UN-DECORATING FOR CHRISTMAS

The famed above-kitchen-sink "toe"

A family tradition as the calendar turned to “December” was retrieving our family's Christmas décor for its brief holiday “run.” That included the bin of wreaths and garlands, a long string of lights, the 40-year-old childproof creche, fireplace socks, and the fake Christmas tree and ornaments. I didn't have to hang the mistletoe: it was a year-round decoration on the ceiling above the kitchen sink.

But that was years ago. With nest-emptying and aging, and now a grandkid-toys-and-books “decor” cluttering our small home, my holiday decorating fervor faded. Last year I put up only the door wreath, creche and two socks—“mine” and “his.” My husband had only one wish on his “wish list”--to come home from the hospital after his heart attack. And he did—on Christmas afternoon.

I can't remember, but we may have shared a “welcome-back” kiss at the kitchen sink, under a sprig of mistletoe tacked there forty-some years earlier. Okay, when I was silly new bride, it was a reminder that “kissin' don't last, cookin' do.” Marrying (for the first and only time) in our mid-thirties, we had some catching up to do in that department.

With his death early this summer, I needed to make some changes. So the mistletoe came down. But not before I did a little research about this strange little “kissing” custom that seems highlighted every holiday. The brutal truth: mistletoe is a parasitic plant that latches onto a host plant and sucks the life out of it. Not very romantic! Mistletoe berries are also toxic—even can be deadly—if eaten. (That's why you never see “mistletoe jam” sold at Christmas!) In some pagan cultures, mistletoe was connected with human sacrifice. Folks in some ancient lands hung mistletoe over their doors to ward off demonic influences.

To all this, I say, “Oh, my.” I was way, way overdue to remove that ribbon-tied, withered sprig from our ceiling.

Enter new traditions. Like reaching out in quiet, small ways to those who mourn. I was touched when another recent widow started sending me 3x5 cards on which she'd printed encouraging Bible verses that were apparently meaningful to her in her loss. I clipped them to a stand below my computer screen. Four months after the flood of post-death sympathy cards, I was also encouraged by simple notes that said, “Still praying for you.” Trust me: at holidays, the grieving especially need gentle hugs and kind words,

Christmas can be such a hectic, even garish, time--hard for those pummeled by loss to endure. It's okay to counter the culture and simplify, to focus on the Light of the World more than the thousand-lights-Santa-manger yard setups.

Jesus' birth wasn't heralded by a searchlight guzzling 60,000 watts of electrical power. Heaven sent its own signal, enough for grubby, uneducated shepherds to discover the Greatest Gift. There was no mistletoe over the manger. But in that rough, manure-aroma stable, the world was kissed with God's love. We couldn't ask for anything more....

BIRTHDAY SONG

It seems so incongruent that a King would have the most inadequate “bassinet” around. An animal feeding trough, not a crib with a pristine sheet and safety-approved side rails. No nice receiving blanket or soft sleeper, just strips of coarse cloth wound about Him to keep Him snug and serve as a type of diaper. Today, when the little kids (or even adults) re-enact the nativity scene (bless those shepherds in Dad's robe), we tend to forget the original “maternity ward” for the King of Kings was cold, crude and dirty.

Yet that's how God chose to write His Son's birthday story. He stooped to earth to raise us up to eternal life.

If left to human standards of celebration, Christ's birth would have been a presidential inauguration and royal coronation all rolled into one, and more besides. Parades! Bands! Extensive media coverage! But God doesn't need glitz to spread the Gospel. Possibly, we're ill equipped to accord Him the infinitely indescribable honor and glory that is His.

This past month or so, I've been reading and re-reading Psalm 89. It's a lengthy one, in which God's love and faithfulness—and the anointed reign of King David—get top billing. But between the lines extolling a human ruler are the parallels of the great Heavenly King who begin His long-prophesied reign in a chilly barn.

The heavens are yours, and yours also the earth; you founded the world and all that is in it....

Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne; love and faithfulness go before you.

Blessed are those who have learned to acclaim you, who walk in the light of your presence, O Lord.

They rejoice in your name all day long; they exalt in your righteousness. For you are their glory and strength....(vv. 11, 14-17)

When I'm around a newborn baby, my voice is soft, tender. They are so fragile and vulnerable to loud and surprising sounds. (I wonder how Baby Jesus coped with the barn-mates' baas and moos!) But this psalm reminds me: it's okay to acclaim and rejoice—verbs that imply loud and joyful praise.

I like the quiet, lullaby-like Christmas hymns, like “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” and “Silent Night.” But this sacred holiday of celebration also calls for :”Joy to the World,” “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and “All Come, All Ye Faithful.”

