Saying Goodbye to Christmas

Yesterday was Epiphany, which means Saturday was the “Twelfth Day of Christmas”. So, yesterday afternoon I took down the outdoor Christmas decorations—the last one in our neighborhood to do so. I suspect a large percent of folks don’t know about the twelve days of Christmas, or about Epiphany; even though, virtually everyone who has any familiarity with Christianity knows about the “Three Wise Men.”

Well, anyway, I took it all down yesterday. It was a bitter sweet exercise. The season has been busier than some in the past (or is it that at almost 77 years of age, it just takes more effort to do the same things?) So, I’m relieved that the pace is slowing; and, yet, I grieve the passing of what also has been one of the most enjoyable Christmases in memory. We’ve had all our kids, and they came in shifts, so we got to focus exclusively on one family at a time. Their trips to our home overlapped, so we also got to experience short times of “whole family” togetherness. It was good.

I’ve had what seems like a harder time than usual letting go of the season. I think I’m aware that, at my age, my usual assumptions about “next year” are not as solid as in previous years. Don’t misunderstand: I’ll still plan and anticipate and prepare for “next Christmas.”

Last Thursday (the Tenth Day of Christmas) I was at home alone. Jo Lynn had gone into Little Rock to keep a regularly scheduled appointment with her doctor, to do some shopping, and to meet some friends for lunch. 

I turned on all the Christmas lights in the living room, built a fire in the fireplace, and tuned in to my favorite YouTube Christmas channel: one final orgy of self-indulgent Christmas nostalgia. It was great; and it was even better when Jo Lynn got home and we could share the moment. She didn’t even laugh at me—too much.

So, now the cat’s out of the bag, and you know what a sentimental mush I am. I even like Hallmark Christmas movies.

But, yesterday was Epiphany. “What has come into being ⁴in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. ⁵The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1:3b-5 NRSV)

Light. Shining for all the world to see.

Christmas has been very personal for me this year—like birth. And now Epiphany calls me to acknowledge the universal manifestation of God’s love and grace. It’s easier to let go of something dear when there’s something drawing me/us toward something else that also is exciting and enriching.

I sense a new sermon series coming into the light: a series on “Light”. 

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness— on them light has shined. (Isaiah 9:2 NRSV)

May the light shine on you, and may your own light reflect the One who is light!

That’s the way it looks through the Flawed Glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas?

The recent flap over Starbucks coffee cups seems like a good occasion to drag out my blog from almost exactly one year ago today. Just about then...

...I was reorganizing our entertainment center when we returned from nineteen months in Las Vegas. I found our collection of Christmas DVDs—movies, TV specials, concerts, etc.

The one on top was a copy of a 1955 Jo Stafford Album. The title song, “Happy Holiday,” was Irving Berlin’s 1942 classic that everybody loves. The second DVD was the 1942 Bing Crosby/Fred Astaire movie, “Holiday Inn,” in which that Irving Berlin classic was introduced. It’s a perennial favorite, along with “It’s a Good Life!”, “Miracle of 34^th Street,” “White Christmas” and—you can finish the list.

In the same box was our collection of Christmas cards dating back who knows how long. We keep them for decorations and gift wrapping. “Season’s Greetings,” is among the most common phrases on the covers of the several dozen cards in that stack.

Call me a “Christmas Freak.” I love just about everything about it, and in the last couple of years I’ve even been able to endure the crowds at the malls without uttering a single “Bah!” or “Humbug!” And the joyful anticipation doesn’t follow a calendar. For me it begins about the time the leaves start turning.

I think I love it because in my personal history it’s always been the “Most Wonderful Time of the Year”—with cousins and “Granny” either spending the holidays with us or us with them. I associate Christmas with family, presents, wonderful food, beautiful music, beautiful decorations and the beautiful story that holds it all together.

The story is paramount. No matter what else happens or doesn’t happen during Advent and the Twelve Days of Christmas that follow, I’m never distracted from the awareness of that beautiful story. It’s always with me, thanks to the foundation laid in my family—a foundation that included regular participation in the Body of Christ. No matter what symbol is displayed, or when or where, I am reminded that Christmas is about the birth of Jesus, and that through that birth, “God is with us!”

Apparently—and sadly—some are unable to avoid the distractions. Those same phrases that for over a half-century elicited happy smiles, warm feelings and even hugs have more recently become “fighting words” to some people.

