A Wonder that Remains
Someone in my family did something that made me stop and have to decide, “Is this offensive or ingenious?” Instead of taking down their Christmas tree in January, they wrapped the whole thing—lights, ornaments, garland, everything—in cellophane and slid it into storage. No dismantling. No boxing. Just preservation. Then, when Thanksgiving arrived, they cut it open, plugged it in, and resumed the wonder.
Psalm 113: Praise That Is Not Seasonal
It was clever. It was efficient. But it quietly preached a message our hearts are too eager to believe: that wonder can be stored. That awe comes with a season. That mystery fades, and we are meant to move on.
Psalm 113, however, will not let us move on.
This psalm, tucked into the beginning of the Hallel and recited during Jewish festivals, issues a call that slices through the sentimental fog of the holidays:
“From this time forth and forevermore… from the rising of the sun to its setting, the name of the LORD is to be praised” (Psalm 113:2–3).
Not remembered occasionally. Not admired annually. Praised. Daily. Forever.
This is not about keeping Christmas alive through music and garland. It is about sustaining wonder when the manger is silent, when the tree is gone, and when life returns to dust and duty. Psalm 113 insists that praise is not seasonal. It is stubborn. And it grows not from preserved emotion, but from a revealed God.
The God Who Stoops: The Theology of Christmas
That is what makes this psalm so startling. It begins with high praise:
“The LORD is high above all nations, and his glory above the heavens” (Psalm 113:4).
Then suddenly, it turns downward:
“Who is like the LORD our God, who is seated on high, who looks far down on the heavens and the earth?” (Psalm 113:5–6).
This God does not merely reign above. He stoops below.
In a single breath, Psalm 113 reminds us that God is immeasurably enthroned and intimately near. And not merely near in sentiment, but near in action.
“He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap” (Psalm 113:7).
“He gives the barren woman a home, making her the joyous mother of children” (Psalm 113:9).
These are not poetic flourishes. They are the theological center of Christmas. The Most High becomes the Most Near.
The story of Jesus is the embodiment of Psalm 113. The Word did not merely glance our way. He came all the way down. He did not send compassion from afar. He clothed Himself in flesh. He did not simply notice the lowly. He became one of them. And then, in mercy, He lifted them.
“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14).
This means the wonder of Christmas is not about nostalgia. It is about reversal. The poor are seated with princes. The barren rejoice with children. The ordinary becomes sacred. Not because we have held on to a mood, but because Christ has held on to us.
Biblical Models for Enduring Wonder
So how does wonder endure when the wrapping paper is gone and January begins?
It endures in the same way it did in Bethlehem.
The shepherds were the first to hear the angel’s declaration, but they did not stay in the glow of divine announcement. After seeing the Christ child lying in the manger, they returned to the same fields and same sheep, yet something had shifted. Luke tells us they returned “glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen” (Luke 2:20). The ordinary was no longer empty. Their praise outlived the moment because their hearts had been awakened to the presence of God in a place they never expected to find Him.
The Magi, by contrast, came from a great distance—outsiders guided not by tradition but by a divine invitation written in the heavens. They rejoiced when they found Jesus, fell down in worship, and opened their treasures before the infant King. But Scripture gives us a quiet detail that marks their transformed hearts: “they departed to their own country by another way” (Matthew 2:12). Wonder redirected them. It was not only what they gave, but how they left, no longer following their own path, but one revealed by God.
Mary, young and overshadowed by mystery, received the incarnation not with a shout, but with pondering. The text tells us she “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). Her wonder was not loud or public. It was stored—deep, quiet, and enduring—carried through questions she could not yet answer. Her praise did not rise from clarity, but from trust in the character of God.
And Joseph, so often overlooked, becomes one of Scripture’s clearest pictures of wonder expressed through obedience. He received no songs from angels, only dreams in the night. Yet every time God spoke, he responded without delay (Matthew 1:24; 2:14). He protected the Christ child, moved his family in times of danger, and disappeared from the spotlight without recognition. Joseph’s wonder was not in what he said, but in how he followed. Steady. Faithful. Immediate.
Living a Life of Wonder Beyond the Holidays
That is what real wonder does. It is not loud. It is not seasonal. It does not need lights. It leads us back into ordinary days, but makes those days holy.
Not because we feel amazed, but because we keep beholding the One who is.
There is danger in assuming that wonder should fade. That incarnation was a one-day event. That glory wrapped in humility belongs only to a nativity set. But the God of Psalm 113 is still on the move. He still stoops. He still lifts. He still comes close.
We do not need to preserve the tree in order to preserve the awe.
We simply need to return, again and again, to the One who came.
The wonder of Christmas was never meant to remain at the manger. It was meant to follow you back into the fields. Into the questions. Into the dust. Into obedience. Quietly. Daily. Faithfully.
Go Deeper
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