Isaiah 9:6a – “For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given…”
The prophet Isaiah begins with language so familiar that it’s often read too quickly. Yet within this brief phrase lies a depth of mystery and majesty that anchors the entire gospel. “For unto us a Child is born” speaks of an earthly event–Messiah’s humanity. He was born as all men are born, taking on flesh, entering a specific culture, time, and lineage. The Hebrew word for “born” (yalad) reinforces His full identification with us. This is the miracle of the incarnation: God wrapped in the vulnerability of a newborn child.
But Isaiah doesn’t stop there. He continues, “unto us a Son is given.” This second phrase doesn’t repeat the first–it deepens it. The Child is born, but the Son is given, not created. The eternal Son of God–the second person of the Godhead–was not born in Bethlehem in the way His humanity was. He was given a gift from heaven. The Hebrew word natan (נָתַן) is used throughout Scripture to denote intentional, covenantal giving — often in the context of offerings and sacrifices. This is the divine generosity that would later be unveiled entirely at the cross.
The dual nature of Messiah–fully God, fully man–is not abstract theology; it’s the foundation of your salvation. Only a perfect man could die in the place of mankind, and only God could bear the infinite weight of humanity’s sin. Yeshua (Jesus) didn’t come to Earth as a religious symbol. He came as the ultimate expression of God’s love–clothed in flesh, destined to bleed, and determined to redeem. He is heaven’s answer to earth’s need.
This changes how we approach Him. He didn’t arrive with royal demand but with divine mercy. He didn’t come to take from us — but to give Himself for us. In a world where value is so often based on performance, this truth lifts the burden: your worth is not found in your striving, but in His giving. You don’t work your way to Yeshua; He came to you.
So understand this–not with cold intellect, but with trembling wonder: a Son was given for you. Not loaned, not bargained, not reluctantly offered–but freely, fully, and forever given. Heaven’s most precious treasure was not withheld. The One through whom all things were made stepped out of eternity and into a womb–for you. The radiance of God’s glory wrapped Himself in the frailty of flesh–for you. The eternal Son, co-equal with the Father, laid aside His majesty and embraced mortality–for you.
He was given not merely to inspire you, but to redeem you. Given not to judge, but to justify. Given not to add to your burdens, but to break them. The weight of your sin, your shame, your story–He took it all upon Himself. This is not abstract theology; this is a divine intervention. Heaven bent low and placed its finest jewel into a broken world–for you.
So fall to your knees in awe, and let this reality pierce through every layer of doubt and weariness: You were worth the giving of the Son. Not because of who you are, but because of who He is. And He is love in its purest form, gift in its highest expression, and grace in its fullest measure. Be still–and receive the wonder of His love!
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[worthy_plugins_devotion_single_body]For many, God remains a theory—an idea borrowed from tradition, deduced from the cosmos, or tucked quietly into the corners of a creed. He is believed in from afar, but is rarely encountered. Even among believers, it’s not uncommon to live with a distant reverence for God while lacking a vibrant, personal communion with Him.
God has always longed for intimacy with us. He formed us for Himself–to walk with Him, to know Him, to delight in His Presence. This is the very heartbeat of creation: relationship, not religion. Yet sin drove a wedge between us. A veil was drawn, shutting out the light of His face and placing distance where there was once communion.
A beachhead is the first critical objective in a military invasion–the spot where a force lands on enemy territory and secures a position for greater advancement. It’s the place of breakthrough. And it’s also the place of fiercest resistance.
David wrote Psalm 3 while running for his life — betrayed, heartbroken, and hunted by his own son, Absalom. The weight of rebellion wasn’t just political; it was personal. His household had turned against him. Friends became foes. Loyal hearts grew cold. The throne he once held was now surrounded by enemies, and the whispers grew louder: “There is no salvation for him in God.”
Psalm 2 is a divine announcement — a heavenly decree that demands the world’s attention. It begins with a question: “Why do the nations rage, and the peoples plot in vain?” (Ps. 2:1). The nations rise up, not against injustice or tyranny, but against the rule of God’s Meshiach (Messiah). That Anointed is Yeshua — the Son whom the Father has set on His holy hill in Zion (Ps. 2:6). The psalm strips away all pretense and exposes the heart of human rebellion: it is a refusal to be ruled by His Messiah.
Psalm 1 opens with a sobering warning about the quiet, deadly slide into sin. The man without God doesn’t become a scorner overnight — he drifts there gradually. First, he walks in ungodly counsel, entertaining worldly thoughts. Then, he stands in the path of sinners, embracing their way of life. Finally, he sits in the seat of the scornful, hardened in heart and mocking what is sacred. This progression — from a man without God to scorner — reveals how small compromises grow into full rebellion, dulling the conscience and deadening the soul.
Last night marked the beginning of Shavuot–a feast that many Christians recognize as Pentecost, the day the Holy Spirit was poured out in Acts 2. But the roots of Shavuot stretch back much further. Long before that upper room encounter–about 1,500 years earlier–Shavuot was the day God gave the law to Moses on Mount Sinai, writing His commandments on tablets of stone.