A few years ago someone suggested that it would be more “inclusive” to use the phrase, “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”, to acknowledgment that not everyone is Christian and to demonstrate respect for their religious freedom—the same respect we expect and demand for our own religious freedom.

Religious freedom, like every other freedom, must be extended to all, or no one is free, for if freedom can be taken from one, it can be taken from all. Further, religious freedom includes the freedom from having others’ religious faiths inflicted upon us.

The intention was to find ways to include people of other faiths—or at least not to exclude them—in the public celebrations of Christian holidays. Nothing has ever been intended or suggested that would limit religious celebrations shared among family and friends and within specific communities of faith.

But the good old American autonomy that built this nation raises its head (unnecessarily in this case) and asserts, “Nobody’s gonna’ tell me what to do.”

I haven’t experienced the slightest infringement of any rights. I am free to say, “Merry Christmas” any time I choose, and as far as I know you are free to do the same. Nor do I feel anything has been forced upon me if others choose to say, “Happy Holidays” in deference to the religious freedom of those who don’t share their convictions. Indeed, I don’t feel “Happy Holidays” is a condescension at all. That phrase is still a “warm fuzzy” that triggers deep nostalgia and reminds me that Jesus was born.

At what point did “inclusiveness” become bad? At what point did inclusiveness become a liberal conspiracy to take away anyone’s right to say, “Merry Christmas?” At what point did respect for someone who is different from me become a concession to some evil plot to undermine truth? And at what point did the melting pot mentality[1] engraved on the Statue of Liberty morph into intolerance and disrespect for diversity?

As Christians, we are called to share of our faith; and there are effective ways, ineffective ways and counterproductive ways to do so. In the last third of the 20^th century we saw the counterproductive result when too many mainstream churches shied away from face-to-face witnessing at all.

On the other hand, in more recent years much of what is called witnessing is confrontational and does more harm than good. After all, Christianity is an invitational faith, not a coercive one. Jesus said, “If I am lifted up I will draw all people to me.” Too much of what is called witnessing today pushes people away.

So, I will continue to look for ways to make my witness effective, without trampling the rights and freedoms of those who don’t share it. And if my life is being lived such that others don’t know and respect me as a Christian unless I say, “Merry Christmas,” then my witness lacks integrity and credibility. And I have absolutely no need to inflict my faith vocabulary upon those with other faiths or no faith, and thereby run the risk of alienating them from any possibility of witnessing effectively to them in the future.

That leaves me with more than abundant opportunity within my family, my circle of friends and my community of faith—and in the yard decorations in front of my home—to say, “Merry Christmas!”

And that’s the way I see it through the flawed glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

---

[1] Give me your tired, your poor, 

Your huddled masses, yearning to breath free, 
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, 
Send these, the homeless, tempest tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

~ Emma Lazarus

Jesus in a ’57 Chevy

Luke 2:6-7 (KJV) And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. ⁷And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

"...no room for them in the inn." How many sermons have been launched from those six words? This month you’ve likely seen at least one TV special or old movie—maybe even heard a sermon—about the Innkeeper of Bethlehem. Literature isn’t always kind to him.

He’s usually portrayed as insensitive and preoccupied with exploiting the tax season for huge profits.

At the other extreme he’s a kindly old man, overworked by the crowds, yet patient and gentle in manner. Moved to compas­sion by this young woman, obviously exhausted from her journey, he lets the Holy Couple stay in his private, nice, clean, warm, comfortable stable. And the stable is so romanticized I'm ready to check in for a weekend of R&R, myself.

Have you ever been in a stable?

Neither version is biblical. The major character isn’t even mentioned in the bibli­cal story. For all we know, Joseph never saw an innkeeper. He may have heard talk on the street that the inn was full, and on his own found a cave for shelter. We don’t know.

Still, tradition says the innkeeper should have made special allowances because the Son of God was about to be born.

Why didn't he give them his room? I’ve heard that.

But behind the traditions are assumptions based on our memories—our understandings. We know he was the Son of God; why couldn’t they see it? The clear impli­cation is, "we'd have done it better!"

I wonder.

What might have happened had God waited until 2014 to send Christ? How would we receive Him?

I see a neat little shed on the lawn of the "Beth Israel" synagogue (chosen because it's next to the Interstate. Traffic can flow smoothly, with easy access). I can see the preparations now: neon angels hung from a tall superstructure… risers built behind the shed... the Mormon Tabernacle Choir arriving by charter jet from Salt Lake City, and the Philharmonic from New York.

