Tag: Spirituality

On the Incarnation: Athanasius, Christmas, and the Healing of the World

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

A Theological Reflection on “On the Incarnation” in Its Historical Moment

In the early fourth century, Christians went from facing persecution to receiving uncertain support from the empire. Athanasius of Alexandria wrote On the Incarnation during a time of confusion and exile. Many believers lost homes and were divided over who Christ was. For them, the question of Jesus’s identity had real and urgent consequences (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 1–2).

Athanasius lived and wrote in Alexandria, a city known for its intellectual life. Here, Greek philosophy, Jewish theology, Roman authority, and Christianity all met. The main conflict was about one question: Who is Jesus? Was he fully God or a created being? The Arian controversy was serious, as it affected Christian worship, prayer, and salvation (John 1:1–3; Colossians 1:15–20).

Athanasius said that if Christ is not fully God, then humanity stays trapped in decay (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 7). A created being cannot restore creation; only the Creator can heal what is broken (Psalm 36:9; Hebrews 2:14–15). Only God saves; Jesus saves; therefore, Jesus is God. This fundamental principle forms the basis of Athanasius’s argument and guides the whole book. Athanasius is not just focused on philosophical detail; he wants to show that the world is being restored.

Athanasius retells the Christmas story as a struggle involving the whole universe, underscoring its importance for his message. He moves beyond simple sweetness or just historical views, placing the empire’s power alongside the quiet strength of Christ’s simple birth. Where others see only a child in a manger, Athanasius sees a revolution: the incarnation as God’s bold action in the world of power.

Jesus was born during a time of empire, census, displacement, and fear (Luke 2:1–7). Caesar Augustus claimed to bring peace, but did so through taxes and military force. Joseph and Mary travelled because of an imperial order. Jesus was born not in a palace, but in a borrowed place, far from power. For Athanasius, this is important. While the empire tries to keep order, creation is falling apart (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 4).

Athanasius says that humanity’s problem is not only moral failure, but also corruption. God made people from nothing and keeps them alive through relationship. When people turn away from God, they move toward nothingness (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 4–5; Genesis 1:26–27; Romans 1:21). Sin breaks things apart. Death serves as more than a punishment; it is what happens when we separate from the source of life (Romans 6:23).

Athanasius sees Christmas as the turning point, the moment when God enters humanity’s broken world.

The incarnation shows that God does not abandon creation. The Word does not rule from far away or just send messages from heaven. The Word becomes flesh (John 1:14). For Athanasius, being truly human is essential. Salvation cannot happen from a distance. Healing requires closeness. What is not assumed cannot be restored (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 8–9).

Athanasius focuses on Christ’s body for a reason. The manger leads to the cross, not simply a feeling, but as a core belief. The body placed in the straw is the same body placed in the tomb (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 20; Luke 23:46). God chooses to be fully vulnerable from the beginning. Hunger, tiredness, suffering, and death are not too low for God (Hebrews 2:17).

The Controversy

The Arian controversy questioned whether Christ was truly God. It said the Son was separate and lower than the Father. Arians said that if the Son was born, there was a time when he did not exist. This made him a created being, not the Creator. The idea made God seem easier to understand by making the Son less than fully God. These arguments became popular because they seemed logical and because explaining the Trinity is hard. However, Athanasius challenges this by asking: How can something created save all of creation? He argues that if death holds humanity, only the Author of life can break that hold (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 7; Acts 2:24). Therefore, when the immortal Word enters death, death meets what it cannot control. Athanasius says the resurrection is not an afterthought, but the public result of what the incarnation began (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 25; 1 Corinthians 15:54–57).

Athanasius shows that incarnation and salvation go together. What we believe about Christ is linked to what we believe about humanity. To say Christ is truly human also says something about all people (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 54; Romans 8:29). Jesus is not an exception; he reveals what it means to be human. Salvation brings humanity back to what it should be.

This vision deeply affects how we live our faith. If God has entered human life, then every part of our physical existence matters spiritually (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 8; Genesis 1:31). Eating, working, loving, suffering, and rejoicing are all ways we can meet God (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). Holiness is not about leaving the world; it’s about living in it. Practically, this means engaging in kindness and service, seeing God’s face in each person. It also means practising daily gratitude and being mindful of God’s presence, whether in quiet reflection or in busy work. By fostering loving, compassionate relationships, we reflect Athanasius’s incarnational theology, connecting deeply with others and God through our everyday actions.

