The Perfect Christmas

But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, 5 to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.Galatians 4:4-5

In the movie, A Christmas Story, Gene Shepherd says that Christmas is the holiday around which the whole kid year revolved. He said that in 1983--thirty years ago and long before it became the movie that revolved around the whole day. I saw A Christmas Story for the first time in at the Appalachian movie theater in Boone while at ASU. My hall mates were attempting any diversion to escape studying for exams. I thought it was one of the funniest movies I had ever seen; I thought so because it was my family.

Like Ralphie’s dad, my Old Man was an Oldsmobile man of sorts: we had a trouble-making Oldsmobile 98 Royal Brougham diesel and our our garage was held hostage to a multi-decade rehabilitation project in the form of a 1953 88 Rocket. To be honest, he was really a Pontiac man at heart. In high school he had 1940 Silver Streak Business Coupe with a flathead 4 , as a young married man, he and my mother drove a 1964 Catalina convertible, and as a family man he graduated to a 1968 and 1969 Safari Station Wagons. And he had entertained other cars too: a Model A coupe, a 51 Studebaker Commander, and a 1966 Corvair Monza convertible. He had impeccable taste--and a soft heart for auto underdogs. He was a champion and an artist. His cars and their parts had been liberated from junkyards, curbsides, and police impound garages over four states. Unlike Ralphie’s dad in A Christmas Story, my Old Man’s passion for cars wasn’t in tire changing, it was in entire rehabilitation.

Growing up in Columbus, Ohio was great for a Christmas lover such as myself. Though not a given, it was probable that there would be a white Christmas or at least snow sometime around Christmas. I grew up in an age and in a place where the biggest threats which floated just beyond the boundary of my understanding were evil and clandestined organizations which threatened life as I knew it. There were, in ascending order: 3. the Mafia, 2. the Soviet Union, and 1. the University of Michigan. Michigan was no doubt the most important because the Ohio State Michigan game was the week before Thanksgiving and marked the beginning of the Holiday Season. It also set the tone of expectation through New Years Day.

The narratives of Christmases past fill the the anthology of my family’s stories. One that was often recounted was the story of when, in 1944, Santa Claus phoned my mother at home. In 1944 my mother was a preschooler, and as a part of a WTVN’s radio programming, they invited parents to submit names and phone numbers of their children who, if selected, would receive a call from Santa. My mom’s name and number (University 6800) was one of those picked. When Santa got around to asking my mother what she wanted for Christmas, she said, “I want my daddy.” There was silence on the other end of the line. As the radio Santa composed himself, he agreed and assured my mother that having her daddy, and all the other daddy’s and sons and brothers was what they all wanted for Christmas. If that Christmas wish could be had it would make the perfect Christmas in spite of the rationing and austerity measures many endured.

At the time of that phone call, my grandfather was in eastern France serving in an Army field hospital southwest of the Bulge as they came to call it. As was the case with many veterans, my grandfather did not talk about his experience in the War. I believe it was especially difficult for him because he was oldest to be eligible for the draft. Being 31 years old at the time, he had lived a bit. He had seen the Great Depression through adult eyes, and he had served with the Civilian Conservation Corps. He now had a wife and child, and he could see what price was being paid by individuals and families --especially as Technician in an Army field hospital. While my mother was talking to a radio Santa, the European front was in danger of collapsing, and they were were putting weapons in the hands of any able-bodied GI and sending him to the front. My grandfather’s favorite Christmas song was “White Christmas”. I think that song as well as “I’ll be Home for Christmas” came to vocalize the hope and longing he had to be reunited with his family on a perfect Christmas.

The first Christmas I clearly recall was about 1970; that Christmas I received my first record player and my own records. I got recordings of the Sesame Street album along with a Mr Rogers’ Neighborhood. It was then that I began my lifelong endeavor to memorize lines and stories and songs. You never know when you are going to need to sing, “Abekedfkjecklmnoqrstewitzes” or “Sing a Song” or “Going for a Ride”. I awoke my parents at 3 am Christmas morning playing those records under the tree. Merry Christmas Mom and Dad!

On Christmas Eve, my family would regularly gather at my grandparent’s house, a 1 ½ story post-war home off North Broadway in Columbus. My father worked a swing shift at a manufacturing plant, and as luck would have it, he would get second shift on Christmas Eve. We would gather at my grandparents in the afternoon; prepare for dinner around 7pm when my father would get his dinner break and come to the house, eat, and head back to work for the remainder of his shift. Then we would have to wait until he got off work to open presents--this meant we had a good four more hours of waiting. It was perfect torture. I was the oldest grandchild which meant that there were no cousins to entertain me, and of course there was no cable, no game consoles, no social media. My only social media entertainment was adults talking. Taaalking!

Exasperated by my begging to open a present and complaining of my boredom, my parents would say, “Go downstairs!” Ha! we all knew there was a monster down there. My uncle told me so himself, he showed me the footprint in the concrete floor. I had even heard noises. Now you were safe in the basement as long as the lights were on, but the light switch was at the bottom of the basement steps. If you were leaving, you had to be quite the athlete because you had to flip the light switch usually having already begun to run so that you could climb steps two at a time in order to make to the top in time. Anyway, who puts a basement light switch at the bottom of the basement steps? Who does that? “Go downstairs?” was my reply. “No. thank you. I’ll listen to you adults talk.”

My Uncle Bob was ten years younger than my mother, which oftentimes happened to families who endured separation during WWII. Though he wasn’t a kid anymore, it didn’t mean that he didn’t know how to be one. Sometimes he was perfectly awful. With the authority of an adult, he would mercilessly bait us kids with, “So, do you want to open one present to tide you over until Uncle Dave gets here?” “Really? Yes, yes!” we’d cry. Finally some relief! Uncles are heroes! Finally something to do! Finally, we’re getting down to business! But then he’d pull up and he would pause and say, “Nahhhhh.” The blackguard. It didn’t matter what we said either. It was equally satisfying for him, if we said, No. Because then He would say, “Well, I was going to let you open one, but since you don’t want to….” For him it was hours of entertaining pleasure, during which the time flew by. For us kids? It was just more talk. Exhausting, unending, unbearable, drawn out, waiting….

One year I realized that the kitchen held potential relief from the begging or baiting that went on in the Family Room. What I needed to make the time pass was to keep busy--to keep my mind off of the waiting and and the torture of stacks of presents what I need to do was wash dishes. And so for several years on Christmas Eve, I stood beside my grandfather and washed and dried the evening’s dishes: the oyster dressing bowl, the congealed salad bowl, the dinner roll pan which had burnt the rolls because my grandmother insisted on buttering the pan even though the directions said she wasn’t supposed to. During those hours, he would talk, sometimes of growing up, sometimes of the War, but he always managed to say something just a little off color that would have me half-shocked or laughing. I didn’t realize it then. But that was perfect.

Some Christmas memories stand out as exceptional. There was the year that I got the GI Joe winter rescue kit together with the helicopter, AND submarine. In 1976, my friends and I helped coordinate, make, and deliver hundreds of luminaria for our our street. And though the Christmas was dry, it turned in January and culminated with the Blizzard of 77 when because of record snowfall, freezing temperatures, and a natural gas shortage we got a month off from school. Now that was a Christmas present!

Then there was the first Christmas after moving to NC when Woody Hayes punched the Clemson player in the Gator Bowl--that made life for an Ohioan in the South and this one in particular hard for years. “Yea, Randy’s from Ohio. Hey, Randy didn’t Woody Hayes….” Oh great. Perfect. But hope springs eternal for a Buckeye in South Town, whose team is playing in a nationally televised bowl game. Whenever I get misty-eyed and am about to be overcome by glory and hope, I do what any good Ohioan does. I speak the word which restores him to sobriety, humility, and sanity: Cleveland.

There are other Christmas memories. There were meltdowns and separations. There was the Christmas my father spent on a garage floor trying fix our Ford LTD wagon’s blown head gasket or the Christmas that the family caught the flu and spent the week quarantined or the year my grandmother died. There was the Christmas that the family was recovering from the double-punch of violent crime and metastasized cancer. Most recently, a Christmas reeling from and trying to learn how to manage blood sugar.

You have memories like these too. They have shaped and grown your expectations of Christmas--they become the benchmarks and are codified in the collection of family folktales. They become stories which give meaning and hope. And now you are here this Christmas wondering if this year will be the perfect Christmas. Will you get what we asked for? Will the adults just keep talking? Will peace be maintained and will family get along? Will anyone be sick? Is anyone missing? Will anyone be missing next year? Time and time again we look forward to and hope in this being the perfect Christmas.