Then the big night comes: huge crowds; traffic backed up for miles down the Interstate; traffic cops with long, red traffic-wands; searchlights sweeping the clouds; the Goodyear blimp overhead...

All three networks plus CNN and FOX: Meredith Viera, Matt Laur and Al Roker…

And headlines the next day: The New York Times: "A Savior is Born!" The Wall Street Journal would report the Dow up.

And Jean Dixon's column would read:

"He shall be great, and shall be called

       the Son of the Most High;

and the Lord God will give to him

       the chair of the Oval Office,

and he shall reign over the house of Lincoln forever;

And of his kingdom there shall be no end."

It’s not really as ridiculous as it may sound. In every culture, in every age, there’s some kind of Messianic expecta­tion. Isn’t that what we’re looking for in our President and in our military leadership in these post-9/11 days: a Messiah—some heroic savior to overthrow the evil reign of terrorism—for us?

Victims of tyrants and dictators hope for a savior—a charismatic, military hero—who will overthrow the bonds of their captivity.

Victims of unemployment hope for a savior in the form of an employer or a strong labor leader.

Victims of spiraling inflation look for a savior who will write tax reforms favoring their particular socio/economic level.

And in each case, over time, expectations become dramatic and spectacular.

Into those same kinds of expectations Jesus was born. Israel was a nation in chains. Rome had a chokehold on their politics and economy, and even though Jews sat in seats of government, they were, either paid-off defectors, or scared-stiff figureheads. Nothing was more important than the overthrow of the "Roman dogs."

The Ameri­can colo­nists had similar feelings toward King George’s “taxation-without-representation."

But Israel's longing for Messiah was deepened by a memory. There was a time when David and Solomon sat on the throne and every nation in the world tipped its hat when it walked by. And in the center of Israel's life was the Temple—that great edifice: gold-plated, cedar-lined, and draped with rich tapestries.

That memory had fueled hope for fifteen generations; and that hope carried images of shining armor, polished sword, and the thundering hoof beats of a great white horse.

WHEN MESSIAH COMES! A hero. And the prophets fueled the fire.

A beggar clutches his rags in some dark alley. “When Messiah comes” there’ll be no more hunger; no more homelessness.

A young woman sobs in her pillow. “When Messiah comes” there’ll be no more Roman soldiers raping and pillaging.

“When Messiah comes.”

And he came. And it wasn't as they expected. And so “he was despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief," (Isaiah 53:3 KJV) no hero, at all; because Messiah was not about their expectations. Nor is He about ours.

I think it might happen more like this, if God had waited until 2014: Picture a middle-aged desk clerk in a small motel in a county-seat town (the "NO-TELL" motel. The "c" is burned out in the flashing "No Va ancy" sign.)

It's about 10:45 in the evening, and the desk clerk is watching a Jay Leno rerun. He hears gravel crunching on the driveway, and a 1957 Chevy stops outside. The left headlight’s out, and the left front fender has patches of body putty and primer.

A man in overalls gets out to inquire about a room. He speaks with a heavy Spanish accent (a refugee from El Salvador). He’s found work in a nearby town, and has come to the county seat to check in with immigration and register his new address.

His wife stays in the car. She’s obviously close to delivering a child. Dressed in a clean, plain, faded dress, she’s exhausted from the day's trip, and the drive back would be just too much for her; so they’ve decided to get a room and stay overnight.

There are no rooms available; but the clerk says they can sleep on a rollaway bed in the linen storage closet. It’s small, but clean and warm, and there's a sink where they can wash up. They can use the toilet in the lobby.

He quotes a price, and the young refugee pulls out a worn wallet and counts out several bills, figuring the unfamiliar currency in his head.

That night her baby is born. She wraps him in a motel towel, and lays him in a laundry hamper.

Early the next morning, the clerk notices a bunch of kids around the linen room door—delivery boys for the morning paper, all excited about something. He runs them off, and looks in to find Maria, José, and el niño, Jesus.

The clerk asks them to leave; afraid the health depart­ment might hear about this and close him down. So, José fashions a bed in the back seat of the '57 Chevy, and they drive off.

I don’t know. Maybe this image gives you problems, too. Mary and Joseph should be more middle class and white—more like us. They'd drive at least a 2012 mini-van, and stay at the Holiday Inn. And they'd call an ambulance and check-in to the hospital, using their "Blue Cross" card.

