Today is the feast of St Matthias, the man providentially chosen to replace Judas Iscariot as the twelfth apostle (Acts 1:21-26). The early church recognized the symbolic significance of the number twelve. Twelve tribes prefigures twelve apostles. Jesus, as the True Israel, reconstituted the people of God, not around physical lineage but rather around right relationship to him. Matthias was chosen by lot over the other candidate (Joseph/Barsabbas/Justus–maybe Matthias was chosen for nominal simplicity!) and took his place in the ministry of the apostles as a witness to the resurrected Son of God.

Like several of the other apostles, we know next to nothing about Matthias from Holy Scripture other than his name and, in his case, this peculiar selection ceremony. But unique among the Twelve, Matthias was never mentioned in the gospel accounts. If it weren’t for this scene in Acts 1, we would never know that a man named Matthias had followed Jesus “beginning from the baptism of John” (Acts 1:22). But, of course, many went unnamed in the gospel: the 72, some of the women, many of the healed individuals. So, in a way, we might say that Matthias serves as a patron saint for gospel obscurity (Tradition actually identifies Matthias as the patron saint of alcoholics, because of an apocryphal saying attributed to him by Clement of Alexandria: “We must combat our flesh, set no value upon it, and concede to it nothing that can flatter it, but rather increase the growth of our soul by faith and knowledge.”)

As Matt and I have repeated a number of times, one of mentors, Craig Bartholomew, has encouraged us for years with this axiomatic advice: pursue obscurity. Last year, I published a piece reflecting on this advice. Here’s how it begins:

Craig Bartholomew, who has been a friend and mentor to many of us younger Christian scholars, often repeats the admonition: “pursue obscurity.” It is not enough simply to accept obscurity, if it happens to be our lot. Rather, there is virtue in positively pursuing obscurity, in seeking anonymity and non-recognition. I have thought a lot about this proverbial advice over the years. In fact, it has become a kind of life code for me, even if it often remains more aspirational than actual. I think about it especially in terms of our Lord’s warning in the Sermon not to practise our “righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them,” but rather to practise our spiritual disciplines – fasting and praying and almsgiving – in secret, where only our Father can see and reward (Matt 6:1–18). Jesus often exhorts us with this countercultural demand: to take the lowest place rather than the place of honour (Luke 14:7–11), to lose our lives rather than save them (Matt 16:25), to serve rather than be served (Matt 20:28). Comfort with obscurity is one important test of genuine Christian discipleship.

In the article, I apply the advice especially to the pursuit of craft: the kind of work that demands undistracted and unnoticed discipline and solitude. Below is how I land the plane, but you’ll want to read the whole thing to learn the source where Craig got the proverbial advice. But today, we can thank God for St Matthias and the challenging example he leaves to all of us.

The quest to be fully present to everyone all of the time is, of course, only amplified by social media. We can’t let a single thought go un-Tweeted, a single experience un-Instagrammed, or a single life update un-Facebooked. The internet, as the prophet Bo Burnham reminds us, offers “a little bit of everything all of the time.” And it perpetually invites us to become our own content creators and publicists. But at what cost? What is lost in this perpetual need to be seen, this constant pull toward public exposure, this chasing of personal platforms? Is it really so hard to discern the ways that our souls shrivel when their doors never close for craft and contemplation? Surely there is wisdom in resisting what Robert Cardinal Sarah calls the dictatorship of noise. Surely there is wisdom in keeping some reserve on tap….Surely there is wisdom in accepting and even seeking obscurity and preserving those most intimate moments for our shops and cells rather than our social media timelines.

“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you by his poverty might become rich.” -2 Corinthians 8:9

This was the sermon text for the Christmas Eve service my family and I attended last night. The pastor suggested that this verse is perhaps the most succinct summary of the purpose of the incarnation in the whole Bible. It emphasizes especially the grace of the Son’s condescension in becoming human: the pre-existent one becomes poor by taking our frail humanity into personal union with himself so that through his poverty we might be lavished with the riches of redemption.

This text also includes Christ’s full appellation: “our Lord Jesus Christ.” Sometimes Paul abbreviates this formula (the Lord, Christ, Lord Jesus, Jesus Christ, etc.), but here we have the full title. And in this title, we have an entire Christology summarized in just a few words.

Lord: His Divinity

The Greek word kurios (Lord) was a divine title for Hellenistic Jews of the first century like Paul. Indeed, it was the word used to translate the divine name, YHWH, in the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible. The word could sometimes be used simply as an honorific for one’s superior (lord or master). But the New Testament usage makes clear that it has divine connotations when applied to Jesus. The title is also applied to the Father and in a few instances to the Spirit as well. New Testament scholar Kavin Rowe speaks of a “kyriotic unity” and a “triplicity in the life of God” that are implied by this threefold application of the divine name “Lord.” The New Testament, no less than the Old, teaches that there is and can only be one living and true God. And yet, this one Lord exists eternally (note that Christ “became” poor, implying his pre-existence) as three distinct persons in everlasting relations of origin and love. The person whose birth we celebrate this day is none other than God himself: the eternal Son of the eternal Father in the unity of the eternal Spirit. Indeed, the church fathers often spoke of two births of this one Son: his eternal nativity from the Father without a mother, and his nativity in time from a mother without an earthly father.

