January 4, 2026, Year A, The Second Sunday of Christmas

Luke 2:41-52, Psalm 84, Ephesians 1:3-14

Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ, on this Second Sunday of Christmas.

Today, we find ourselves still wrapped in the quiet afterglow of the Nativity. The frantic preparations are behind us, the candlelight and Christmas Day services have faded, the carols that filled our homes and streets have begun to recede, yet the Church in her ancient wisdom refuses to let us rush onward. She bids us linger here a little longer, in the season of the incarnation, so that the profound mystery of God-with-us might settle deeply into our hearts and minds. The Christmas light has not been packed away with the decorations; it continues to burn, steady and true, illuminating the path ahead.

The Gospel appointed for this day is Luke 2:41-52. It is found on page ________ of your pew Bibles. This passage transports us twelve years forward from the stable in Bethlehem. The infant whom the angels proclaimed, whom the shepherds sought, whom Simeon and Anna recognized in the temple, has grown into a boy on the threshold of manhood. Jesus, now twelve years old, journeys with Mary and Joseph to Jerusalem for the feast of the Passover.

This was no mere family tradition; it was the command of the law that every male Israelite should appear before the Lord three times a year, and for devout families like this one, the annual pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Passover was a highlight of life. The roads would have been thronged with travelers—families, villages traveling together in great caravans for safety and companionship. The air would have carried the sounds of conversation, laughter, the bleating of lambs destined for sacrifice, and the chanting of psalms as the pilgrims ascended the hills toward the holy city.

When the seven days of the feast concluded, the caravan set out for home. Mary and Joseph, assuming Jesus was somewhere among the extended family or friends—perhaps walking with cousins his own age or listening to the elders—travelled a full day’s journey before realizing he was missing. What parent has not felt that sudden chill of fear when a child is momentarily out of sight? For Mary and Joseph, that fear stretched across three long days of retracing their steps, searching among relatives and acquaintances, asking urgently if anyone had seen their son. Three days—days that echo forward to another loss, another search, another finding in resurrection joy.

At last they find him, not in the marketplace or playing in the streets, but in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers of the law, listening attentively and asking questions. And those who heard him—learned rabbis, scribes steeped in Torah—were astonished at his understanding and his answers. Even at twelve, the wisdom of God shone through this child.

When his parents finally locate him, Mary speaks first, her voice carrying both relief and reproach in verse 48: “Son, why have you treated us so? Behold, your father and I have been searching for you in great distress” (Luke 2:48, ESV). Jesus’ response is calm, almost surprised at their anxiety in verse 29: “Why were you looking for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” (Luke 2:49, ESV). Luke tells us plainly that they did not understand what he meant. Yet Jesus returns with them to Nazareth, submissive to their authority, living in quiet obedience for another eighteen years. Mary, as she so often does, treasures all these things in her heart. And Jesus, Luke concludes, increased in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man (Luke 2:51-52).

This is the only story Scripture gives us of Jesus’ childhood. Why does Luke include it? Why place it here, bridging the nativity accounts and the beginning of public ministry? Because it reveals something essential about who Jesus is. It shows us his full humanity—he grows physically, intellectually, spiritually; he submits to earthly parents; he lives the ordinary life of a village boy.

Yet at the same time, it discloses his unique identity as the eternal Son who already knows God as “my Father” in a way no one else can. The temple is not just a place of religious obligation for him; it is home. “I must be,” he says—the language of divine necessity, the same “must” that will later mark his path to the cross.

That sense of holy compulsion, that deep longing for the Father’s presence, finds its most beautiful poetic expression in Psalm 84, a psalm of ascent that pilgrims would say on their way to Jerusalem. We covered this Psalm a few weeks bak. The psalmist cries out, “How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts! My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and flesh sing for joy to the living God” (Psalm 84:1-2, ESV). The temple, for the psalmist, is not merely a building of stone; it is the place where heaven and earth meet, where God has promised to dwell among his people. Even the smallest creatures find welcome there: the sparrow has a home, the swallow a nest beside the altars (Psalm 84:3). If God makes room for the birds, how much more for those who seek him with all their heart?