And what about the shepherds and the angels and the star? Who'd ever notice something as obscure as that?

But, maybe that’s the point. You see, the story’s not about our expectations; it's about the power of God: the power that can take what, by our standards and expectations is nothing, and make out of it the salvation of the world!

I don't find it at all curious that the innkeeper of Bethle­hem didn't pay special attention to Joseph and Mary. What amazes me—amazes me—is that ANYBODY EVER recognized this refugee baby as the Son of God. And yet, for two millen­nia he has been declared "Savior of the World;"  "Lord of the Church." For two thousand years he has reigned in the hearts of people everywhere.

If you need a miracle, if you need a sign, if you need a reason to follow him, what more can you ask than that?

That’s how I see it through the flawed glass that is my world vie.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

Only Human?

(Luke 2:7 KJV) And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn. 

(Romans 16:25-27 NIV)  Now to him who is able to establish you by my gospel and the proclamation of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery hidden for long ages past, ²⁶but now revealed and made known through the prophetic writings by the command of the eternal God, so that all nations might believe and obey him-- ²⁷to the only wise God be glory forever through Jesus Christ! Amen.

Do you end personal letters with a Doxology? “Give my love to the kids, and all praise and glory be to God, through Jesus Christ, Amen!” That's how Paul ended his letter to the Romans. While it seems perfectly normal for a book of Scripture to end with a doxology, when we remember that before Romans was Holy Scripture, it was a personal letter, it may seem strange.

An ordinary letter:  communication with some friends; expressions of concern for their well-being; some advice and council regarding a mutual concern; some closing remarks and then this doxology.

But it didn’t stay “ordinary.” The people in the church in Rome were anxious to know when Paul would arrive.  This man, reputed throughout the empire, had announced plans to visit Rome; but kept being delayed. They knew he lived under constant threat of death, so every week, when the church gathered, the conversation began, “Has anybody heard from Paul?”  “How’s he doing?”  “When is he coming?” 

Then the letter arrived, and word spread quickly: “There’s a letter from Paul” And on Sunday morning the church was packed. A hush fell over the room as the scroll was opened. Heads nodded sagely at the beautifully-constructed theological passages; knowing smiles were exchanged at the personal references. Then, once again: “I’m coming.  I’ve got to go back to Jerusalem, but then I’m coming to you.”

Copies were made and circulated among other congregations in Italy, and the theological passages began to show up in sermons and teachings and even in the worship litanies; this ordinary letter to some friends.

But, years later, this same letter became a part of sacred scripture. In the hands of God, the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

Take, for example, birth. There’s nothing more ordinary—more common—than birth. I dare say everyone reading this blog has experienced it. Most females will give birth at some point in their lives; and most males will sire offspring.

But, in one sense, birth is always extraordinary. In a dirty shack—beer cans and cigarette butts on the floor, cockroaches rummaging through last night’s leftovers still on the table—birth can be an extraordinary problem: another mouth to feed; another child to shield from an abusive spouse. 

In a suburban apartment complex—rock-and-roll blasting from the stereo by the pool, sports cars in numbered parking places—a birth can be an extraordinary intrusion and inconvenience in a life of carefree self-indulgence.

But under different circumstances—in a secure relationship of love and mutual commitment, as God intended—birth is even more than extraordinary; it becomes almost a sacrament: life is given.

Where there is love and stability—where a baby is wanted and parents are ready—a woman who bears a child becomes, literally, bread of life for that child. Through her broken body, and her shed blood, she gives life, and she and her child are linked in an unbreakable communion as close and as holy as Christ’s own Eucharist.

When birth takes place within the context God intended, the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

Of course, there was never anything ordinary about the birth in the Gospel reading above. For most women the announcement comes from her doctor; and most of them already suspect, anyway.  In the text from Luke, it had been an angel who had broken the news to Mary; and it had come as a complete shock.

And listen to the content of the news from the angel: “He shall be great; and shall be called the Son of the Most High.  And the Lord God will give him the throne of his ancestor, David; and he shall reign over the house of Jacob forever.” (Luke 1:32-33  KJV) Nothing ordinary about that!

And when he was born, angels sang, and the very stars announced his birth. International kings came and worshipped him.

But all this we know.  What we may overlook, amid all the extraordinary trappings, is that the birth of Jesus was quite an ordinary birth.

