The Once and Coming King (Advent 1)

His Reign and His Return

Advent begins with hope—a quiet assurance that God’s promises are true. As we reflect on the Incarnation, we see the fulfillment of those promises in Christ’s first coming and the anticipation of His return. Today, we meditate on the King who came to reign and the King who is coming again to complete His work.

A Message: Galatians 4

Galatians 4:4-5 declares, “But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.”

This passage reveals the heart of Advent. The Incarnation is not an isolated event but the culmination of God’s eternal plan, orchestrated in perfect timing. Christ came to free us from the bondage of sin and to bring us into His family. As we reflect on this passage, let us consider how the Advent season invites us to live in the freedom and hope that Christ’s coming offers.

A Story: Artifacts of Advent—A Theology of Old Gas Heaters, Quilts, and Mincemeat Pies

The room was as familiar as my own heartbeat—filled with the artifacts of life and faith. It was a place where the past lingered, whispering stories of love and endurance. Quilts adorned the four-poster bed, their patchwork designs inspiring my boyish imagination. A cedar chest at the foot of the bed, crafted by my uncle, still carries its scent of bygone years.

This was Aunt Eva’s room. And on Christmas Eve, it became a sanctuary of sorts, illuminated by the soft glow of a gas heater with brick tiles that radiated warmth like the stars over Bethlehem.

I lay on my stomach, staring into the flames, my chin resting on my hands. The heater’s light transformed the ordinary room into a universe of wonder. Those flames became a metaphor for hope—a silent assurance of safety in a world that, to my young mind, had already felt the weight of loss. Earlier that year, I had said goodbye to Pogo, my beloved dog, struck by a truck just weeks before my father’s death. My father, Jesse Ellis Milton, was a U.S. Merchant Marine officer, whose life had been cut short by the lingering wounds of war. He had whiskey on his breath and a burning, sinking ship in his eyes. I suspect he had screams in his brain.

Not long after, a hog farmer from the next pasture over showed up with a black-and-white pup. “Aunt Eva, this here is for the boy,” he whispered. Snooper, as we named him, would become my companion for the next fifteen years. Even now, I realize the farmer’s gesture was an unspoken apology for Pogo. His kindness, like the gifts of the Magi, bore silent witness to God’s provision in times of grief. I had lost more than a dog by that time.

Christmases with Aunt Eva were simple, almost indistinguishable from other days, except for one extraordinary addition: her mincemeat pie. A relic of Old England, its sweet, spiced aroma filled the room, mingling with the earthy warmth of the heater and the scent of quilts and cedar. We had no Christmas tree that year, but I didn’t know to miss it.

Instead, I found comfort in the quietness of the night. I felt it as I gazed at the framed photograph of my father in his Maritime Academy uniform, as I listened to the radio that still worked while the Zenith television remained curmudgeonly silent. And I felt it most of all in the presence of Aunt Eva—a widow woman of unshakable faith who, in her sixties, childless, had taken on the role of my guardian after the loss of my parents.

That Christmas Eve, the room’s artifacts—gas heater, quilts, mincemeat pie, and even Snooper—became more than relics of ordinary life; they were like the shepherds and wise men bearing witness to something far greater. As I stared into the glowing brick tiles of the heater, I felt, for the first time, a calm that whispered of a light breaking into the darkness.

And as the old gas heater coughed softly and I heard the faint drone of that day’s agricultural report from Aunt Eva’s old radio, I drifted off. And silent sentinels from an unseen realm hovered over the humble, now misty, scene.

A Song: When Heaven Came Down (in Three Movements)

Music often carries the truth of the Incarnation deeper into our hearts than words alone can reach. When Heaven Came Down is a composition born from my reflections on the Advent season and its central mystery: God stepping into human history.

The song unfolds in three movements:

1. Prélude à la nativité, which evokes the anticipation of Christmas Eve through the sounds of bells and voices, a traditional hymn, composing a scene of an expectant congregation.

2. When Heaven Came Down, intending to impress the humility and glory of Christ’s birth, with simple lyrics that reflect on the profound paradox of the Incarnation: “Immensity cloistered in Thy dear womb,” as John Donne wrote.

3. La Nativité Ouverture, which looks toward the Second Advent, celebrating the fulfillment of God’s redemptive plan.

Listen to When Heaven Came Down here. Sheet music is available here.

More to come, Lord willing, on the Second Sunday in Advent.