Worship Opportunities

Hypostatic union. Doesn’t that seem like a phrase meant to stay bound within the pages of a seminary textbook? It’s at the core of Christian doctrine: Jesus Christ is one with two natures, fully God and fully man. If I’m honest, though, this is not something I just toss around in casual conversation over a cup of coffee. 

After a series of trials and life changes, I realized that this truth—the hypostatic union—is meant to be more than doctrine. It’s a truth that should penetrate the heart and stir us repeatedly toward Jesus, our sympathetic Savior. 

2023 launched me into a tangle of losses. Though my grief was primarily fueled that January by the death of our 3-week-old infant daughter, MonaJean, to a genetic condition, layered losses within the same season compounded the pain. 

We had moved from our beloved home state of North Carolina where we had 4 decades of deep roots. Career changes led us through new, uncharted territory. Home disasters struck. The increasing realities of our youngest son’s paralysis began to sink in, and I was sinking deep.

Our seven living family members’ life adjustments often made the losses seem to outweigh the gains. After a period of tremendous joy, I started to crumble, and every part of me was exhausted with grief.

Repeated rhythm changes while trying to process the deep ache of our daughter’s death left me wondering which beat we were marching to. Could we just stop beating all the drums and sit in silence? Could I order a magical pause button on Amazon? Whether or not my physical, emotional, and spiritual fatigue was obvious from the outside, it was certainly dominating me on the inside. Sometimes it still does.

By God’s grace, it is in this season that I read Matthew chapter 14 and received it with a fresh appreciation for the hypostatic union of Christ, a truth not meant to be shelved in a seminary library, but a living reality meant to permeate “normal” people like me in the daily neediness of life. 

Christ does not toggle back and forth from man to God. Both are fully present in Him at all times.

At the beginning of this chapter, Matthew records a series of events precipitated by offense and fear of man’s approval, leading to Herod’s beheading of John the Baptist, Jesus’s cousin.

John, whose mission in life was to make ready the way of the Lord, completed his mission with an abrupt halt. It’s not the picture-perfect, polished ending we’d prefer. His disciples mournfully took away his body, buried it, and then reported to Jesus regarding this gruesome tragedy. 

Christ’s moving response and events that follow give us a tandem picture of his humanity and divinity, both present at the same time. 

Now when Jesus heard about John, He withdrew from there in a boat to a secluded place by Himself… (Matthew 14:13a)

Based on the context, I would assume that Jesus is slipping away to grieve, probably to pray. Maybe to sit with sorrow. Maybe to let tears speak in the absence of words.

Christ’s seclusion deeply ministers to my heart that longs to be alone in sorrow. 

Imagine Him there listening to the quiet sounds of His creation: the sounds of the shore becoming more distant, the water lapping up against the boat, maybe a gentle breeze catching His hair. The sun reflects off of the water and onto the Son of God, there alone, suspended by waters He Himself created, feeling the suspended brokenness of the turn mankind has taken. His cousin is gone, cruelly killed. He, too, will suffer a similar fate.

But then the second half of the verse jerks us out of the stillness of this moment and pivots our attention to a stream of following people:

…and when the people heard of this, they followed Him on foot from the cities. (Matthew 14:13b)

The crowd, either unaware or unmoved by His sadness, just follows along by foot. He seeks solitude, but people seek Him. In response, He doesn’t run. He returns.

Noise again.

Maybe as He approaches land, He starts to hear the sounds of chattering people increasing in volume…not just one or two people, but a crowd of people who desperately need Him. Jesus’s day hits the ground running again. 

Have you felt that in your grief? You long for a quiet reprieve from the demands of life, but life doesn’t stop when grief hits. Although He slipped away for a short time, like me, the world around Him didn’t pause.

Following this brief seclusion, His divinity is so beautifully displayed as He enters back into the crowd. Moved by compassion, He performs miracles and healings. He serves up a feast for 5,000 from the miniscule contribution of five loaves and two fish. He walks on water. Human and divine. 

He’s altogether other than us, and it’s because of His humanity and divinity that we are given access to such a Savior.

In my grief and because of His, I feel the welcome invitation Jesus gives to those needy crowds. I’m one in that crowd, needing the food, needing the healing, needing the sympathetic Savior. 

The writer of Hebrews echoes the invitation because of this hypostatic union of Christ: 

Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens– Jesus the Son of God– let us hold fast to our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who has been tempted in every way as we are, yet without sin. Therefore, let us approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in time of need. – Hebrews 4:14-16

Fully God, fully man, and fully qualified to invite us to the throne of grace that we, needy people, may receive. Mercy. Grace. Help in time of need. It’s there. Receive it. 

[I wrote this as a submission to a major Christian website about a year ago. I’m glad it was politely declined. After some editing, I decided it needed to live somewhere a little more visible, so here’s where it will be for now.]