The Word Became Flesh: Returning to the Heart of Immanuel
This Advent, my heart returned to the mystery of Immanuel through a different doorway—the quiet brilliance of John 1:14.
“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” — John 1:14 (NIV)
Seeing the Nativity Through John 1:14
During Advent, we typically focus on the nativity texts. But this year, my heart kept circling back to John 1:14: “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us… full of grace and truth.”
Since John is not a synoptic Gospel, I don’t often read this verse until the Son-of-God version of Jesus arrives later in the narrative. But this Advent, I discovered that there is always room for both Mary’s baby and John’s cosmic Word. It took an unexpected writing crisis for me to see Baby Jesus as the Word made flesh dwelling among us.
When Writing Becomes an Advent Spiritual Practice
As I sat before the page to write this post, nothing came. I had a good title and a good idea—surely the words would follow, as they often had. But as I sat, nothing happened. It didn't feel like writer's block. It felt like something else—as if the ease I once had had slipped through my fingers.
Or maybe I just needed a cup of coffee.
I had recently given it up and replaced it with matcha, which was supposed to be better for me. While I appreciated the slow, steady release of caffeine, I was not prepared for the early-evening crash that sent me to bed far too early. So perhaps my lack of words was simply exhaustion.
I made a cup of coffee and set it on my desk, but strangely, I didn’t want it. So I simply inhaled the honey-and-milk aroma as I stared again at the page. As hope drained from me, an old fear resurfaced: maybe God was punishing me for taking my ability for granted.
After all, just last year I had pushed my writing to its limits as I rushed toward the finish line of my doctoral degree at Boston University. Back then, even when I had no control over my assignment topics, the words still came. Most days, I simply sat down and wrote.
I didn’t think of myself as the most talented writer, but I did know how to meet deadlines. I believed discipline guaranteed output. But where was that discipline now? Without external pressure or accountability, this monthly blog post—my idea, my timing—felt easier to abandon. I told myself I was in control. But was I?
Letting Go of Control: A Writer’s Advent Lesson
As I sat with that question, another memory surfaced. I thought about all the times in grad school when I had no clue what I was going to write, yet the words eventually emerged. I remembered the season when so many papers were due at once that I ended up having a panic attack that landed me in the hospital.
Yet somehow, I made every deadline.
Looking back through gentler eyes, I finally saw the truth: I didn’t succeed because of some internal reservoir of strength or the Strong Black Woman archetype I had inherited. I succeeded because, lying in that hospital bed, I prayed for God to help me.
I had a bad reaction to the medicine they gave me, so I know it wasn’t that that steadied me. The only thing that worked was the prayer of a ministry colleague who asked God to help me finish the semester. When I released control, God carried me.
Immanuel at the Page: Writing With God, Not for God
Yesterday, as I returned to the page, I remembered that lesson. I sat there and let go of control. The now-cold coffee reminded me that I didn’t need caffeine to write. I needed Immanuel.
This season is all about Him—the One who was with God in the beginning, who dwelt among us in flesh, and who still dwells with us by the Spirit.
It took realizing that I never had control to release the fear that I don’t have enough talent or that I am not enough of a writer. In God’s economy, the myth of the solitary writer sacrificing everything for perfect words is a false god that must be surrendered. In God’s economy, what matters is obedience.
Obedience requires us to sit with God at the page. The flow I had in the past came because deadlines forced me to forget about myself and lean on God wholeheartedly. Now, without those pressures, I am learning to choose dependence freely. The frenetic energy that once surrounded my writing has been replaced with a peace I hadn’t known in ten years—because my focus is no longer on pleasing others but on pleasing God.
“My” creativity is back in my hands, and the obedient thing to do is to surrender the gift to the Giver.
As Julia Cameron says, “Creativity is God's gift to us. Using our creativity is our gift back to God.” When I do that—when I write for the joy of it, not because of a deadline or human expectation—I experience God's presence like no other. When I write with God, Mary’s baby becomes the Son of God all over again, and the hope, peace, joy, and love of Advent rise up within me.
Returning the Gift: Surrender as the Heart of Creativity
This Advent, may we learn to meet the Word made flesh not through striving, but through presence, surrender, and the quiet companionship of Immanuel.
Reflection Questions
Where do I most need God to dwell with me in this season of my life?
What does it look like for me to write with God rather than trying to create on my own?
Which Advent gift—hope, peace, joy, or love—feels hardest for me to receive right now, and why?
What am I discovering about God—and about myself—when I stop trying to control the outcome and simply show up?