Sing with gusto and joy! It's okay....He's no longer the “baby Jesus” needing a quiet nursery setting (if that was ever possible in a primitive animal shelter). As the the writer of Psalm 89 suggested with words like “rejoice” and “exalt,” this is the time to sing out with gladness. A King is born! More important, a Savior has come!

THOU DIDST LEAVE THY THRONE

A monthly series on a hymn of the faith.
You've probably heard the question, “Can anything good come out of”—and then, they give the name of the town. In Jesus' time, a guy named Nathaniel famously asked this of an amazing Teacher in his area known as Jesus, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” (John 1:46). There are two questions like this connected to this month's hymn. One is, “Can anything good come out of Brighton, England?” This British city on the English channel, about two hours' drive south of London, has actually been the home address of many celebrities, including author Rudyard Kipling. Lesser known names are connected to Christian hymns, including Charlotte Elliott, who wrote “Just As I Am,” and her niece Emily Elliott, an Anglican minister's daughter. 

Like many church women of the Victorian era, Emily was involved in service to rescue missions and Sunday school roles. That included editing a magazine for Sunday school workers, and writing poems and hymn lyrics. A collection of 48 of her hymn lyrics was published under the title, Under the Pillow, intended as bedside reading for the sick in hospitals, infirmaries, or at home.

Perhaps the second question would be: "Can anything good come out of Bethlehem?" The answer is a resounding, prophecy-fulfilling YES! This hymn grew out of her desire to express Biblical truths to children in simple ways. That included the amazing theological truth that God sent His Son in the form of a baby to eventually die as our Savior from sins. She captured those opposites in the hymn's opening lines:

Thou didst leave thy throne and thy kingly crown,

When thou camest to earth for me;

This is the hymn of “buts”--

“But in Bethlehem's home was there found no room...”

“But of lowly birth didst thou come to earth....”

“But thy couch was the sod, O thou Son of God...”

“But with mocking scorn and with crown of thorn, they bore thee to Calvary.”

Her hymn covers birth to eternal life--with the last line an invitation:

When the heavens shall ring and the angels sing

At thy coming to victory,

Let Thy voice call me home, saying “Yes, there is room,

“There is room at My side for thee.”

And my heart shall rejoice, Lord Jesus,

When Thou comest and callest me.

The hymn tune for her lyrics was composed by Timothy Matthews, an English clergyman and one of the leading organists of his day, responsible for some one hundred hymn tunes.

A Christmas song? Yes, and it's often placed among hymns celebrating Jesus' birth. But its lyrics remind us that we not only celebrate a baby in a manger, but His purpose as a Savior.

This link goes to a choral performance of the hymn's first verse:

Thou Didst Leave Thy Throne - The Majesty and Glory Performers [with lyrics] - Bing video

UNFATHOMABLE ODDS

Some math people enjoying calculating odds, like the
chances of "fours" on a dice coming up in successive tosses.
Such games can't compare with the unbelievable odds of
 fulfilled Bible prophecies about God's greatest gift, Jesus.
.

Last year, Americans spent an estimated $1.1 trillion on Christmas shopping. That works out to about $942 per family unit. While I find that mind-boggling, I've come across some statistics that top that.

Since childhood I've known the phase in the Apostle's Creed that declares that Jesus was “born of the virgin Mary.” That's the fulfillment of a prophecy by Isaiah 7:14, some seven hundred years before the birth of Jesus in a filthy barn a long ways from His mother's hometown. What are the odds of that? Recently, going through papers on my desk, I ran across these sermon notes about prophecies Jesus fulfilled. They predicted the Messiah would:

*Come from the tribe of Judah (Genesis 49:10) 

*Come from the line of David (2 Samuel 7:16)

*Be born in Bethlehem (Micah 5:2) *Heal the blind, deaf and mute (Isaiah 35:1-6)

*Be rejected (Isaiah 53:3) *Be killed by piercing (Isaiah 53:5, Zachariah 21:10)

*Be executed with criminals (Isaiah 53:9) *Be buried with the wealthy (Isaiah 53:9)

*Die for our sins (Isaiah 53:4-6) *Rise from the dead (Isaiah 53:11, Mark 9:31)

Or how about Jesus' prediction that “The Son of Man is going to be betrayed into the hands of men. They will kill him, and after three days, He will rise” (Mark 9:31).

My sermon notes said the odds of eight of these prophecies being fulfilled in one person were ONE IN A HUNDRED QUADRILLION (that's one followed by 17 zeroes).

The odds of all sixty major Old Testament prophecies being fulfilled in one person? One in ten to the 157^th power!