In the fourth century, there was political turmoil, theological conflict, and fear. Athanasius makes a bold claim: reality’s centre is now in human flesh (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 16; Ephesians 1:10). The world’s stability depends not on empire or philosophy, but on a child born under occupation (Luke 2:7). This is a profound challenge to powers that demand ultimate loyalty, both then and now. The focus shifts from secular dominance to divine presence in unexpected places.

For Athanasius, that is what Christmas is all about.

Christmas means that God joins his life to the world (Matthew 1:23). Heaven does not wait for people to reach up; it comes down. Instead, heaven comes down and lifts us from within (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 54; John 3:13). The manger is the main path, not a side road.

Athanasius believes that because the Word enters our story, history now moves toward life rather than emptiness (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 56; Revelation 21:5).

Even though it is deep theologically, On the Incarnation is easy to read. Athanasius writes in a clear, urgent, and caring way. This theology is not only for experts; it speaks to a Church trying to remember God during times of confusion and fear. That alone makes it worth reading.

But even more, this book gently changes how we see things. It moves past sentimental Christmas ideas and offers something stronger and more hopeful. God does not control humanity from a distance. Instead, God enters our weakness and heals it from the inside. That vision stays with you long after you finish reading.

For those seeking a Christmas book that is honest, challenging, and full of life, On the Incarnation stands out. It does not offer easy comfort. Instead, it presents a vision of a world upheld by the Word made flesh.

Books for the Road: Reading Through Doubt and Deconstruction

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You’re not alone if you’re wrestling with doubt, rethinking your faith, or wandering the winding path of deconstruction. This journey is confusing, lonely, and sometimes even terrifying for many. But you’re not the first to walk it—and you don’t have to do it without companions.

Here are a few books that have offered wisdom, empathy, and even a little light in the dark for fellow pilgrims:

1. Faith After Doubt — Brian McLaren

McLaren gently reframes doubt not as the enemy of faith but as part of its maturation. If you’re deconstructing, this book offers a four-stage model that validates your questions and invites you to move forward with integrity.

2. The Audacity of Peace: Invisible Jesus in a Violent World — Scot McKnight

McKnight confronts the disconnect between the real Jesus and the distorted versions we often inherit. Rooted in peacemaking and justice, this book invites us to rediscover the counter-cultural Christ that many feared didn’t exist. It’s a bold, timely read for those burned by power-shaped religion.

3. The Sin of Certainty — Peter Enns

If “believing the right things” no longer works for you, Enns offers a different take: trust. Drawing from Scripture and his own story, he makes space for a more dynamic, less rigid faith.

4. When Everything’s on Fire — Brian Zahnd

I cannot recommend this book enough. Zahnd speaks to the crisis many face when faith burns down. But rather than leaving it all behind, he makes a passionate case for a deeper, post-deconstruction Christianity rooted in mystery and beauty.

5. Perhaps: Reclaiming the Space Between Doubt and Dogmatism — Josh McNall

McNall argues that we don’t need to choose between rigid certainty and total scepticism. Perhaps is a compelling call to humility and hope—a way to hold convictions while remaining open to mystery.

This isn’t a map—but maybe it’s a stack of trail notes passed from one wanderer to another.

I’d love to hear if you’ve read something that helped you stay in the wrestle.

Following the Winter Sun

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There are seasons in the soul when the warmth of faith feels far off. The glow that once saturated your days with clarity fades into a pale shimmer low on the horizon. These are the winter months of discipleship—when following Jesus feels less like dancing in the light and more like trudging through shadows.

And yet, the call remains.

Christ does not promise us eternal summer (at least in this life). His road leads through the wilderness (Mark 1:12–13), through the long dark of Gethsemane (Luke 22:44), and through the silence between Good Friday and Easter morning. “Take up your cross,” He said (Luke 9:23), not your picnic blanket. Faith becomes less about the brilliance of belief and more about the posture of trust, especially when nothing feels certain.