Jesus: His Humanity

Mary and Joseph didn’t have a book of baby names from which to chose the name for this remarkable child. His name was chosen for them by a word from the Lord through the angel Gabriel: “You shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins” (Matt. 1:21). The name Jesus (Joshua) means “the Lord is salvation,” and it was a fairly common name for Hebrew boys at the time. So, this name highlights Christ’s humanity, but it also indicates that he is something more than merely human: he is the unique embodiment of the Lord’s salvation in human flesh. The very same Son, who eternally exists with the Father and the Spirit, is the one who became poor, who became incarnate in the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary. There may be two births (his eternal generation from the Father and his earthly generation from Mary), but there are not two Sons. There is only one person in the incarnation. But this one person, who is necessarily and eternally divine, also became human in the fullness of time. To quote the church fathers once again: without ceasing to be what he was, he became what he was not. Without leaving heaven, he came down to earth. Without divesting himself of his divinity, he clothed himself in humanity. He was and is fully and truly human. On earth, he was born, he grew and developed, he suffered, died, and rose again. In heaven, even now, he intercedes for us as our Great High Priest, and from there he will return in his resurrected, glorified humanity to judge the living and the dead. Because he is truly human, Christ can serve as a representative and substitute for fallen humans like us. God knows what it is to weep, to bleed, to suffer, and to die. Therefore, he is more than able to help us in our weakness (Heb. 2:17-18; 4:15).

Christ: His Office

Christ is not Jesus’ last name; it is his title and office. “Christ” or “Messiah” means “the anointed one.” It is a term pregnant with Old Testament hope and anticipation. There were three offices in ancient Israel that were marked out by the anointing of oil: priests, kings, and (on at least some occasions) prophets. Christian theologians have thus spoken about Christ’s threefold office (munus triplex). As prophet, he not only teaches us the will of God but is the decisive embodiment of divine revelation: the Word and Wisdom of God made flesh. As priest, he makes atonement for our sins through the sacrifice of himself and through his ongoing priestly intercession for us. As king, he subdues our rebellion, lovingly rules over us, and defeats all of our spiritual enemies. In short, as the Christ, Jesus is the Revealer, the Redeemer, and the Ruler.

One Final Qualifier

I have yet to comment on the first qualifier in this full title for Jesus from 2 Corinthians 8:9: “our.” It is first person plural and possessive. The Lord Jesus Christ belongs to the church that he founded and for which he died. He is “our Lord Jesus Christ.” He is the King over his kingdom. He is the Elder Brother in his global family. But implied in that first person plural are many first person singulars. So, the question for us this Christmas Day, this Feast of the Nativity, is simply this: Is he my Lord Jesus Christ? Is this God-Man Messiah mine? Will my heart prepare him room this and every day?

This Advent, I’ve been reading Contra Nestorianos et Eutychianos by Leontius of Byzantium (485-543). Leontius was a sixth century theologian, who was instrumental in the development of the doctrine of the incarnation, especially in the controversies that led to the Fifth Ecumenical Council, the Second Council of Constantinople (553). As its title suggests, this book tackles the opposite errors of Nestorianism (which split Christ into two persons) and Eutychianism (which merged the two natures of Christ into one). Leontius argues that these two heresies are actually opposite forms of the same error: docetism (from dokeo, to seem or appear). In Nestorianism, Christ only seems to be divine, while in Eutychianism, he only seems to be human. In place of these errors, Leontius defends the Chalcedonian doctrine of Christ: Christ is one person (indeed, a divine person, one of the Holy Trinity) with two natures: the nature of God and the discrete human nature that he assumes and personalizes (enhypostasis) in the incarnation. These two natures are united in the one person of the Son and yet they retain their distinct properties.

One of the ways that Leontius seeks to explain this doctrine is by appeal to the unity of two distinct substances in an ordinary human person: body and soul. Leontius acknowledges, however, that this analogy isn’t perfect. After spending several pages exploring the analogy and its usefulness and limitations, he argues that all analogies simply give us “faint impressions of the truth that is above all examples.” He says his aim is “giving drink to all lovers of truth in a small container.” That, I think, is an beautiful description of all doctrinal apparatuses, terminologies, and analogies: they simply give us a little cup to hold what is ultimately uncontainable: the transcendent truth of the mystery of Christ.