As I think about my perfect Christmas and as you think about yours, let us be mindful that the Perfect Christmas has already happened. This Perfect Christmas is not one to be lived up to or sentimentalized in our memories. It is not one which exerts a pressure of expectation of a human’s flawless preparation and execution. The perfect Christmas happened at just the right time 2000 years, ago.

At the time, it seemed all but perfect. Think about it: an unexpected pregnancy of a betrothed, young girl. Her husband having to explain that he had neither illegitimately enjoyed what was to be left until after marriage nor that though he was not the father of this child, neither had his wife been unfaithful. Think about that after-dinner conversation. How much work would it take to repress that inconvenient truth around a Perfect Christmas dinner table? Raised eyebrows, whispers, the awkward silence as one enters a room and the topic of conversation changes from the unfortunate circumstances to the weather.

Having had to bear scrutiny of knowing looks and helpful counsel, Joseph and Mary were forced to travel to their ancestral home, and when they arrived there was no place for them. No extended family would take them in. No hospitality would be shown or offered except what was leftover and unwanted: a stable. In all the places you would want to see your childs face and hear their first cries--it would not be in a stable. This first Christmas scene which we speak of with such familiarity and sweetness is not the idilic climax of any hostesses’ perfect Christmas plan; it was a flooding confluence of desperate necessity. Joseph is there trying to get everything settled, trying to scrounge up food, trying to do assuage his young bride’s fear, trying to just keep it together. And then, having to beg the Innkeeper for a room, some shelter… something… anything. Time was urgent. And then imagine as Mary’s time came. Her water breaks, and her labor comes full on; collapsing to the barn floor screaming out. What might Joseph have been thinking? “Really? Now? it’s time, NOW? In.a.barn? PERFECT!”

And then the rush of guests. What was with those shepherds? Who seeks out a homeless couple recovering from the most grueling of emotional, psychological, and physical challenges? Does anyone stop to ask, “Do they really need visitors at this time?” Really, is this some sort of spectator event? And people keep coming to find them. This shell-shocked young couple just trying to come to grips with what has happened to them--angels suddenly appearing announcing things that were to be done through them...to them--without their counsel or conference regarding their own plans. Perfectly confounding.

Mary and Joseph though, had this: they received what had been brought to them. Joseph was already a just and kind man, and Mary was already willing to play whatever part God would ask of her. There was no way for her to know that this helpless child she now held and whom God had given her would one day be hopeless forsaken by government justice and held in contempt; betrayed by national allegiance, forsaken by religious devotion, abandoned by familial obligation, and rejected of personal love. There was nothing about this first Christmas--the events which preceded it and the consequences which would later play out, that would lead any of us to place at any time any of these circumstances on our perfect Christmas list, but it was, nevertheless, perfect.

This first Christmas was perfectly loving. No treasure is greater than the gift of an only child, no social elevation is lower than a baby, no humility is more meek than an infant. The One who was hidden in cloud and in unapproachable light is now swaddled in the scraps of throwaway cloths. He who was infinitely above and beyond all grasping is drawn close in the arms of his mother, and is irresistibly inviting. In the first creation the Creator first breathed life into the man. In this second Creation, the Creator breaths as a man first as a baby. The One who Commanded and spoke his creation into being now speaks in coo-ings and cries of a creature in need. The Father’s Son from whom all men: fathers and sons derive their names and who makes them his own children and brothers becomes the adopted first son of a man named Joseph.

This Christmas we are freed from it having to be the perfect Christmas. We are free from having to produce the memories which will make it into the mythology of our collective Christmas memories. And we are free from being oppressed by what our hearts and grief can never make it be what we would want it to be. Why? Because the Perfect Christmas has come--and it folds our stories into the swaddling cloths of His story.

Christmas is your wildest wish coming true--that you are infinitely loved in spite of your faults and imperfections--that you are bought back from all treasons and rebellions and sins.

Christmas is winsomely hilarious and fun because it was announced with the revealing of joy and gladness that all our cynicism, sarcasm, doubt, fear, and incompetence has been shouted down and put in its place by an infant’s cry and an angel choir.

Christmas is meditative and thoughtful, reflective and quiet as the mother who treasured all of what was said and done in her heart. It is sad and mournful--because of ALL that was missed --ALL WHO WAS MISSED --by Creation and creature as their Maker had come to visit them.

Christmas is a little exasperated and angry because he came to that which was HIS--TO THOSE WHOM HE MADE, but they did not welcome him nor make room for him.

And Christmas is light and easy because he came to bear away all the heaviness and sorrow and pain AND SIN--and he did so perfectly, in love, and just in time--he did so that we might not have to climb under the weight of our own self-interested performance and pride.

Tonight, we come together to remember, remind, rejoice, and rest in the news that the Perfect Christmas has come.

Will you make room for him this Christmas? Will you open the door and welcome the Infant King even though what you have and what you aspire to be is so much less than perfect? Will you lay what you’re holding onto down here, at the feet of his cradle. And will you be taken up into the arms of the Father of the Heavenly Lights--who has sent his son like the rising of the Dawn into the darkness in order to give them salvation through the forgiveness of their sins. He has done this because of his perfect. tender. mercy. Will you?

It is time.

An Easter Meditation

Thoughts on Easter and my wife's recent hospitalization. You may listen to it here.

1 Peter 3:18“For Christ died for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God. He was put to death in the body but made alive by the Spirit...”

Brought to my senses by a phone call at 6:30 am, I answer the regular, morning call from my wife who will, no doubt, give me an update of the night’s activities as she continues in her recovery from surgery six days earlier. Rather than hearing the refreshed morning voice of my bride, I hear the concern and the tiredness--a tone I have heard all too frequently over the past two months. I learn a new word, “dehisced” -- one of several I feel more competent using and one of many I’d rather not have a personal acquaintance with. She told me that the sutures from her surgery had failed, and she was being taken back into surgery to repair and bolster the incision site.

Moving with the quick urgency of adrenaline, I make arrangements to get to the hospital. One of the numberless angels we have called upon, comes to the house to watch our youngest while I rush to the hospital hoping that I make it there before she is wheeled into surgery. I make it in time, and after kisses and prayers I find my way back to the Surgical Waiting Room to sit it out with the other shell-shocked family members of other unknown patients and stories.

Though this a repair, it’s this surgery that brings me to the end. The fear and what my wife calls “catastrophizing” find a foothold, and I am brought low by the fragility of our human frame and the ridiculous presumption that my body has and always will work as it should. That is foolishness. Breathing is a miracle so too is digestion. Our frailty coupled with my own powerlessness makes all this hard to swallow.

This is the second time in as many weeks that circumstance has brought me to this room. The previous week, on Good Friday, a surgeon, named Jennifer was brought in to consult with my wife on the possibility of surgery should the Remicade she had received a day earlier fail to send her ulcerative colitis into remission. A mere 45 minutes after the morning’s x-ray, sent to measure the progress of healing or to alert to the onset of what her doctors referred to as “megacolon”, Dr Jennifer was back in my wife’s room suggesting that the pharmaceutical treatments thrown at my wife’s disease had failed and that surgery was necessary to avoid a perforation which would likely happen, and if it did, would be deadly.

Dr Jennifer is a straight shooter, and we were looking for straight shooting. So much of the previous month, had for me, the ambiguous qualities of abstract art. Lot’s of activity, but not much in the way of clarity. Dr Jennifer said, that it was “time to cut bait”. I know the expression, “fish or cut bait”, and I appreciate the metaphor. But in this particular circumstance? I know there will be cutting. But who’s the bait? And to what is she being offered?

So, in a matter of two hours, we went from waiting for medication to bring the hoped for relief and remission to the urgent alacrity of emergency surgery. Good Friday. I sit alone in the Surgical Waiting Room and keep vigil for one who suffers, and I await the news. Because there is nothing I can do, all I can do is receive. I hope to receive good news, a report that surgery was successful, that healing is immanent, that my wife’s discomfort has been dealt with. But I am an object of grace, I can do nothing, and I can only watch and wait for God to send and for others to bring what I do not have. He did and they did. God sent messengers. He sent them through emails, phone calls, texts, and visitors -- all of whom I received as angels and whose comfort and company I needed. Though this wasn’t the news that was most pressing, it was important news. That though powerless, I was not alone, nor was Jennifer.