What made the birth of Jesus extraordinary was not angelic choirs and brilliant heavenly lights; nor the visit of international royalty. What made it extraordinary was that in the Babe of Bethlehem, God became ordinary. The Word Became Flesh!

We find it extraordinary when a human rises to superhuman accomplishment; but human acts of heroism happen almost daily. If youwant extraordinary, find a rich man who gives it all too the poor—becomes poor, like them—and then stands with them and works to better their life. That’s extraordinary!

If you want extraordinary, find a God who becomes human and stands with humanity in order to save humanity from its own self-destruction. Find a God who becomes human; and in that act redeems humanity to the divine state in which it was originally created.

I grow so weary of hearing people talk about humanity as if were some kind of disease—a disability that burdens us and pulls us down. A running back leads the league in rushing  four years in a row, and then has an “off-year”—plays hurt—and people say, “Well, I guess he’s just human, after all.”

What was he when he was setting records and leading the league? If our human condition is but the dregs in the bottom of the cup; if being human is what we are when we fail and when we’re weak, then what are we when we soar to heights of extraordinary accomplishment?

If the human condition is a handicap, what does that say about Christ, who, “being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human form.” (Philippians 2:5-7)

It was as a human that Jesus turned the water into wine, healed the crippled, restored hearing to the deaf, and gave sight to the blind and life to the dead. It was as a human that Jesus gave us the beatitudes and the Lord’s Prayer. He called himself, “Son of Man.”

And yet, we call him, “Son of God”. We call him “Emanuel: God with us”. We call him “Savior of the World.”  How is it that an ordinary human takes on such extraordinary identity? And how are we to follow him—to be like him?

First, let us stop referring to humanity as “ordinary.”  To be human is to be created in the Image of God; so, let us accept our true identity and stop using our humanity as an excuse for failure: “What do you expect? I’m only human!” Jesus said to his human disciples, “I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these…. (John 14:10-15 NIV)  It’s not our humanity that holds us back!

Second, as humans, created in the Image of God, we have an extraordinary capacity that no other creature has: MORAL CHOICE. And it is in the exercise of that capacity of Choice that the ordinary becomes extraordinary—the human takes on the nature of the divine.

It began with his mother. Confronted with the extraordinary news of the impending birth of her son, she had a choice. And here was her response: "I am the Lord's servant. May it be to me as you have said." (Luke 1:38 NIV) 

It was the same with Jesus: “And being found in human form, he was obedient unto death, even death on the cross.”  (Philippians 2:8)  It is in the words, “Not my will, but Thine, be done,”—words of extraordinary obedience to the Will of God that ordinary humanity bears the extraordinary marks of divinity.

On this fourth week of Advent, I pray that we become so sensitized to seeing the extraordinary among the ordinary that closing our personal letters with a doxology is just an ordinary occurrence.

That’s how I see it through the flawed glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

A BURST OF PURE JOY

Luke 1:46-50 (NRSV)

⁴⁶ And Mary said,

“My soul magnifies the Lord,
⁴⁷     and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
⁴⁸ for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
    Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
⁴⁹ for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
    and holy is his name.
⁵⁰ His mercy is for those who fear him
    from generation to generation.

 

Matthew 2:16-18 (NRSV)

¹⁶ When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. ¹⁷ Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah:

¹⁸ “A voice was heard in Ramah,
    wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
    she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”

Somewhere in the attic where my memories are stored, among the dust and clutter of bits and pieces of remembered sermons, lessons, books, articles and conversations, is a contrast between these two texts: two voices.

The first voice is Mary’s; a poor teenager from a small town; pregnant and unwed, in a culture in which such a situation could be grounds for the death penalty.

Mary is sent off to live with a cousin in another town—an old woman—married to a preacher. Imagine her expectations: suffocating supervision, curfews, daily lectures spiced with clever, original expressions like, "...you reap what you sew."  "...when you give a dance you gotta' pay the band."

But, to her utter amazement, instead of a cold slap on the wrist she’s is greeted with warm embraces! And there is joy over her pregnancy.

Instead of a dowdy old grump, cousin Elizabeth is a joy! I imagine a girlish twinkle in her eyes that contradicts the wrinkles that surround them.

The reason is evident, for Elizabeth also is with child—even at her age. Elizabeth also has had an angelic visitor, who confirmed the heavenly origin and destiny of both babies.