The psalm then turns to the pilgrims themselves: “Blessed are those whose strength is in you, in whose heart are the highways to Zion” (Psalm 84:5, ESV). The journey matters as much as the destination. Those who carry Zion in their hearts find blessing even on the road.

And then we come to one of the most beloved and mysterious verses in the Psalter: “As they go through the Valley of Baca, they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools” (Psalm 84:6, ESV).

The name “Valley of Baca” means “valley of weeping.” Some scholars believe it refers to an actual geographical location—a particular dry valley or wadi on one of the pilgrimage routes to Jerusalem. A wadi is a steep-sided ravine or dry riverbed common in the Judean landscape: for most of the year it is parched, dusty, and treacherous, offering no water and little shade, but during rare heavy rains it can become a dangerous flash flood. Travelers crossing such a wadi would face intense heat, thirst, and exhaustion. Whether Baca was a specific wadi known for its barrenness or for balsam trees that “weep” resin, the symbolic meaning is clear: it represents any place of sorrow, dryness, trial, or grief on the journey toward God.

What the pilgrims do in this valley is remarkable. They do not simply endure it, grumbling or despairing. They transform it. They “make it a place of springs.” Jewish tradition suggests that groups of pilgrims would dig small wells or cisterns along the route as they travelled, leaving sources of water for those who would come after them. Their labor turned a place of potential death into a place of life. On a deeper level, their tears of repentance, their prayers offered in distress, become—through God’s grace—sources of refreshment and renewal.

The following phrase confirms this divine partnership: “the early rain also covers it with pools.” The “early rain” refers to the autumn rains that soften the hard ground and fill the cisterns after the long dry summer. In some translations it is rendered “with blessings.” God cooperates with the pilgrims’ faith, sending rain to complete what their hands and hearts have begun. The valley of weeping becomes an oasis. Instead of draining the travelers’ strength, it renews them. They go, the psalm says, “from strength to strength” until each one appears before God in Zion (Psalm 84:7, ESV).

This image of transformation is crucial for Christian discipleship. The way to Zion is not a detour around suffering; it is a road that passes directly through valleys of weeping. Yet for those whose strength is in the Lord, hardship never has the final word. God redeems even the driest places. Tears are gathered up and turned into springs. Trials become testimonies that water the faith of others.

Consider how often we have seen this in the lives of God’s people. Think of the parent who loses a child yet discovers in grief a deeper capacity to comfort others. Think of the person who endures chronic illness and finds wells of prayer they never knew existed. Think of communities struck by disaster that rise again more compassionate, more united. The Valley of Baca is never the end of the story.

The boy Jesus lives this pattern perfectly. The temple is his true home, yet he willingly submits to the long, hidden road through Nazareth—years of ordinary work, family life, and quiet growth. Later he will pass through deeper valleys: misunderstanding, rejection, betrayal, and finally the cross itself, the deepest valley of weeping the world has ever known. There he digs the deepest well. From his wounded side flow rivers of living water that quench the thirst of generations.

Paul unveils the eternal purpose behind this pilgrimage in the magnificent opening of his letter to the Ephesians. He bursts into praise: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him” (Ephesians 1:3-4, ESV).

Before time began, in the eternal counsels of the Trinity, God chose us in Christ. In love he predestined us for adoption to himself as sons and daughters through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace (Ephesians 1:5-6). Through the redemption accomplished by Christ’s blood, we receive forgiveness of sins according to the riches of grace lavished upon us (Ephesians 1:7-8). God has made known to us the mystery of his will: to unite all things in Christ, things in heaven and on earth (Ephesians 1:9-10).

And this inheritance is sealed with the promised Holy Spirit, the guarantee of our full possession until the day of redemption, to the praise of God’s glory (Ephesians 1:13-14).