God had shown Jennifer that he was present. Just as he had sent the friends, physicians, and nurses, he had sent Stan, the transportation orderly from OR who wheeled my wife down. He had a simple manner about himself. When he said he would pray for Jennifer as he was leaving the OR staging room, Jennifer asked if he would pray then and there. He boldly and gladly prayed. He prayed that Jennifer would have faith to trust Jesus as the woman who reached out and touched Jesus and was healed, he prayed that she would have the submissive graciousness of Mary, who when she was told that she would bear the savior, she replied, “Let it be unto me as thou hast spoken.” And on that Good Friday, he remembered Jesus, who when given the cup of affliction to empty on our behalf and who would have rather had it taken away, nevertheless, he submitted and took that cup for us, for me, the powerless husband, and for my wife, the bait.

As we arrived in the OR, next to appear was Christy, the niece of a dear friend and herself a childhood acquaintance of Jennifer’s. Christy, who as it turns out lives in our neighborhood, was scrubbing up to assist in the surgery. For Jennifer these presences were evidences of God’s presence in her illness which was now culminating in this angling end game.

As I sat in the Surgical Waiting Room, I was a witness to how the suffering of one person, was bringing into my life friends from almost every part of my life--friends, from high school, college, seminary, ministry, family members from across the state and country and globe. Friends who had moved out of my life and friends who were mostly my wife’s friends but who were relegated to engaging with me because my wife was often too weak or in too much pain to text let alone talk. God brought all sorts, and because of their love, and because of our need, we asked them to pray, and they received those requests and brought them to God. I cannot adequately describe the expansive sense of gratitude which has frequently squeezed tears out our eyes as we received. The thinly veiled venier of keeping it together was often wrinkled and torn through by the offer of a seemingly insignificant service or thoughtful duty.

Three hours later, Dr Jennifer appeared and gave me the news. My Jennifer did great, and was doing well. I know that I asked other questions and that she shared more information, but I had fixated on the most pressing news, and once I heard that news, all other news was only a curiosity. Good Friday.

What was it that brought Jesus to Jerusalem during the Passover that spring when Tiberius ruled the Empire? He might have brought an army with him to Jerusalem, but in the end he only brought eleven disciples, and three of them would keep vigil with him as he entered the heart of his mission. And having been worn out with the day’s expectation of an unforeseen glory, the disciples would fall asleep not knowing that in twenty-four hours their worlds would come crashing down in catastrophe.

One of those disciples, Peter, came to the Garden ready to fish or cut bait. He brought a sword and thinking he would strike the first blow of the revolution and cut a path to glory found that the one for whom he was willing to strike others was still healing the stricken. And so Peter watched Jesus heal the cut Peter himself had given Malchus. As the guards bound Jesus and took him to the Sanhedrin, Peter, quite literally, would cut and run.

You probably know what happened then: that the religious elite of Jerusalem brought Jesus to Pilate and Pilate sent him to Herod (Antipas), that he was brought to the Roman guards who flogged and mocked him and handed him over to the executioners who brought him a robe and a crown of thorns by which they intended to bring this Galilean to his knees before them. They had their way with him, and they brought him the final and greatest token of his mission, the wooden cross of his execution. And to Golgotha, Jesus took that cross, and the sins of the whole world (1Jn 2:22), and he did as Isaiah foretold: the punishment that was upon him, brought us peace.

But on that day and the two that followed, there wasn’t peace--there had been and was, catastrophe  And so the disciples gathered in the Upper Room which would become for them, a waiting room--a room to sit out the time until hope against all hope someone brings better news.

Early on Sunday morning, Mary brought the spices by which she would do the last thing left to do for the one who had brought her so much. When she arrived at the tomb where Joseph and Nicodemus had brought the body of her Lord Jesus, Mary found the stone rolled away and the tomb empty. Mary’s arms, full of what she brought to offer, were stripped of the remaining honor, devotion, and service she could give because the body of her Lord was not there. And so, all that she had left to give, she gave--the tears of grief and the great sobs of loss. Having witnessed the shame and degradation of a public execution, the loss of death and hope, even now must she bear the pitiless ignominy of a grave desecration? A question brought her back, “Woman, why are you crying, who is it you are looking for?” And with a word of personal address, “Mary!”, the worst possible circumstance gave way to the best imaginable news. The waiting was over.

As I sat for the second time in as many weeks in the Surgical Waiting Room, fearful and catastrophizing--recalling the circumstances that had brought my wife and my family to this, I was bolstered by the news of One who brought me. I brought my wife to the ER. In the rooms of our waiting, Jennifer and I were brought to tears in pain and weariness. I was brought to the end of my rope. But as I sit in that room, I am filled with a deep sense of gratitude for the one who came to bring us to God.

And how about you? Do you know the events which have brought you here this morning? How is it that you got here? What did you expect to find? This room is not unlike that Upper Room or the Forsyth Hospital Surgical Waiting Room. You can keep yourself occupied, you may divert yourself with the t.v. or your smartphones, but the fact of the matter is, you’re waiting for news and it is the most urgent news: either the one who has suffered is alive or that all hope is lost. On Good Friday, those many years ago, the news seemed to be of the most tragic: the just one was condemned, the healer was dead. But on that Easter morning, Mary brought news that the restorer of health and life and the world was alive.

 “For Christ died for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God. He was put to death in the body but made alive by the Spirit...”

The Good News which gives all my circumstance meaning, is not that I must bring this or that so that I might come to him, but that I, having been brought to the end of myself, have been brought by him, to God -- the righteous for the unrighteous, once for all.

"This intolerable calling...

This intolerable calling requires courage and humility. It requires a life full of God. It also requires that the preacher become as wise as possible. Even an expository preacher has to become a kind of sage, a person who is conversant on the range of biblical topics and who can speak on them to healthy spiritual effect. In this calling, the Bible itself is the preacher's first teacher. His experience of life helps a lot. So does the preacher's wide reading of fine writers—storytellers, biographers, poets, journalists. Reading them tends to make the preacher wiser, which is perhaps, beyond sheer delight, the principal reason for doing so.

Cornelius Plantinga on a preacher's reading diet.

(HT: Andy Jones)

A Christmas Story: Joy Comes to Greyton

Each Christmas Eve I take the opportunity to present the Christmas Eve message using a genre other than the usual expository sermon. This Christmas Eve, I shared a fictional story. Now using fiction to tell the gospel does not mean I have a low regard for the authority of the Scriptures. On the contrary, there are many fictional stories in the Scriptures that are true stories. They are called parables. And so, we wish you a Merry Christmas, with this Christmas parable.

I

Once upon a time in a very distant land near the town of Greyton there lived a brother and a sister named John and April Mayfield. Being orphans, John and April had to look out for themselves. And being alone in the world, they were considered Outcasts, and had to live as shepherds in the wide open spaces beyond the town.

This night, John Mayfield sat on the cold, hard ground beside the unconscious body of his now sleeping sister, April, and he wept. He cried because he was afraid, but most of all he cried because he was ashamed that he had done nothing to help.

Earlier that evening, John, April and the other shepherds were moving their flocks closer to the town. The severity of the winter-Winter had set in and food was scarce. For the past few nights, packs of desperately hungry wolves were drawing closer to the flocks. Their howls grew louder, and the shepherds knew that at some point the wolves’ hunger would overcome their fear, and they would attack. When the attack came, even the older shepherds were surprised by its ferocity and speed .

When the wolves rushed in among the flocks, April moved to protect the ewe lambs. Swinging wildly with her staff, two of the wolves turned on her. John also had rushed in, and he saw the wolves turn to attack his sister. John tripped on the uneven ground, and the spectacles he was wearing fell from his face. Lying on the ground and frozen in fear, he trembled as he lay helpless. In the commotion, another shepherd, named Gabe, rushed to April’s defense. As Gabe ran past John, he looked down at John. John knew Gabe saw him, and John believed Gabe saw his fear and shame of powerlessness. Gabe drove the attackers away from April and pursued them into the wood. The howls and cries of battle continued out of sight and became more distant and more faint. Even though Gabe was an experienced shepherd and a strong man, it had been several hours, and Gabe had not returned. So, it seemed that though Gabe had saved April’s life and the flock, John was afraid that he was unable to save his himself.

