Why Christmas Needed an Everlasting Father
Isaiah 9:6–7; Luke 15:1–32
Christmas has a way of holding joy and ache in the same breath. Laughter fills the room, yet someone’s absence is louder than the music. Gratitude rises, but grief lingers close behind. That tension is exactly the kind of moment Isaiah speaks into when he declares that the promised child will be called Everlasting Father.
Isaiah is not addressing people who have life neatly figured out. He speaks to a people living in fear, chaos, and uncertainty, asking the same questions we ask today: Is God paying attention? Has He forgotten us? And God’s answer is not an idea or a program. It’s a Person.
We live moment to moment. We interpret life through what’s most recent or most intense. Hope in the morning. Anxiety by dinner. And before we realize it, we begin to view God the same way. When prayers are answered, we trust Him. When He feels silent, we wonder if He’s distant. But Scripture reminds us that just because God feels quiet does not mean He has stopped working. If God is faithful in eternity, He is faithful in your moment.
Jesus went before us to secure our eternity, so we would never face the temporary alone.
That’s why Isaiah’s language matters. “Everlasting” doesn’t mean Jesus simply lasts a long time. It means He is the source of eternity itself. And calling Him “Father” tells us how He rules. Not with distance or domination, but with care, presence, and affection.
Jesus shows us what this looks like in Luke 15. As religious leaders complain that He eats with sinners, Jesus reveals the heart of the Father through the story of a lost son. The younger son runs far from home, chasing freedom, only to find emptiness. When he finally returns, rehearsing his apology, the father runs to meet him. No punishment first. No lecture. Just compassion, embrace, and restoration.
That is the Everlasting Father. A Father who never stops looking. A Father whose mercy doesn’t expire. A Father who would rather lose dignity than lose His child.
But Jesus doesn’t stop there. He introduces the older son, who stayed close to the house yet far from the Father’s heart. He obeyed, served, and kept score. And still, he missed joy. Both sons were lost. One through rebellion, the other through religion. And the Father went out to both.
This is the invitation of Christmas. Not just to come home from obvious sin, but to come home from striving, earning, and proving. To stop trusting temporary saviors like control, approval, or success. And to rest in the lasting love of the Everlasting Father.
Because Jesus has secured our eternity, we can trust the Everlasting Father in the temporary. Whatever season you’re walking through, His hold does not loosen. His presence does not fade. And His invitation still stands:
Come home.
Isaiah is not addressing people who have life neatly figured out. He speaks to a people living in fear, chaos, and uncertainty, asking the same questions we ask today: Is God paying attention? Has He forgotten us? And God’s answer is not an idea or a program. It’s a Person.
We live moment to moment. We interpret life through what’s most recent or most intense. Hope in the morning. Anxiety by dinner. And before we realize it, we begin to view God the same way. When prayers are answered, we trust Him. When He feels silent, we wonder if He’s distant. But Scripture reminds us that just because God feels quiet does not mean He has stopped working. If God is faithful in eternity, He is faithful in your moment.
Jesus went before us to secure our eternity, so we would never face the temporary alone.
That’s why Isaiah’s language matters. “Everlasting” doesn’t mean Jesus simply lasts a long time. It means He is the source of eternity itself. And calling Him “Father” tells us how He rules. Not with distance or domination, but with care, presence, and affection.
Jesus shows us what this looks like in Luke 15. As religious leaders complain that He eats with sinners, Jesus reveals the heart of the Father through the story of a lost son. The younger son runs far from home, chasing freedom, only to find emptiness. When he finally returns, rehearsing his apology, the father runs to meet him. No punishment first. No lecture. Just compassion, embrace, and restoration.
That is the Everlasting Father. A Father who never stops looking. A Father whose mercy doesn’t expire. A Father who would rather lose dignity than lose His child.
But Jesus doesn’t stop there. He introduces the older son, who stayed close to the house yet far from the Father’s heart. He obeyed, served, and kept score. And still, he missed joy. Both sons were lost. One through rebellion, the other through religion. And the Father went out to both.
This is the invitation of Christmas. Not just to come home from obvious sin, but to come home from striving, earning, and proving. To stop trusting temporary saviors like control, approval, or success. And to rest in the lasting love of the Everlasting Father.
Because Jesus has secured our eternity, we can trust the Everlasting Father in the temporary. Whatever season you’re walking through, His hold does not loosen. His presence does not fade. And His invitation still stands:
Come home.
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