Adoption—this is the beating heart of the gospel. The twelve-year-old boy who calls the temple “my Father’s house” opens the way for us to enter the same household. We who were once far off, strangers and aliens, are now brought near by the blood of Christ. We are no longer servants but beloved children, co-heirs with Christ. The longing of Psalm 84 is fulfilled beyond imagination: we do not merely visit the courts of the Lord; by the Spirit we are invited to dwell in the very heart of the triune God.

The temple that drew Jesus at twelve he himself fulfills and transcends. He is the living temple, the true meeting place of God and humanity. When he says on the cross, “It is finished,” and rises on the third day, every valley of weeping is transformed forever. Every dry wadi becomes a place of springs because the early rain of the Spirit has fallen in abundance. All now in part, but completely when he returns.

As we stand at the turning of the year, what does this mean for us practically?

First, it calls us to cultivate the same longing that marked the psalmist and the young Jesus. Do we truly faint for the courts of the Lord? Or have we grown comfortable in exile? The remedies are ancient and proven: gather with God’s people for worship each Lord’s Day; set aside time daily for prayer and Scripture; receive the sacraments with faith; serve the poor; practice forgiveness and generosity. These are the highways to Zion planted in the heart.

Second, it gives us courage for whatever valleys lie ahead. None of us knows what 2026 will bring—joy or sorrow, health or illness, prosperity or loss. But we know the one who walks with us. We can offer our tears to him, trusting that he will turn them into springs. We can dig wells of kindness and prayer that will refresh those who come after us. The early rain of the Spirit will fall, and barren places will bloom.

Third, it reminds us that we already belong to the Father’s household. The incarnation means that God has entered our Nazareth—our daily routines, our work, our families, our ordinary lives. Every task can be offered as worship. Every relationship can reflect the love of the Trinity. Every moment can be lived in the freedom of adopted children who know they are loved beyond measure. As Don+ always said, “God loves us more than we can imagine.” This is transformative.

It means, in our families, when tensions rise and patience wears thin, we can choose forgiveness and create springs of reconciliation. In our workplaces, when stress and competition threaten to harden us, we can practice integrity and kindness, digging wells of witness. In our church, when differences arise, we can seek unity in Christ, turning potential conflict into deeper community.

As parents, godparents, and grandparents we have a special responsibility to plant the highways to Zion in the hearts of the young. Jesus at twelve knew where he belonged because he had been formed by faithful parents who brought him yearly to the temple, who taught him the Scriptures, who lived their faith at home. In an age of distraction and busyness, we must prioritize the spiritual formation of our children and grandchildren—family prayer, catechesis, worship together. They will face their own valleys of weeping; let us equip them to transform those valleys by God’s grace.

For those who are older, the call is to perseverance. The hidden years in Nazareth were not wasted on Jesus; they prepared him for ministry. Our later years, whether marked by retirement, declining health, or quiet days, are not marginal to God’s purposes. They too can be places where we dig deep wells of prayer and wisdom for the generations following.

And for all of us, the new year offers a fresh beginning. As we set goals and make resolutions, let us place first things first. Let our primary resolution be to seek the Father’s house more faithfully—to long for God’s presence as the deer pants for water, to carry Zion in our hearts wherever we go.

The Christmas light continues to shine, and will all year every year, because the Word became flesh and dwells among us still. The boy in the temple has become the risen Lord who says, “Behold, I am with you always.” The valleys ahead need not frighten us, for he has gone before and turned the greatest weeping into the greatest joy.

Mary treasured these things in her heart. May we do the same. May we carry the wonder of the incarnation into every day of the coming year, confident that the one who astonished the rabbis at twelve is still teaching us, still drawing us nearer, still leading us home.

Let’s pray…

How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts. Our souls long, yes, faint for your courts. Strengthen us, your pilgrims, for the journey. Turn every valley of weeping into a place of springs. Cover us with the early rain of your Spirit. And bring us at last, from strength to strength, to see your face in Zion. In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.