John had seen the evening’s events, unspectacled, and he saw them for what they were. Now that he had put the spectacles back on, he saw himself for what he was: a coward. Yes, he had fallen, and yes, he was still a young lad, but he knew. He knew that he did not get up though he could have; he knew that he didn’t even try. Instead, paralyzed by fear, he laid there and watched another shepherd – an Outsider, save his flock. But most importantly, he saw him save the life of the only other person in his life who cared about him. And now, he sat beside her alone in the empty and icy hardness of Winter thinking himself the most unfortunate boy who had ever lived.

II

Things had not always been unfortunate for John and April. Seven years ago, before the goblin, Glubglot was made Governor by the Old Steward, the Mayfields had lived with their mother and father along the banks of the Wandering River in the town Greyton. Though their means were modest, they lived a comfortable and happy life.  But then The Age came, and the endless Winter began and the River froze hard and sickness and hunger descended on the land, and the wolves came down from the distant mountain wilderness.

The Age took its toll on the Kingdom and on the Old Steward who himself gave way under the weight of its melancholy. Just as the Age made the land hard, it made the people hard. Even in the small town of Greyton where people had been friends for time out of mind, the people grew cold to one another. They envied and grew suspicious and spied on each other and were harsh. The Steward, bent over with the burden of governing, began to look for help from anyone who would offer, and it was in this way that the he began to give his ear to the goblin.

Globglot was an ugly goblin. (Now, if you’ve known goblins you know that being an ugly goblin is very ugly, and Globglot’s ugliness was inside and out). As goblins go, he was a clever goblin, and he used the hardness of The Age to his advantage. The scarcity caused by the Unending Winter made the Steward desperate to have more. Glubglot used the Steward’s fear to gain power, and he promised to increase the kingdom’s productivity and make more efficient, its use of resources. And so, in this way, the Steward turned from trusting the Promise-Maker’s promises to getting what he wanted by other means. The Age produced a good measure of misery which Glubglot enjoyed immensely. But the genius of his wickedness he demonstrated in the Lead Glasses he made for the people.

Glubglot called the glasses, Suspectacles which, when worn, would give the wearer the ability to see through things. Anyone wearing suspectacles would be able, so they thought, to see things the way they really were. Through their lenses, no one saw the wonder of creation, any sincerity in motives, and no beauty in sacrifice. They only saw: efficiency or not, utility or not, profit or not. And so, as you or I would surely realize, being able to see through everything only means that your are unable to see anything, and in the end, though the Steward and the people thought they were growing in knowledge and insight, they were really being blinded, and the longer the people wore the heavy lead framed suspectacles, the more their heads dropped, and the more miserable they became.

There were others among the Kingdom who would not wear the glasses; they were the Outcasts. Because they would not submit to wearing the suspectacles, they were sent to work as shepherds out beyond the security of the town. The Outcasts believed the Promise-Maker’s Promises and the Stories of the promises, and they lived in the hope that the King would come and that he would end the Age of the Unending Winter and that sitting on his throne the Forever-Joy would begin.

Gabe was an Outcast, and he was called Good Gabe by all who new him. At first, John and April did not trust him. Seeing him through their suspectacles, they thought that this big, strong, loud man with red cheeks and a hearty laugh was really out to take advantage of them. But over the months, he had shown himself a light-hearted and merry kind of fellow. “He may be a fool,” April would say, “but an honest and jolly fool is better company than a clever goblin.” And so, John and April kept company with Gabe around the campfire in the evening, and sometimes they forgot themselves and laughed with him, but this night, there was no laughter around the fire, John was alone full of shame and regret.

III.

Maybe it was because his spectacles had been knocked from his eyes during the attack by the wolves, but John saw in Gabe’s courage and desperation as he fought for April a beauty that he could not explain. No doubt, if he had seen things through the lead glasses, he would’ve seen a fool-hearty and reckless act. Gabe’s sheep were not at risk. Both John and April offered no real advantage to him or the other shepherds. Their ignorance of shepherding and their youth made them more a liability than an advantage to the company of shepherds, and yet the bravery with which Gabe had saved April and John and their flock began to work in John’s heart. In that moment, a possible hope and even a little fear, began to stir in John, that maybe there was something heavier—something more real through which one could not see but was that which all looking hoped to see.

Sitting beside the resting body of his sister, John remembered the many campfire talks they had with Gabe. John recalled how Gabe’s unspectacled eyes twinkled kindness and warmth—even if he was, by all accounts, just a jovial fool. Gabe told them about how life had been before Glubglot had deceived the Steward, and that there was still a hope in which to hope. Long ago, the Promise had been made that a new King would come and that he would bear away all the heaviness of life and speak wise words and turn things from the way they are to the way they ought to be and that his ageless reign would not grow old but would be new every day. During the King’s reign the Winter would give way to summer and anger to reconciliation and wrongs to forgiveness and sadness to joy. He thought of the song he often heard Gabe sing,

The door that was closed shall be opened.

The lingering cold shall give way.

The power of winter shall be broken,

And night shall give rise to New Day.

But of course, John suspected that that was only wishful thinking. April had been inclined to believe, but John could not…would not, and even more so now, as the weight of his sadness and weariness pressed down on him. There beside her, he groped for some explanation of the weakness of his heart and the beauty of Gabe’s selflessness.

IV.

April awoke in the next hour, and though she was still shaken, she sensed the silence of his mood and having lost her glasses in the struggle, she saw more clearly the resignation and defeat in her brother.

That evening as they sat up to watch the sheep, the heaviness of John’s sadness and regret hung over him. The events of the night and of the preceding seven years as well seemed to wash over him in a deafening, silent darkness. April reached out and took his hand and said, “I wonder…”

And from behind, a voice laughed and said, “I wonder, indeed.” Startled, John and April turned to see Gabe – Good ol’ Gabe -- standing behind them. Jumping up, they each rushed to embrace him, but John drew up short and lowered his head. Gabe caught his eye and said, “Come now, John. Do not hang back but welcome and be welcomed,” and he reached and took John in his arms and said,

“The door that was closed has been opened.

The cold that has lingered gives way

The power of winter is broken

And night gives rise to New Day.”

And suddenly, Good Gabe glowed with all his goodness as if a fire had ignited from within him. Unmasked, he showed his true quality as one of the Bright Messengers of the Promise-Maker. He glowed with a brightness that pushed down harder than any burden, and in his revealed presence, John and April trembled before the glowing reality. In the presence of this light, the lead suspectacles which John wore evaporated in a wisp like a fog before a spring morning. And now John really saw. He saw his refusal to enter into joy, his cynicism and sadness, his cowardice and fear, and even his shame for what they were: a denial. All his life, John had lived in fear of being taken in by an unreal happiness. But now, being really un-happy, would he step into the uncertainty of a future grace?

In the presence of that glory John’s doubt shook, and his pettiness cracked. Gabe, glowing ever brighter, said, “Do not be afraid because I have great and joyful news. Today, the long-awaited King has come to Greyton. And so that you will believe that what I say is true, hear this:

The Great King has come as a baby.

Draw near as you would any child.

He is swaddled in the arms of lady

The Majestic come meek and mild.

He sits not in castle or throne room

But lies in a manger with straw

Infinity wrapped as an infant

The Joy who is offered to all.

Go now to His side and there greet him.

The Joy that the Promise has made

Eternity has entered our Grey Town

The Promise has come as a babe.”

And at that moment the clouded-night winter skies were ripped open and thousands upon thousands of Bright Ones appeared in the now starry sky; the weight of their glory was joy, and it fell in huge blocks of light. They sang the song of the Good News, and of  highest praise to the Promise-Maker who had kept his promise to all those who’s hope is in Him.

And to all this John and April listened and received and welcomed. And as they received, they were changed. For no matter what had happened to them, and what sadness and brokenness they had born, this news meant that they were not alone and that it was not all for nothing. It meant that the great, lumbering distance to the end was not their walk to make, but rather, the Blessed One who awaits at the end has made his way to them.

John, April, and the other shepherds rushed to the town and found the baby King just as Gabe had told them, and in that moment, their belief hardened; it did not callous, but rather, as in a sad song, it resolved into a major key and they too shown with the light of his glory. John and April told the parents of the baby King all that had happened and of the beauty and glory and music and light, and the baby’s mother seemed to specially take it all to heart.

Now, though everything changed that night, it would be many years before the beginning was finished and the end begun. And even though The King had come, Glubglot still deceived the people, and many still wore their lead suspectacles and thought it very foolish of those who did not.