In 1957, J.B. Phillips, who prepared a Bible translation in modern language, wrote a little story titled “The Visited Planet.” In it, an imaginary seasoned angel is showing a new angel around the universe. He points out a dirty little tennis ball called “earth.” An intense light flashes at one point of “earth” and the seasoned angel explains that's God's Son visiting the tired, weary planet. When that one light ends, little lights begin to flicker across the surface of the globe. The newer angel asks about the Father's plan for this little globe floating in the universe, whether someday it will be all light, like Heaven. The seasoned angel replies: He has visited it; He is working out His Plan upon it." (1)

(1) The whole story is here: https://www.ccel.org/bible/phillips/NoteVisitedPlanet.htm 

THE RIGHTEOUS BRANCH

The impoverished Snoopy tree is also
a reminder of 2 Corinthians 8:9--that for
our sakes "He became poor."

December's hymn feature, “The Birthday of a King,” celebrates the lowly birth of the King of Kings. Thus, I chose to illustrate it with Charlie Brown’s definitely “lowly” Christmas tree. As you read its brief story, recall the prophecy of Jeremiah 23:5: “I will raise up to David a righteous Branch, a King who will reign wisely.”

The Christmas hymn featured in this blog last year celebrated Christ’s kingly role. But a secular mindset was behind the composition and first performance of “O Holy Night.” Its words were by a non-believing French poet, the music by a Jew, and the first performance by a trained soprano known to both men.  How different the story behind this year’s feature, “The Birthday of a King.” Its composer, William Harold Neidlinger, was an organist at the prominent St. Michael’s Church in New York City who is also remembered for his heart for children with disabilities.

Born in Brooklyn in the middle of the Civil War, in 1863, he studied under great composers of his day in New York and London. His career as a composer and singing teacher also took him to Paris. He taught music in a New York college and served as an organist and choral conductor for many groups. His output included comic operas, cantatas, church music, and secular songs. But his real passion was music for children. His book, “Small Songs for Small Singers,” was a standard text for kindergarten classes throughout America for decades.

The success of that book led Neidlinger to a new passion of helping children with disabilities, particularly those with speech and vocal challenges. He studied child psychology and established a school for such children in East Orange, N.J. He also wrote a book about human speech.

He died at age 62 after a long illness. His obituary in the New York Times mentioned his books, school, musical achievements and health, but not one word about the Christmas song that generations of children plus adults have sung: the joyful carol about the Birthday of a King. 

Sing along with this music video:

https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=%22the+Birthday+of+a+King%22&docid=608038825080062817&mid=92D48F7B8B8F3322DA0192D48F7B8B8F3322DA01&view=detail&FORM=VIRE

MERCY (Psalm 86)

One of the miniature railroad enthusiasts at our local 

county fair had this "perfect" winter display for our

enjoyment. Fun to look at--but not our real world.

(A continuing series on the 48 psalms recommended for reading and study during times of depression by counselor/pastor David Seamands, author of Healing for Damaged Emotions.)

Like a pep rally of almost galactic proportions, the frenzied shopping and hoopla that now seem to define the Christmas season will soon end. I’m probably in the minority but I vote for simplicity: less stuff, more of Jesus. Millions do not have what our culture considers the “normative” holiday. Disaster and discouragement dog each day. King David, who lived centuries before Christ, had his share of those days even after rightfully ascending the throne. When I began to study Psalm 86, realizing I’d unwrap its message right before Christmas, I thought how inappropriate. I was wrong.

This is the only psalm by David in the entire “Book III” of Psalms, the majority written by Asaph or other Levites who led worship. I can’t answer why except this is the way the ancients organized psalms. But as only God could arrange things, there is a Christmas message here:

All the nations you have made will come and worship before you, O Lord. They will bring glory to your name.  For you are great and do marvelous deeds; you alone are God.  (vv. 9-10)

GLORY TO HIS NAME

On a bitter night in Bethlehem, a marvelous thing happened: God become flesh. Rough-and-tumble shepherds were the first visitors of a Baby who, though born into poverty, was an earthly descendant of King David. The infant’s birth was announced by angels, heralding that this was now (as Bible translator J.B. Phillips famously said) the visited planet. Later, a curious star led royal seers from far away. Some day, as David wrote, all nations will worship God alone.

David had no idea this was in the works when he wrote this psalm. Much of it reflects the message from the prophet Nathan to newly-enthroned King David, found in 2 Samuel 7 and often called the “Davidic Covenant.” It’s full of good and hopeful things, including this prophecy about Jesus:

Your house and your kingdom will endure forever before me; your throne will be established forever.(2 Samuel 7:16)

This is a psalm about mercy. “Have mercy on me, O LORD, for I call to you all day long” (v. 3). “Hear my prayer, O LORD, listen to my cry for mercy” (v. 6). David appealed to God to help him on the basis of God’s character. Consider circling verse 15:

But you, O Lord, are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness. 