Was it just a hallucination born of her intense Jewish longing for freedom after six centuries of hoping and waiting—600 Passovers without the promised Messiah?

But here is confirmation: one whom she honors and respects has received the same word: "The Redeemer is near!" And Mary not only will see it; she actually will give birth to the Messiah!

And so, Mary says, "My soul magnifies the Lord!"

The second voice comes from Ramah: "the voice of Rachel, weeping for her children; and she refused to be consoled, because they were no more."

This voice triggers images of Herod raving in his pal­ace; Roman soldiers riding through the streets, knocking down doors, running down women in back alleys; women screaming and desperately clutching their children... 

"The Slaughter of the Innocents," it's called.

Why did the Spirit that inspired Holy Scripture include this event in the story of the birth of Jesus? Couldn't it have been left out? What does it add?

I believe God is one who celebrates and rejoices!  I believe the Kingdom of God is a place of joy!

Remember Jesus’ "Kingdom Parables"? A woman lost a coin, and cleaned her home until she found it. Then she called her neighbors and threw a party! The party probably cost more than the coin!

A shepherd counts his sheep at the close of the day and one is missing. He searches until he finds the sheep, and then calls his neighbors and throws a party. Probably served mutton! Jesus said the Kingdom is like that: a place of celebration.

But there’s that voice from Ramah.

Virtually every family gathering of any size this Christmas will deal with the memory of some loved one who has died since the last Christmas. It almost always happens, doesn't it? Or someone will remind us of the homeless children downtown.

Maybe we're just not meant to be happy all the time. After all, who can forget the immortal words of the blessed sage, Erma Bombeck:  "If life is just a bowl of cherries, why am I always 'in the pits'?"

Maybe life isn't supposed to be totally joyful! A part of the church's on-going ministry is helping the poor; and, didn't Jesus say, "The poor will always be with you?" And yet, that statement was in defense of an act of extravagance!

And in Luke’s text above, here is Mary, amid poverty, injustice, constant oppression and fear of death, amid personal circumstances that could not have been good: teenaged, pregnant, and unwed, with "A Burst of Pure Joy!"

Why is it so difficult for us to let go, even momentarily, and experience joy—pure joy—just for the sake of joy?

Maybe it’s theological reasons: our view of a vindictive God—stern and all rules and punishment—doesn't inspire joy.

Or there may be practical reasons: the stress of planning and shopping and cooking and cleaning up after a family gathering robs us of the joy of the event.

Or, maybe it’s the world situation: rockets falling in the Middle East, pictures of starving children and wailing widows and mangled bodies. It's hard to be joyful.

And why this scripture at Christmas: Rachel crying for her children:  does it mean that we're not meant for pure joy? Ever?

I remember an image from my teacher" the drums beat, the band plays, horses pull the carriage… Bobby runs to his room and digs out the old toy drum. Soon he's marching up and down the living room in front of the television, until Mother realizes what is going on and says, "No! Can’t you see our President is dead!"

Am I never to join a parade for fear it might be somebody's funeral? Shall I never laugh because children starve in India, or because Uncle Phil is gone?

And yet, with Roman soldiers everywhere, Elizabeth laughs. And Mary lifts her voice in joy: "My soul magnifies the Lord!"

How did they do it?

The joy of advent is the foolishness of faith that says I can rejoice because even in the darkness of Ramah, a child is born! It is the foolishness of faith that dares proclaim that this baby—born of peasant parents

            in a barn

                        in an oppressed nation

                                    in a primitive time

is the Lord of Christmas, and that the Lord of Christmas is also the Lord of Ramah, and the kingdoms of this world are become the kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ, and he shall reign forever and ever: King of Kings and Lord of Lords! Hallelujah!

That’s how I see it through the flawed glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

A Blog for the Second Week in Advent

From Bethlehem to Bedlam[1]

For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6 NRSV).

After twenty minutes in line I finally arrived at the cash register, still scolding myself for waiting until the last minute to finish my Christmas shopping—again. I knew how crowded it always gets; in fact, crowds and Christmas had become synonymous to me; and I wasn't doing crowds very well that year.

When I took out my checkbook, the clerk stopped ringing up my items, and asked, "Do you have your SCCC card?"

"My what?"

"Your Speedy Customer Check Cashing Card."

"No."