And since the beginning of the end, more goblins have continued to come and bring with them other devices which they promise will help people to really see. Yet for those who lay down their real unhappiness before the King and step into the light of the news of his coming, unending winter passes, and he bears them into the cosmic summer of his unshakeable joy.

"he won't be angry with you"

“Not too long ago I conducted a funeral for the spouse of a very dear friend of mine. The spouse died of AIDS. My friend moved in a very fast crowd, and the funeral service in the home was quite informal. There was a keyboard artist playing jazz and plenty of booze and balloons. The people who came to the service were not the kind of people who are generally found sitting on the front row at the the First Church by the Gas Station. In fact most of the folks who were at the service had long since given up on religion. I could understand that. I’ve almost given up myself on several occasions. I went to the keyboard artist and said to him, “Son, when you finish this piece bring it to an end because I’m going to say something religious.” When he stopped playing and there was silence, I decided to follow Jesus’ example. He would probably (judging the report of the gospel writers who chronicled his life) be more comfortable with people like this than with the normal folks who attend normal funeral services. So, after saying a quick silent prayer, I said to the folks there: 

“I don’t do many funerals with balloons and booze. But it’s okay because that’s the way [my friend] would have wanted it. The balloons are appropriate because this is not a funeral service, it’s a graduation service. Our friend isn’t here. She’s in another place where there isn’t any more pain. She’s in heaven, and I’m going to tell you why.” 

I told them about the people Jesus loved. I told them that their friend wasn’t in heaven because she was a ‘good’ person (they knew better than that) but because she knew she wasn’t and had turned to One who loved her enough to die on a cross in her place. 

“I’m here. I went on, “for only one reason. You needed someone to tell you the truth. I’m just one bad person telling other bad people the most important thing you will ever hear: God is God, and you should remember that. But if you go to him, he won’t be angry with you. In fact, he’ll love you. Our friend found that out, and we wanted to make sure you knew.”

As I looked around the room, there was hardly a dry eye. I didn’t have to tell them they were guilty. At least they had that right. They needed someone to tell them about a God who would love them and forgive them if they would only go to him.

Steve Brown, Approaching God

Are We in a Grave Story?

A series of events conspired which led me to reflect on how we view the meaning of our circumstances. Firstly, my eldest had to do a report on Shakespeare's Much Ado about Nothing. In turn we watched the Kenneth Branagh screen adaptation. As she and I discussed the play and movie, I began to wax on Alan Jacob's discussion of the play in the Epilogue of his book, Original Sin, and in particular, W.H. Auden's category of Christian comedy. (To my daughter's credit, she recognized Much Ado as a "garden story" -- that is a story in which the innocents in the garden fall and become alienated. What is remarkable about Shakespeare's garden story is the manner in which the restoration and reconciliation is effected.)

At the same time I was preparing to preach on the account of Jacob's reconciliation with Esau from Genesis 33. What struck me in the passage was not so much the didactic messages in the passage, but rather the beauty of the story. What sorts of qualities are present for such a warm and sweet reconciliation? One of those qualities which is necessary is a "lightness" with respect to one's own rights and privileges. And so Dr. Jacobs helped me again in that same discussion in commenting about the trap of taking ourselves too seriously. Indeed, it was for the "joy set before him" that Jesus endured the cross and scorned its shame. In talking about the danger of taking ourselves too seriously, Jacob's writes,

“Well, these are sobering thoughts, indeed, and we should take them seriously—as seriously as we can take any thoughts. The immensely difficult trick is to do so without taking ourselves seriously, because one could argue that at or near the very heart of our bent wills is a determination to uphold our own dignity. Milton tells us that Satan decided to rebel against the Almighty because of his sense of ‘injured merit’: he was the one who deserved to be named Messiah, not God’s Son who surely was chosen not because of his ‘merit’ but on account of some divine nepotism. Looked at in the proper way, this idea of Satan’s is simply laughable, which is what G.K. Chesterton was indicating in one of his wisest aphorisms: ‘Satan fell by force of gravity.’”

Alan Jacobs, Original Sin 

The patriarch, Jacob, it seemed to me, could have only received the promise and appropriately humbled himself before Esau, if he did not take himself too seriously. Therein's a beauty.

Serendipitously, just a few days later, Dr. Jacob's posted the Auden quote on his online common place book, more than 95 theses. Reflection upon Auden's categories and Jacob's commentary has proved to be fruitful soil to contemplate the meaning of the stories which make up my life and of course those things about which I am so serious.

"Comedy … is not only possible within a Christian society, but capable of a much greater breadth and depth than classical comedy. Greater in breadth because classical comedy is based upon a division of mankind into two classes, those who have arete and those who do not, and only the second class, fools, shameless rascals, slaves, are fit subjects for comedy. But Christian comedy is based upon the belief that all men are sinners; no one, therefore, whatever his rank or talents, can claim immunity from the comic exposure and, indeed, the more virtuous, in the Greek sense, a man is, the more he realizes that he deserves to be exposed. Greater in depth because, while classical comedy believes that rascals should get the drubbing they deserve, Christian comedy believes that we are forbidden to judge others and that it is our duty to forgive each other. In classical comedy the characters are exposed and punished: when the curtain falls, the audience is laughing and those on stage are in tears. In Christian comedy the characters are exposed and forgiven: when the curtain falls, the audience and the characters are laughing together."

W. H. Auden

And, after Christmas, I will celebrate Twelfth Night by watching a play entitled the same. In Twelfth Night one finds one of the gravest of Shakespeare's characters, Malvolio who is the virtuous rascal classified by Auden.

(HT: Alan Jacobs)

Genesis 29:13-35 Sermon Presentaton

Here's the slideshow from Sunday's sermon, "Then the Lord Saw".

Genesis 27:14-34 His Father's Eyes

All in All: The Message of 1 Corinthians

Rather than spend a lot of time introducing 1 Corinthians, I thought I'd comment on a few things about the setting of the letter as well as to help give you a good pair of lenses by which to view the letter.

Concerning the Corinthian church...

The apostle Paul planted the church in Corinth on his second missionary journey which you may read about in Acts 18:1-17. One of the things we learn from Acts is that Paul had a hard go of it. In fact it was difficult enough, that he may have considered abandoning the effort. However, we read in Acts 18, that Jesus appeared to Paul to comfort him, saying, “Do not be afraid; keep on speaking, do not be silent. For I am with you, and no one is going to attack or harm you, because I have many people in this city.” Though this may not have been all Jesus told Paul, it was significant and encouraging enough that Paul remained, and in the midst of more opposition, continued to preach. Eventually, Paul was publicly charged with sedition by the Jews before Gallio, the proconsul of Achaia. Though Gallio dismissed the charges, Sosthenes who was both a convert to Christianity and the synagogue ruler was beaten before the town.

Concerning the occasion and content of 1 Corinthians...

Paul, at the writing of 1 Corinthians, is living in Ephesus. He had written an earlier letter which they misread, and have both written back to Paul and sent members of the church with the letter of questions regarding the current circumstances. In addition, Paul has received verbal reports of trouble and unrest in the Corinthian church. Both to answer their questions and to deal with his own concerns for them, Paul has written the church. 

In 1 Corinthians, there are a number of questions and issues which Paul raises and speaks to that may sound very obscure, outdated, irrelevant, or just ridiculous such as his discussion on gender roles and head coverings. As you read, resist the urge to discount what he is saying. Reflect on the context of the circumstances into which he is writing, understand, and then seek to apply it to today. Just because he is speaking to a specific circumstance does not mean it is irrelevant. Indeed there is much in 1 Corinthians which could've been written today.

Among those questions which Paul addresses are the following:

1. The ongoing denial and refusal to confront or repent of sexual sins,
2. Division and bi-partisanship (Peter, Paul, Apollos, Christ...),
3. How a Christian is to handle conflict, 
4. Spiritual-gift snobbery; super-apostleship, elitism, giftedness,
5. Idolatry and compromise with the culture,
6. Significant confusion about their view of the people especially as how their view relates to the dignity of the human body.

Lastly, Concerning what you need to need to know about Corinth and the church in Corinth...