GOD-GIFTS

It’s easy to let lists like this fly over our heads, like kids fling wrapping paper on Christmas morning as they tear into their gift piles. But each of these qualities is a precious gift. When I am discouraged from negative circumstances or critical people, I find help in simply focusing on these qualities of God.  Even this morning, as I prayed for the person who has verbally abused me, God visited in simply bringing to mind the chorus of an old hymn written by George Young, a preacher and carpenter. One time when he was away preaching, some thugs who didn’t like his message burned down his humble home. Out of that experience he wrote the hymn “God Leads Us Along.” Its chorus reached across a century to cloak me with a sense of God’s care in my “cares”:

Some thro’ the water, some thro’ the flood,

Some thro’ the fire, but all thro’ the blood;

Some thro’ great sorrow, but God gives a song,

In the night season and all the day long.

It's not in the “Christmas” section of my hymnal, but it reminds me of God’s incomprehensible love for me—that He would send His Son to this messed-up planet to show us up-close what “mercy” really looks like. Glory to His Name. Blessed Christmas!

Timely thoughts....

I first wore this watch as a freshly-minted high school graduate, having moved up from cheap watches to my first “dress watch,” a gift from my parents. I remember going to the jewelry store with my dad so he could be sure it was exactly what I wanted. That was more than fifty years ago, and when it recently stopped working, we took it to the only man in our area who works on fine watches like this.  He’s semi-retired, working out of his home, but takes to his workbench decades of expertise. We’re thankful for him!

So why talk about an old watch when Christmas is just around the corner?  Maybe because the phrase “the time came” in the Christmas story made me think twice:

While they [Joseph and Mary] were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. (Luke 2:6-7a)

When “the time came” for our daughter to have her first baby, my husband could hardly wait for the news of the birth. That call came just a day before the official “due date” (how often had I said, “Babies come when they want, not when they’re due”?).  Of course, we hurried across the state (a half-day trip) to meet little Eleanor. When I walked into the bright, welcoming “birthing suite” where she was born, I couldn’t help but think about how multiple millions of women have experienced the birth process in far less sterile and welcoming circumstances. Mary was one. I can only imagine Mary’s mother’s angst as her very pregnant daughter climbed on a lumbering donkey to make an arduous trip to Bethlehem with Joseph for the capricious “census” the Romans had ordered up. That wasn’t Mamma’s Plan A, but it was God’s Plan Perfect.

In a filthy stable, far from home, Jesus was born, and all the predictions about a Messiah’s birth collided with celestial perfection. Born of a virgin. In Bethlehem. Announced by an ecstatic praise performance by untold numbers of angels. All in God’s right timing, to a discouraged nation suffocating under Roman oppression—a pagan culture that unwittingly provided the roads and common language to help spread the message Jesus would bring. 

Jesus’ birth wasn’t the only “perfect timing” of God’s plan for us. Fast-forward three decades or so to Jesus, gathering His disciples around Him for hard teachings about the end of “time” as we know it. They were ready for the world’s mess to be cleaned up and Jesus to reign. (Things haven’t changed much!)  But He had a different message, telling them to be like servants on the alert for their master’s unexpected return home:

You also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him. (Luke 12:40)

That had to be a “scratch-your-head” comment. He stood or sat before them, delivering this strange message about a “coming back.”

Increasingly, that’s what I think about at Christmas—not the manger-infant, but the mighty, invincible God who says He will return to this planet for a final judging and reward time that will blow our minds apart.  A new heavens and a new earth. New purpose, new roles, new relationships. Purity restored.

In the meantime, I wind my repaired watch every morning, to keep the day's seconds and minutes ticking along.  I try to remember: Christ's second coming could be today. Am I ready?  "Be patient and stand firm," James, the Lord's earthly brother, wrote, "because the Lord's coming is near" (James 3:9). Nearer now, most certainly, than when he wrote!

Gingerly speaking

A series inspired by sights of Kauai.
Gingerbread men—have you savored that scent lately? This being Christmas, no doubt you have.  Believe it or not, this flower, which looks festive enough to hang on a Christmas tree, is ginger!  Like hydrangea, red ginger puts out floral “bracts” at the end of stems.  The actual flower is a tiny bloom that emerges at the tip. So prized was this plant in early Polynesian history that leis of red ginger were worn by royalty for important occasions.

