moments can sharpen the memory of the one who is no longer with us.

Grief is never easy, but during the holidays it can feel heavier, louder, and more relentless. According to the American Psychological Association, 38% of adults say their stress increases significantly during the holiday season, and those who are grieving report even higher spikes. Our senses, emotions, and memories all operate on high alert this time of year, which makes grief more vivid and unavoidable.

Author Alan Wolfelt reminds us, “Healing happens when we allow ourselves to mourn.” Not repress. Not deny. Not avoid. Not power through. Allow.

So what can help us navigate the holidays when our hearts are hurting?

Here are a few practices that offer hope, clarity, and gentle strength along the way.

  • Tend your emotional landscape.

Pretending everything is fine rarely helps. Repressed grief doesn’t disappear; it simply finds another way to surface. In fact, mental health research shows that unaddressed grief can increase the risk of depression, anxiety, and physical illness.

Healthy grieving begins with honest naming: “This is hard. This hurts. This season is different.”

Give yourself permission to feel whatever you feel—whether that’s sadness, numbness, gratitude, anger, or even surprise moments of joy.

  • Think of your grief like a holiday “app update.”

Your smart device doesn’t operate the same way after a major software update. Familiar screens move. Icons shift. Some features no longer exist. Others appear for the first time.

Grief works similarly. The internal operating system of your life has changed, and the holidays—full of rituals and memories—highlight that change.

Be patient as you give yourself time to adjust to this “new version” of life.

  • Let memories be a bridge, not a burden.

Tell the stories. Look at the photos. Cook the favorite recipe. Share the funny moments.
Memories don’t have to reopen wounds—they can help stitch them. Storytelling is both therapeutic and sacred; it transforms absence into presence, even if just for a moment.

As one writer noted, “Grief is love with no place to go.” The holidays give that love a place to land.

  • Create new rituals of commemoration.

Hang an ornament that honors your loved one. Set aside a moment at dinner to light a candle in their memory. Donate to a cause they cared about.

Even a small ritual can become a lifeline—something that grounds you, centers you, and reminds you that love doesn’t end.

  • Don’t walk the holiday journey alone.

Isolation intensifies grief. Community softens it.

Protect your alone time. Be faithful to your quiet time. But be intentional about spending time with friends, even if at first you don’t feel like it. Attend a Blue Christmas service. Gather with people who understand.

The National Alliance on Mental Illness reports that supportive social connection significantly reduces the emotional burden of grief, especially this time of year.

Don’t force yourself to be overly cheerful. Just being with a small group of friends who care about you, and whom you care about, can be like a soothing ointment for your soul.

  • Make room for both grief and grace.

The goal is not to “get over” grief before the holidays arrive—it’s to make space for grief and grace to coexist.

Your grief isn’t going away anytime soon. And griefs tends to be a more frequent guest during the holidays. Some moments will sting. Others will surprise you with peace.
Let both be welcome.

In the words of Henri Nouwen: “Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.”
Even in grief, joy can appear in tender, quiet moments—unexpected, but real.

  • Let the Light be your guide, especially in your dark moments.

Yes, people of grounded faith can be shaken, even overwhelmed at times, by the deep darkness of grief. Although the holiday season doesn’t erase grief, the Light of Christ can illuminate a path through it.

This year, as you navigate the mix of sorrow and celebration, remember:
You are not weak because you grieve.
You are not alone because you hurt.
And you are not without hope.

The message of this season—Emmanuel, “God with us”—is especially for the weary, the wounded, and the grieving.

May you find moments of calm, courage, and comfort. And may the Light shine gently on your path, even in the lingering shadows.

Wonder as You Wander the Road to Bethlehem

On By barrysnotesLeave a comment

Every December, the world starts rushing as seasonal lights go up, calendars fill up quickly, and Christmas playlists spill from department store speakers before the Thanksgiving leftovers have even cooled. There is a cultural trend to rush in and rush through the holiday season.

But Advent invites a different rhythm. It invites us not to hurry, but to wonder.

Advent beckons us to wander slowly, thoughtfully, hopefully down the long road toward Bethlehem. And somewhere along that road, if we allow it, wonder begins to rise inside us like a sacred warmth.

The old Appalachian Christmas carol “I Wonder as I Wander” captures this spirit fittingly. Its haunting melody and simple lyrics invite us into a posture of awe as we contemplate the mystery of Christ stepping into our world. The song itself echoes Advent’s message: as we wander toward Bethlehem, it is the wondering that prepares our hearts and minds to welcome the Christ child, yet again.

Over a century ago, when crowds gathered in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, waiting for news of the Wright brothers’ first flight, they lived in a moment thick with anticipation. Before anyone saw an airplane lift off the ground, people gazed at the horizon, holding their breath, wondering if something extraordinary was about to break into the ordinary. That is Advent. It is the pause before the miracle.

Wonder cultivates the fertile soil of our minds, readying us to learn and grow. As Socrates reasoned, “Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.”

Advent isn’t a day trip. It is a progressive journey. Think of Advent as the “loading bar” on your computer or phone. It moves slowly from 6%…to 28%…to 75%. You can’t rush it, and you can’t ignore it. That little bar is doing important behind-the-scenes work—downloading, preparing, aligning things so the device can function as it should.

Advent does the same for the human heart. It prepares us, steadies us, and positions us to receive Christ not with fatigue but with awe.

We are not the first ones to travel this path. Scripture is full of wanderers whose journey shapes our own:

  • The prophets wandered with hope (Isaiah 9:2–7).
  • Mary wandered toward Bethlehem with courage (Luke 1:38).
  • Joseph wandered with obedience (Matthew 1:20–24).
  • The shepherds wandered with expectancy (Luke 2:8–15).

They did not rush. They wandered faithfully, trusting that God would help them navigate the journey.

And so do we.

In December of 1941, with the world engulfed in war, Winston Churchill stood beside President Franklin Roosevelt on the White House lawn for a Christmas Eve service. The future felt frightening, the headlines heavy. Yet together they read John 1:5: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

That night, in the shadow of conflict, nations heard a reminder that has anchored believers for centuries: even in the world’s darkest winters, God’s light shines in the dark places and spaces of life, a message we need to hear resoundingly this year.

Perhaps we must learn to wonder again. Advent prompts us to slow down enough to see grace glowing at the edges of our days, sort of like candlelight in a dark sanctuary, gentle yet unignorable.

This season is not about racing toward a date on the calendar. It is about traveling with intention and a spirit of inquiry. About noticing God’s presence in the challenges, in the questions, in the silences, and in the small mercies. It is about recapturing the holy wonder that first stirred in Bethlehem, a holy curiosity that echoes the humble, searching tone of “I Wonder as I Wander.”

Isaiah invites us to walk this road with hope: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light” (Isaiah 9:2). Mark calls us to prepare the way (Mark 1:3). Mary teaches us to magnify the Lord (Luke 1:46).

As you wander the road to Bethlehem this year, may wonder rise in you again, wonder that steadies your spirit, softens your pace, and opens your heart and mind to the One who is coming.

Don’t rush there. Wander. And wonder.

Because those who wander the road to Bethlehem with wonder do not merely celebrate Christmas—they are ready to welcome the Christ child when they arrive, and then to follow him from the manger to the cross and beyond.

(Barry Howard is a retired pastor who now serves as a leadership coach and consultant with the Center for Healthy Churches. He and his wife live on Cove Lake in northeast Alabama.)