There are peculiarities to the specific situation which, if we understand them, we will better be able to apply the letter to our lives. Here are a few thoughts:

1. Corinth is a CROSSROADS. The city is situated at the isthmus which joins the southern half of Achaia with the European mainland. At this point the isthmus is 3 miles wide, and narrow enough that dragging your cargo ship along a causeway from the Aegean to a gateway to the Adriatic was thought to be a brilliant idea which of course they did.
2. Corinth is NEW. It had recently been destroyed in the Roman conquest of the Mediterranean and rebuilt as a Roman colony.
3. Because of there was not a long-standing social order. Corinth was a city of serious OPPORTUNITY. Corinth had been repopulated by Roman citizens and freedmen and so, it did not have time to develop an established noble class. Because the social order was determined more by merit than by class, Corinth was a place of great potential for an unconnected Roman citizen or a freed-man.
4. This new city of great opportunity attracted many who were DRIVEN TO SUCCEED. Achievement and notoriety become extremely important for multitudes of achievers who need to set themselves apart from other gifted achievers. This is a kill or be killed, entrepreneurial city.
5. Because of the urgency of opportunity and success, Corinthian culture was all about the IMMEDIATE. 'Right now' is the most important time and consequently the immediate is more REAL than any long-term commitment or discipline this leads to financial, relational, and moral blindness and compromise as its citizens are driven to 'get it while you can'. 
6. All this money and opportunity grew an AFFLUENT AND EXCLUSIVE society. Corinth was highly focused on the outward appearance and both the display of your material wealth as well as your social connection demanded that you work your relationships to your advantage by getting into some circles while keeping others out of yours.
7. Lastly, Corinth was a PROMISCUOUS. society. As  a center of opportunity and affluence the society was decadent. In fact, to Corinthianize became a bi-word for the decadence of the wealth and moral permissiveness which worked in its citizens.
8. All of these traits were being brought into the church.

I hope this helps. You can read 1 Corinthians in 45 minutes. Take some time and do that while keeping these thoughts with you. See you Sunday!

Linny and the Baby King: A Christmas Story

Once upon a time in the Kingdom of Revel there lived a young, orphan girl named Linny. Linny worked in the castle where the King had once lived and where the Enchanter lived now. It had been many years since the King had gone away over the sea, and it had been a long time since he had sent the portraits which were to be hung in the castle but have since been discarded or destroyed or at least left unattended in forgotten halls and rooms in the great castle. At least no one thought they needed the portraits as long as they had the Mirror.

Linny’s mother had been a Knaker. The Knakers were a fun-loving people who lived in the center of the great city. The part of town from which Linny’s mother came was, of course, loud and boisterous and fun. The Knakers there always traveled in groups, and if you were to live among them, you would have the feeling that everyday begins with a parade and ends with a party. The Knakers were always talking loudly and singly loudly and were excited about everything social.

Linny’s father had been a Kwakers. (Now, this being a story about a long time ago in a land far way these Kwakers have nothing to do with those friends you may have whom are called the same--though I am informed that some of them enjoyed their oats). The part of town in which Linny’s father grew up was a full of libraries, and parks with benches overlooking ponds and stroll ways for walking. Just as there were parades and parties among the Knakers, there was quiet and solitude with Kwakers.

The mirror, the Great Mirror as it had been called, was made by the King for the people of Revel. It was a wonder. Overlaid with gold, ornate and inset with jewels, the King made the mirror so that the people could always see him even though he was away. The day the King left, he brought out the mirror and set it on the dais near the large window behind his throne which overlooked the sea, and he told them that if ever they were discouraged or afraid or needed wisdom all they need do was to turn the mirror so that it faced across the sea. And if they looked intently and patiently, they would see him in the mirror in all his kingly justice, wisdom, and splendor, and they would be reminded of his love for them, his mercy and compassion, and his promise to return. Afterward, the King boarded his ship and traveled across the sea.

Long after, but not long enough, the Knakers and Kwakers were deceived by the enchantment of THE Enchanter—though none thought of themselves as having been enchanted. The Enchanter showed the people of Revel that they could look into the mirror and see themselves. It was fascinating, for up to that time, no one in Revell had nor had want of a mirror. The Enchanter taught them that if they looked into the Great Mirror they could see themselves, and the could see how others saw them. Looking into the mirror was such a help because by it they could see whether they were a good Knaker or Kwaker. Sadly, the Enchanter helped them forget for what the mirror was made and used the mirror for what it wasn’t made. After much use, the Knakers and Kwakers grew to depend upon the mirror and soon forgot about the King and his promise. “If only,” they thought, “one could take the mirror with them…then he would not need to make the daily journey to the castle and instead could spend the time in more profitable business such as reading and thinking or talking and having parties.

Having jumped into the Enchanter’s trap, they made their wish to have their own mirrors to the Enchanter, and so the Enchanter made small mirrors for the Knakers and the Kwakers to wear about their necks which he called, Vanities. The Knakers carried vanities so that they could see themselves whenever they wanted and the Kwakers carried vanities for the same reason. The Knakers liked to see themselves at the center of gatherings and parties--being recognized and enjoyed and showing that they knew this person or that person and that they knew what everyone had been doing. The Kwakers liked to see themselves too, but they liked to see themselves thinking or reading with profound and knowing expressions and answering complex questions with correct, thoughtful and profound answers. All of this mirror watching did not make either Knaker or Kwaker merry, though many of them thought themselves happy.

Increasingly the Knakers grew noisier, their busy-ness turned them into busy-bodies, and their love for conversation turned to talking about one another. As they spent more time looking into their Vanities, they grew suspicious of how other’s Vanities reflected their image, and so they were always looking over each other’s shoulders to look into everyone else’s mirrors to see what they looked like.

Now, the worst of the Knakers were called Rotters, not because they were ‘rotten’ which is true, but because they were rioters -- they started fights wherever they went and they broke furniture whenever they visited; they were terrors every last one of them. Most of the Knakers knew that being a Rotter did not make one look good, and so they forced the Rotters outside of the city where they could be as rotten as they liked and the Knakers could keep their stuff from being burnt or broken.

As the Knakers stole glances into other’s vanities, their suspicions were confirmed by what they saw. And just so, their friendships broke, their parties became stuffy, their conversation, cliché. They found that the only way to combat all of their bad feelings was to make more noise. And so they talked louder, had more parties, spoke more words, sang thoughtless jingles, and of course looked into their Vanities.

The Kwakers, too, loved their vanities. They watched themselves thinking and reading and speaking big words, and the more they did, the more brooding they became. They thought of what their friends thought of them, and when they found out that their friends did not think much about them, they became more fearful that they were unappreciated and more sad that no one visited them.

Some Kwakers lived in foreign lands and were called Watchers. Not having been given Vanities they were able to spend more time thinking about the King rather than themselves, and they grew rich in the lore about the King and about the Great Mirror. Sometimes they would come visit, but they found their Kwaker brothers and sisters did not seem to enjoy their company, and so they returned to their homes far away.

In time, as the Kwakers used their Vanities more and more, they grew resentful at the thoughtlessness of their friends, and they harbored bitterness in their hearts. These people who were so careful about what they thought and did and said became care worn with worry and fretting. The enjoyment of quiet conversations and thoughtful strolls and thinking retreats gave way to the noise of thoughts about what others thought of them and what they thought of themselves thinking about what other’s said and whether anything they did, let alone their thinking about it, mattered.

One thing that bound all Knakers together and all Kwakers together was how foolish and shallow and dull and boring the other was. Sometimes however, Knakers and Kwakers would become friends. A Knaker would find a Kwaker to be a good listener and so one would talk while the other listened, and, sometimes they fell in love an married just as Linny’s parents did. Linny’s mother and father, both enjoyed and was infuriated by the other. One was a party pooper and the other bossy. One was superficial and the other did not know how to have fun. They each argued and made up so many times, that, as is often the case in such friendships, they married so that they could continue for the rest of their lives. But sadly, they were not able to for as long as they had imagined, and they left Linny alone as an orphan in the city of Revel.

Alone in the world and in need of food, Linny worked as a scullery maid in the castle which means, as I’m sure you know, that she had the hardest and dirtiest job. Her duties were the most thankless yet most often complained against.

The Enchanter had now lived in the castle for many years, and it had been long since the sun shone in a bright blue spring morning. Day after day, the grey clouds hung like lead over the kingdom. And what with all the noise of the Knaker’s chatter and the Kwaker’s brooding, Revel was a busy but joyless place, and for Linny it was more so.

