Monday Meditation: 12.22.2025
Monday Meditation: The Visceral Mercy of God
Date: December 22, 2025
Scripture: Luke 1:78-79 (From the Canticle of Zechariah, Benedictus Dominus Deus)
“Through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death...” (Luke 1:78-79)
We are three days from Christmas. In the Northern Hemisphere, we have just passed the Winter Solstice, meaning we are currently wading through the longest, darkest nights of the year. Now living in Northwestern Ohio, I have been stunned by the length of the night and a cold that is not remotely comparable to what I experienced living in Texas for nearly all of my life, with short stops in the southern states of Louisiana and North Carolina.
It is especially fitting, therefore, that today’s meditation comes from that which the Church has traditionally prayed every morning: the Benedictus, or the Song of Zechariah.
It is a song about light breaking into darkness. But more importantly, it is a song about why the light comes.
It does not come because we had a penitent Advent, or because the lighting of our Advent wreaths has somehow magically attracted God’s attention. It comes because of the "tender mercy" of our God.
The Bowels of Mercy
While the English phrase "tender mercy" or “tender compassion” is beautiful, it is too polite. The Greek text uses the word splagchna (σπλάγχνα), which literally refers to the internal organs—(in)famously rendered in the King James as “bowels.” In the ancient world, this was the seat of the deepest, most intense emotions.
When Scripture speaks of God’s mercy, it is not describing a detached legal concept. Rather, it is a visceral, “gut-level” compassion.
As the old Puritan Matthew Poole wrote, our salvation "proceeded from the very bowels of the mercy of God."
Why is this observation so important? Because it kills legalism and works righteousness dead.
If God’s salvation were a business transaction, it would depend on our payments. But because it flows from His splagchna, it depends entirely on His nature. Poole continues:
"Our remission of sin floweth from God’s bowels of mercy; it dependeth not upon our satisfactions and penances... but God’s free and tender love."
We are not saved by our quiet times, our moral winning streaks, or our adherence to the outward forms of the Church’s worship—though all of these things are important and have their proper place.
No, we are saved because God, in His innermost being, is compassionate and merciful.
Sitting in Darkness
Zechariah says this mercy comes to those who "sit in darkness and the shadow of death." Note the posture. We aren't walking out of a cave; we are sitting and imprisoned in it. We are stuck with no recourse.
The Venerable Bede (8th century) makes a crushing observation on this text. He notes that when Christ visits His people, "he certainly does not mean that he found them his people upon his arrival but that he made them his by visiting and redeeming them."
In Advent, we often speak of the importance of “getting ready” and “preparing.” Historically, Advent was treated as a kind of “Little Lent” marked by fasting and abstinence prior to the 12 Days of Christmas.
Some of this is to be commended and follows biblical precedent. Yet, lest we are tempted to despair by our own failings, we must remember—as this text reminds us—that God did not find a people who were ready. God did not find a people who had been earnestly waiting. No, our text tells us that He found a people who were wandering in error, willful disobedience, and obstinate impenitence. He found His people—if it could even be called a people—helpless in the dark.
The Dayspring from On High
So then, how does this visceral mercy arrive?
It arrives as the Oriens—the Dayspring, the Rising Sun, the East, the eternal and unchanging “Light of Light", in the words of the Creed.
This is the great mystery of Christmas.
The Infinite God did not merely send a messenger (as was John the Baptizer, the son of the very author of this canticle from Luke’s Gospel). No, He would send Himself.
Gregory of Nazianzus asks, "What greater destiny can befall man’s humility than that he should be intermingled with God?"
The Dayspring "mingled the form of God with the form of a servant" (cf. Phil. 2) so that we, who were sitting in the shadow of death, could stand in the light of life.
So, as you prepare for Christmas week—with its stress, strained family dynamics, pain, hurt, and last-minute chaos—remember this: You do not need to create the light by your own work. You do not need to perform your way into God's love. You do not—and indeed, cannot—get rid of the darkness by yourself.
Why? Because the Dayspring has already broken. The Sun has risen. And it shines on you not because you are worthy, but because of the deep, visceral, unstoppable mercy of your God.
Prayer:
O Radiant Dawn,
splendor of eternal light, sun of justice:
come and shine on those who dwell in darkness
and in the shadow of death.
(—O Oriens, Traditional Antiphon, 8th Century)
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