"Then you'll need to have your check Okayed at the manager's desk,"

Had it not been so late on Christmas Eve, and had I really thought it would be less crowded anywhere else, I'd have left in protest. But I was trapped. So, the cash register was cleared, I lost my place in line and joined another twenty minute line.

Finally at the desk, I presented my check. The woman behind the desk said: "I need to see a driver's license and two other forms of identifica­tion."

I fumbled in my wallet for my driver's license, and asked, "What other kinds of identification do you need?"

"Do you have any credit cards?"

"Yes, and I have my dental records and shot card, if that will help!"

"I'm sorry, sir;" she said, patiently. "I'm just doing my job."

I knew it wasn't her fault. I just couldn't help myself. Finally, approved check in hand, still smarting from guilt, frustration, and weariness, I joined yet another twenty minute line, thinking, "At least Christmas comes only once a year!"

We really get into the busy-ness of Christmas preparation with its traffic, crowds, family activities, parties, shopping, wrapping, cooking, programs, concerts, etc. until many of us reach that same low point: "At least Christmas comes only once a year!" We may even add, “Bah! Humbug!”

Even in this second week of Advent, whose theme is “Peace,” the bedlam of Christmas preparation becomes a threat to the way we approach that special birth in Bethlehem. Bethlehem and Bedlam. Believe it or not, they’re connected.

In medieval London there was a convent called “St. Mary of Bethlehem.” Later it became a hospital, and eventually a house for the insane. With no known care, the insane were just locked up and food was shoved under the door twice a day. The noise and confusion of that place was known throughout England. Over time the original name, "St. Mary of Bethlehem" was shortened to "Bethlehem", and, by corruption, "Bedlam." The mother of the word, bedlam, is Bethlehem; and its father is the screams of the insane.

Bethlehem and bedlam were also related at Jesus’ birth. You know the story: a crowd­ed, dusty city; vendors hawking their wares in the chaos; Roman soldiers everywhere; an overcrowded inn; people sleeping on floors and streets; barnyard smells and sounds, a birthing among animals... Bedlam. And it didn't end with Jesus' birth. Just a short time later Herod's soldiers murdered all boy babies under the age of two, and "A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her babies and refusing to be consoled, because they are no more." (Matthew 2:18)  Bedlam.

"O Little Town of Bethlehem" is not just candles, carols, shepherds, stars and sentimentality; but neither is it just crowded malls, depression, suicide, and merchant's associa­tions. The images of scripture remind us that Jesus was born, not only in Bethlehem, but also in Bedlam! While the two are not identical, neither can they be separated.

But in the midst of the bedlam of Caesar’s census, in the midst of the bedlam that was Bethlehem to Mary and Joseph, there came, for them:

One quiet moment in the star-clustered night;

Two weary travelers knew an end was in sight;

So the soon-to-be mother grasped her husband’s strong hand

And paused to remember where their journey began.

Nine months of yearning filled with joy and with pain.

He almost had left her, but then chose to remain

Close to the woman he had not even kissed,

Who would bear him a son that would never be his.

They dreamed of the times they would spend with their son

Taking trips through the hillsides and watching him run

And some days the fingers that had fashioned the stars

Would reach out to hold them when the walk was too far.

They wrestled with knowing that his life would bring change

Their friends would grow distant, and shun them as strange

Though they tried not to think it, in their hearts they were sure

That their baby was destined to die for the world.

And in one quiet moment a woman and man

Accepted the part they would have in God’s plan

To give up His glory and be born as a man

In one quiet moment.

In one quiet moment, they could suddenly hear

Thousands of angels singing so clear

“Glory to God! His salvation is near”

In this one quiet moment.[2]

Somehow, no matter how bedraggled we are after weeks of crowds and shopping malls and overeating and overspend­ing and going home late after Christmas Eve service to finish wrapping and stuffing and assembling—small hands dragging us out of bed on Christmas morning after far too little sleep—spending all morning cooking and all afternoon washing dishes—kids bouncing off the walls, hyperactive from Christmas stocking candy... Somehow, no matter how frayed and spent and bedraggled, in some “quiet moment” we still remember the “real meaning of Christmas”.

And it's really not all that surprising; after all, from Bethlehem to Bedlam, and back, at Christmas we still celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace.

That’s how I see it through the flawed glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim

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[1] The title is from a website I found when I Googled “St. Mary of Bethlehem.” The story appears below.

[2] Written by Glad Prosper, Russian R&B singer.