Everyday, all she saw was the grey of the stone floor which she washed with dingy water. Everyday she gathered the used up fireplace ashes. And everyday she faced the darkness of her future, for she knew that the constant burden of always being on her knees in the dirt and soot with no hope would squeeze the joy and love from her heart. She had seen it in the older staff and she new it was in her as well. She was impatient with the children who tracked across her clean floors and she was resentful at the children who had time and toys to do what they pleased. She had even taken out her frustration on the kitchen cat whose tail she pulled. She was hurt by the name calling and fun that others had at her expense when the called her “Skinny Linny” with that mocking, sing-song voice, and made fun of her by singing,

Skinny Linny do your chores.
Skinny Linny wash the floors.
Skinny Linny, such a biddy.
Skinny Linny what a bore.

One day while she was in the throne room, washing the floor in front of a large piece of furniture, she noticed a red stone on the floor under the cover. The red stone against the grey of the slate floor caught her eyes. I would even say it hurt because she had not seen something so colorful in what seemed many months. Thinking that the stone came from the covered furniture, she thought to place it back -- she was after all, an honest young girl.

Pulling back the cover, she discovered the Great Mirror. Linny took the cover off completely, and as she looked into the mirror she saw her reflection. She remembered her father’s thoughtfulness and her mother’s mirth. She remembered the green grass and the blue sky; the stars at night and the lightening bugs that swarmed on warm summer evenings. She remembered winter nights that weren’t grey and cold but were warm and cozy with fire and friends and stories. She remembered the city before the King had gone away -- how bright and full of ease and just it was then. And she saw herself -- the scullery maid, Skinny Linny, alone and forgotten. And as would’ve been true for you or I, if we had been left alone in a sad place, she began to cry.

Almost inaudibly while she cried, she began to speak in between the breaths and quiet sobs, “Why, oh why? Where have you gone? And why won’t you come back? Make things right. Make me right.”

And as she stood before that mirror she heard the King speak. Whether she heard with her ears or just with her heart she could not tell. This is what heard,

When night is the darkest
And the winter cold
The King shall come meekly
The universe, to hold.
He shall be:
Homeless or those without home,
A gift for the giftless
Weak for those without strength,
And a kind word for the speechless
When I return from across the sea
Many will deny nor welcome nor receive
But you go this night by the sea and wait
For the return I promise, I now will make.

And so Linny who after not a little thinking and worrying and complaining, replaced the cover and did just as she was told. And speaking with a friend about what had been said, she went to the beach beyond the castle, where they found the little boat in which was wrapped a baby boy. Doing what she could and with the help of her friend, she saw that the baby was fed and warmed. The baby cried when he was hungry and he fussed when his diaper needed changing. For this was not the King looking like a baby, this was the baby King, and he needed all the help and care that every baby needs.

Not long after she found the baby, a great group of Rotters came to see Linny and the baby King. They said that Sky People had appeared to them with a great sound and light -- a light brighter than any burning and a song greater than any jeering -- it was heavy sound and light, and the terrors themselves were terrified. The Sky People told them that the son of the King, the King of Joy and Light and Love and Glory had come to Revel and that if they came they would share THE JOY of the King and find his son which of course, they had and did.

Linny kept the boy with her friend and they cared for him. Several days latter, some Watchers came from far away to see the baby King and to honor him with gifts, for they had seen signs in the sky that foretold his coming. Each of the gifts they brought honored what they understood to be how he would deliver the Kingdom of Revel from the enchantment of the Enchanter: Gold pure and bright enough for a King’s crown, Incense to veil his glory and majesty that he might walk among them as a sweet smelling fragrance, and Spice to honor the payment he would offer in the sacrifice of his life to deliver them.

Of all these things, Linny pondered in her heart like a good Kwaker and thought of them often. And as a good Knaker, her heart rejoice and sang to the King and boasted to anyone who would listen about the kindness of the King who heard her cry for rescue and deliverance.

I could go on and tell you about how the young King grew, what he learned and how he fulfilled his Father’s wish to deliver the people from the Enchanter’s enchantment and the condemnation of their own treason, but that is another story for another time.

From the day the that the Rotters and the Watchers visited Linny and the baby King, much in the Kingdom of Revel remained as it had always been. The greatest gift ever given and surest hope ever offered went unrecognized and unappreciated. Indeed, many gifts have been given with the whole heart and have gone unreceived nor recognized. The Knakers and the Kwakers continued to use their Vanities. And in the noise of their chatter and their brooding, they never heard the singing of all that is--the light but heavy song which breaks through when Kwakers rejoice and Knakers listen.

For some though such as Linny, nothing was ever the same.

We gather tonight to ponder and honor, to make merry and rejoice, for the KING who makes carefree the careworn and who makes the careless, kind has come. The evil spell of the Enchanter has been broken by the God-spell. The King’s Son has come and broken the power of Vanity and sin. The Kings’ Son has come, and He gives rest for the weary and makes them merry and gentle.

An Anniversary

The  following was a message delivered last year at Grace Presbyterian Church's Christmas Eve Service. In acknowledgment of the anniversary of my youngest's diagnosis with Type 1 Diabetes, I'm re-posting it today.

Philippians 2:3-11 Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

I oftentimes fall into the pattern of reducing my life to counting integers--the equally subdivided ticks on a line which quantify the things which I believe important. All this data--this numbering--is meant somehow to bring a predictability and control to my life. I count: sermons, days, dollars, compliments, mistakes, peaceful minutes, miles.... On December 5th, I started a new line.

It took three days for what I believed to be true to be confirmed. It was 45 minutes from when my wife picked our daughter up at school till she called from the doctor's office with the results of two tests which confirmed the diagnosis that our youngest, one of three lovely children, had what 39 other children in the U.S. would be diagnosed with on that very day: Juvenile Diabetes.

It is 11 miles or 20 minutes from our house to the Baptist Hospital's Emergency Room, and it is 9 floors up Ardmore Tower to room 810 at Brenner Children's Hospital where we will stay for the next three days. On the evening of the second day I am nervous, as I prepare to administer my daughter's fourth injection -- her first full day of injections for the rest of her days, and she is nervous. She is nervous because in her mind it still counts as a shot. I am nervous because I count it the same, and this is my first time. Her blood glucose level is down to 211 from the 305 it was at dinner. I inject her with an insulin called Lantus (one of two types she receives) with one of the new pen-type syringes, one of three ways to administer insulin.

My daughter's life and my life are now divided into three's and subsets of threes. Three meals a day before which she receives doses of insulin based on her blood glucose count. Three meals a day with one snack in between. We count 180 grams of carbohydrates per day, 45 grams per meal, 15 grams per snack. We keep meticulous records of her blood sugar and times it is taken. This vigilance gives power to the illusion that the accurate and diligent collection of data provides control, and control means safety, and safety means that when I wake up at 2:37 in the morning and am unable to resist going into my daughter's room to check on her, probably for the second time that night, I will find her okay, and that she will remain okay until I wake her, before the eighth hour to measure her blood sugar and give her her first shot.

Growing up, I had imagined that my membership among the number of humanity would mean that I would one day, count. I had hoped that that this addition would add up to success, achievement, and a decent though not ostentatious life -- one that would be both moderately enviable and worth emulating.

Over the course of my life, my counting has taken different forms. As a child, I counted presents at Christmas time and meatballs in my Spaghetti-O's at dinner time. As a teenager, I counted the "hutts" as center for the high school football team as I passed the ball through my legs to the hands of a team mate whom I should've counted a much closer friend for the intimacy we shared five days a week for four months each fall. As a college student, I counted years, semesters and class hours till graduation. After graduation, I counted the dollars for an engagement ring which I would give to one whom I counted above all the rest, and whom I was counting on saying, "Yes". In my first real job as a teacher, I counted down the classes to the end of the day, the days of the week to Friday, and the hours of the weekend till Monday. As a seminary student I was one of a graduating class of 90 or so, who were counting on positions in the church in which they would go to make a difference and whose lives would "count for Christ". While working in the second of three churches, I would learn to number mortgage payments, diapers, bottles of formula, and doses of Tylenol. I had always hoped that I would count, but I never imagined those things which I would end up counting. And now, I count blood sugar levels and doses of insulin.

In our house we've been counting the days until Christmas. And as I said, that all changed on the fifth of those days. Since then, I've been thinking of how that first Christmas was replete with counting. When Gabriel first appeared to Mary to tell her that she was chosen to bear and raise the King of whom the number of the days of his reign would have no end, she neither balked at her own unworthiness nor chaffed at the inconvenience but in humility both rejoiced and received what was put upon her. You recall that when Mary became pregnant she was only betrothed to Joseph. And when Joseph discovered she was pregnant, he intended to divorce her privately because he was a kind man. Nevertheless, he could after all count, and a pregnant fiance did not add up. But even while he was still counting what he should do, the Angel of the Lord appeared to him to assure him. Mary was carrying the one who would deliver his people from their sins. And so, Joseph obeyed the command of God to marry a woman bearing a child not his own. The irregularity was plain for all to see, and no doubt it was probably assumed that this couple, for whom some may have had high hopes, was not only un-special but of no account.