To follow the winter sun is to trace faint light when it offers no heat. It is to remember that the sun is still rising, even when its warmth is hidden. In the same way, to follow Jesus in seasons of silence, sorrow, or struggle is to walk with Him not for what He gives, but for who He is.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path” (Psalm 119:105). But notice—lamps in ancient times did not flood the road. They lit only the next few steps. God rarely overwhelms us with certainty. Instead, He invites us to walk in rhythm with Him, step by unsure step.

The winter sun teaches us that light is still light, even when dim. Christ is still Christ, even when His presence feels like absence. And sometimes, that kind of trust is the holiest kind.

I have followed the sun
when it was warm,
when it laid itself across my back
like a blessing.
When it sang golden through the leaves
and made holiness seem easy.

But now—
it is winter.
The sun slips sideways
into low skies and long shadows.
It does not warm,
only glimmers.
And still—
I follow.

I do not follow because it is bright,
but because I have seen it rise
from behind the hills
too many mornings
to doubt its return.

I do not follow because I feel it—
most days, I don’t.
I follow because
once, it found me
when I wasn’t looking.
And that kind of finding
is hard to forget.

So I walk
with a stiff wind against my chest,
shoes wet with old rain,
the path uncertain—
but I walk.

Because some loves
are not about feeling
but choosing.

And some mornings
are not about light
but trust.

And I trust
that even this cold sun
knows where it’s going—
and that it is worth
following.

Small Oomphs

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“Earth is so thick with divine possibility that it is a wonder we can walk anywhere without cracking our shins on altars.” – Barbara Brown Taylor


In many traditions, sacraments are the means by which God’s saving grace is poured out: baptism, communion, and Scripture. For some, they also include marriage, confession, ordination, and anointing the sick. These acts are official, sacred, and ritualised. They are meant to tether us to the divine.

But for many of us, church has lost its oomph.

We’re between churches, clinging by a thread, or slowly, quietly slipping out the side door, trying to find God, ourselves, and the world again. We’re not hostile; we’re just tired. Church has become a place of confusion—a lifeless Christianity where we feel like we’re always doing something wrong. We get into trouble when we go, and we get into trouble when we don’t.

And so we drift. Or maybe… we walk.

I see you — not lost, but loosed,
from pew and creed, from tight-bound truths.
Your prayers now rise through silent skies,
no hymnal hand to harmonise.

You carry ash where fire once burned,
a sacred ache in lessons unlearned.
And still, you bless the broken road,
each doubt a stone, each step a psalm.

No steeple shadows where you stand,
yet grace still gathers in your hands.
You’re not alone in holy strife —
this, too, is part of a faithful life.


And yet, grace is not confined to altar rails or sanctuary walls. Sometimes, it greets us in the smallest of things — the steam rising from a morning coffee, the comfort of a well-worn novel, the warmth of soup shared on a cold day. These aren’t just distractions or creature comforts. They can be sacraments too, if we have eyes to see.

1 Corinthians 10:31 — “So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”

To make a cup of coffee with care, to read a story that stirs your soul, to laugh at the dinner table with someone you love — these are not lesser spiritual moments. They are the liturgies of the everyday, the sacred stitched into the ordinary. In these acts, God is not distant. He is here, humming quietly beneath the noise, waiting to be noticed.

Psalm 19:1–3 — “The heavens declare the glory of God… day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech… yet their voice goes out into all the earth.“

In these wandering years, it’s easy to feel the absence of God — to feel the numbness, the long ache. It might take years before you feel whole again, before you even consider walking into a church.

Maybe you never will.

But as you walk the broken road, remember—

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.” (Psalm 34:8)

Even here.
Even now.

In the small things.

The Long Night

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Sheol saw me and was shattered, and Death ejected me and many with me. I measured its depth and I was not held captive, for I became a light to those who were in its depths.”

– (Ode 42)

He walked the long night

where no prayers reach,

where silence is thicker than stone.

Sheol held its breath.

The tomb was not still—

it trembled.

He wore no armor

but the memory of light.

He sang no song

but still the gates cracked.

One by one

He called the names of the forgotten.

Dust stirred.

Chains rusted.

Even Death blinked and turned

its face away,

unable to hold Him

who had measured its depth

and found it shallow.

– (a poem I wrote inspired by Ode) The Long Night