And so it came about in the long line of human events, that Caesar Augustus wanted to count the world so that he might have more money to count. Because Joseph was numbered among the descendants of King David, Joseph and his new wife walked the 80 miles from Nazareth to the ancestral home of David's descendants, Bethlehem. As you might imagine if you were to return to your home town, you would likely count on some help and a place to stay, but Mary and Joseph were relegated to the inn. And not only the inn, but the inn's stable because there was no room. In this stable, after her numbered days were completed, Mary delivered Jesus, the Son of David, the Son of Man, the Son of God that he might deliver us.

Now in the fields beyond the region of Bethlehem, there were shepherds, who being good shepherds, counted their sheep. All of a sudden, the Angel of the Lord appeared among them glowing with light so heavy that it almost crushed them. His first words were, "Don't be afraid." And he told them of the birth of Christ the Lord. And that they should you go to see him, and as a sign that this was both special and true, the Angel told them that they would find, this king in swaddling cloths lying in a manger. And then, countless angles appeared in the dark sky lit by numberless lights and sang. They sang of wonder, of triumph, of the turning of a tide, of good news that the interminable slide into the same ol' same ol' relentless skid further into the ways things shouldn't be, had been arrested by the stark cry of newborn in the City of David. These shepherds marveled that they were the first to hear this news -- those whom the world did not count. They traveled to Bethlehem and saw it just as they were told, and they shared with Mary and Joseph all that they had seen and heard. And they went away rejoicing and praising God for all that they had seen and heard.

About the same time in another land, Wise men -- Magi, were counting stars in the sky and they counted a new star -- a star which foretold the coming of the king of the Jews. These same also, came to see this new born king, and bearing gifts to honor the king, they rejoiced at being among the first number to visit and honor him. Of all these things, St. Luke tells us that Mary counted as a dear treasure and pondered them in her heart even as she treasured the child in her arms.

As I take into account this Christmas, my 44th, and the numbered events of Jesus' birth and the numbered circumstances which I and my family are walking through, I am most stayed and strengthened by the good news that there was One who did not count.

In his letter to the Philippians, St. Paul tells us that Jesus Christ did not count. Now, when he entered the wilderness at the beginning of his ministry, he both counted the cost and counted the days of his temptation. As a good shepherd, Jesus counted and still counts the sheep. I'm sure he counted the days he had left with his disciples even as he counted down the Passovers. After being handed over by the religious elite to the efficient and heartless Imperial justice, I do not doubt that he lost count of the lashes and the insults and the blows. And how could he have counted the weight of such a payment for such a debt and born the condemnation from his Heavenly Father -- one whom he never counted as an enemy? Yet, St. Paul tells us that Jesus did not count this one thing: "equality with God something to be grasped". The honor and glory offered was not one to be taken, demanded, or expected. Rather, it was to be received and conferred but only after his being born -- and that to serve and suffer. And so in this act of love and obedience, we see that Jesus did not count himself above the rest, but he numbered himself among the least: a homeless family with tainted reputation, wandering to the ancestral home of a dried up royal dynasty.

St. Paul tells us, he "made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men". This means more to me this Christmas because by that I realize that he subjected himself to the same body which has a pancreas and the same endocrinology in which requires that that same pancreas produce insulin so that cells can use glucose. By being born that first Christmas, the King of Glory bore the first of many ignominious sufferings. And though it may mean many things, it does mean at least, this: that he played by his own rules, and though he was greater, he did not count himself above the rest -- he did not count himself above me or you or my Maddie. He counted the cost of the humiliation and the suffering and the waiting well worth the price because of the joy set before him. St. Paul tells us that for those of whom such a great accounting has been made, for those who treasure these things in their heart, they will be set free from counting: offenses born, rights owed, wrongs endured, successes achieved, victories won and failures lost. But rather, having been counted by the one who did not count, they will be set free from counting themselves so that they might count on Him and count others more important.

I will go home tonight, and count, and you too, will likely count hours till bedtime or hours till morning. But if we are to keep Christmas, this Christmas, and if we are to keep from falling into the mire and false security of those things which you and I like to count on, we must treasure the one who "did not count equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, talking the form of a servant, and being born."

Foolish Consistencies: Ecclesiastes 8:2-9

Here are some of my thoughts from this week's sermon, The Wise Heart.

Considering the fools folly, here is what is true about the fool:

1. The fool never vows. He does not bind himself to others in promises, but rather says, “I shall do what I want to do on my own terms.”
2. The fools presumes upon other’s patience. He behaves as if it is everyone else’s privilege to patiently put up with their foolishness.
3. The fool is self-centered. He says, “I will obey on the condition that after I define the terms of our relationship and require that you put up with my foolishness, you must like me for it.”
4. The fool sets his own standards. He says, “I evaluate my performance of obedience with the standards I determine at any given moment.” One of the reasons we studied the seven deadly sins last year was so that we’d know what we ought to feel bad about rather than left to ourselves and the world's evaluation of our performance.
5. The fool knows. He says, “If I am to obey, you must make yourself available to hear whatever I have to say, listen to whatever advice I have to give, and do what I am telling you because I can see the future.” I know that sounds silly, but I intended it. Even so, have you ever heard a fool talk?
6. The fool is untouchable. He believes that he may use wicked means to accomplish good ends. He forgets that the One Ring uses its possessors, or if we were to use C.S. Lewis' That Hideous Strength, he forgets that, “evil always breaks its own tools.”
7. The fool is his own king. He secretely believes, “I am the REAL king.” Classic examples of these kinds of fools: Denethor, the Steward of Gondor in Lord of the Rings and even Boromir; contrary to these two Faramir the son and brother is wise. Eustace Scrub in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is contrasted with Lucy whose eventual obedience to Aslan in Prince Caspian is exemplary.

More Bitter than Death: Ecclesiastes 7:15-8:1

As the Teacher has considered his pursuit of wisdom in chapter 7, he has shared that the day of our death has more to teach us about life than the day of our birth. Additionally, he has shown us our fretting and worrying about tomorrow is only relieved by our being able to "see the sun" -- which is to see that this life is not all there is.

This week the Teacher concludes by reminding us that wisdom is not found in the face of another man like himself. Here's summary of the first seven verses.

verse 18 It is good to grasp the one and not let go of the other. The man who fears God will avoid all extremes.

Our problem is not that we need either more rules, "do not be overrighteous" nor is it found in less restriction "do not be overwicked". Our deliverance into wisdom comes neither with legalism nor with foolishness. How does one avoid all extremes? It begins first with the fear of God.
 
verse 19 Wisdom makes one wise man more powerful than ten rulers in a city.

Here the Teacher reminds us that our deliverance or safety does not rely on our having more input or advice. Though counsel is good and the sign of a humble and teachable spirit, one can actually avoid God and the wisdom he offers in a self-reliant dependence upon others.

verses 20-22 There is not a righteous man on earth who does what is right and never sins. Do not pay attention to every word people say, or you may hear your servant cursing you-for you know in your heart that many times you yourself have cursed others.

The fact of the matter is that no man is the righteous one who fears God. And this is not argued by saying we have all done the most wicked thing we could imagine, but rather that we all have succumbed to the most petty sins of the heart which fuel gossip, envy, and slander. Our problem is not that we merely do wicked things, but that if we are honest, our innermost selves are deeply bent and broken.

verses 23-24 All this I tested by wisdom and I said, "I am determined to be wise"—but this was beyond me. Whatever wisdom may be, it is far off and most profound—who can discover it?

Lastly, the Teacher shows us that no amount of self-determination or effort can win the fruit of wisdom. It is beyond him, far off and unknowable.

Lastly, lastly, lest you think this all dark and despairing, the Teacher again is leading us to joy. He is drawing us to the conclusion that, "Wisdom brightens a man's face and changes its hard appearance" (verse 8:1). As you prepare for Sunday and the celebration of the Lord's Supper consider, what brightens your face? What softens your hardness? On Sunday, we'll look at this more in depth for in this is found the wisdom which Qoheleth has been seeking.