Well, today, I can think of a royal Person, who enjoyed the worship of angels in Heaven, yet visited earth in the form of a helpless baby. His true birthday, believed to be sometime in early spring, was officially “affixed” to December 25 at the end of the Third Century. That time of year already had pagan festivals honoring Saturn (the Roman god of agriculture) and Mithra (Persian god of light). Church officials apparently thought a same-time Christmas holiday would help non-believers accept Christianity as the empire’s official religion.

Before that, the significant Christian celebrations were Epiphany (Jan. 6) for the Magi worshiping the baby Jesus, and Easter (Passover time), for Jesus’ resurrection. Long ago, token gifts to one another celebrated the Magi’s gift-giving to the star-heralded baby. Those wealthy, foreign visitors didn’t know it, but the gold, frankincense and myrrh they left could be sold to finance the little family’s flight to safety in Egypt. The original idea of gift-giving didn’t come with furious shopping and debt.

As for ginger and Christmas, I think the idea of ginger leis is right on target. While we ought to be giving all to Jesus, He gave all to us, including the designation of a “royal priesthood.”  When I first read this verse in 1 Peter 2:9, I had to stop and think about what all of it means for me.  What we think we’re giving to Jesus, we might as well be offering dirty rocks wrapped in old newspapers. God sees His children this way:

But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.

It’s more than I can imagine, more than I deserve. But God, the greatest Giver, has abundant red ginger leis to drape around the necks of His children. The only requirement is to accept His offer of salvation through His son, and live out one’s connection to Jesus:

Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us. (1 Peter 2:12)

 The day God visits us? It could be tomorrow!

Hard/Not-hard to shop for

It’s that time of year when this phrase gets slipped into conversations: “What would you like for Christmas?”  Here’s the reply they don’t want: “Nothing. Give to something worthy.”   Amidst all the hoopla of “Black Friday” and super-sales, maybe we need to actually listen to those requests.

I found a kindred spirit recently when re-reading one of my “keeper” books, Calm My Anxious Heart by Linda Dillow (NavPress, 1998). In one chapter she deals with financial anxiety and the tendency to want more and more, like the greedy leech of Proverbs 30:15, who never has “enough.” In applying this to the pressures of holiday giving, Dillow described two friends who decided to proactively emphasize the “giving” that was important to them. Two months before Christmas, they wrote their adult children a letter, asking that their Christmas present to parents be a gift for someone less fortunate than they are. Period. They asked that the “gift” also appear as a little note on the Christmas tree, telling what the giver had done, in Jesus’ name.

The couple described their joy over opening the notes at Christmas.  A son began sponsoring an overseas orphan. Another washed floors and cleaned a rescue mission. Still another helped homeless people.

Of course, giving to the needy or worthy causes is no new idea.  Our mailboxes are full of appeals at Christmastime, often from groups we know little of. But there are others with a visible and respected presence that reach out to prisoners’ children, the known needy of the community, and other established overseas outreaches.  When our children were young, we filled those well-publicized shoeboxes with kid hygiene items and toys, wondering who would get them.  I hoped it balanced out that “it’s all about me” mentality that slips into the holidays.

Dillow’s concluding remark adds a punch to these suggestions: “Brainstorm with friends about how you can say ’Enough!’ to overspending for gifts.  Everyone’s home needs a house cleaning to keep the greedy leech away” (p. 93). It’s not about “Presents!” with a capital P and exclamation mark.  It’s about the presence of the holy God among us.

A true Christmas story: The Wise Man's Four Gifts

This true personal story, which I wrote thirty years ago, was published by four magazines. It just seemed the right thing to share again with Christmas just a few days away. Maybe there’s someone to whom you can be that “farmer from Bickleton.”

Our wise man came not on a camel, but in a pickup.  His blue jeans bore stains of ranch work, and his thinning gray hair lay in disarray from the icy December wind. He brought three gifts: a 50-pound sack of potatoes from his farm, a quart of his locally famous home-canned sauerkraut, and a freshly killed turkey from his flock.

My sister’s family called this man their “farmer friend from Bickleton.”  They knew him through church.  They were surprised he’d heard about Dad, since very few people in my sister’s town knew him.  And they were even more surprised that he’d come thirty miles over snow-slick, hilly farmland roads just to say,” I hurt with you.”

 A few days before, while 2,000 miles away at graduate school, I got the shocking phone call telling of my dad’s fatal heart attack. It had been just six months since Mom died of cancer.  I wasn’t ready to hear such news again.  Now I was at my sister’s home in a town 200 miles from where our parents had lived.

There wasn’t much time to pause in the kitchen and gaze at the man’s gifts.  On the other side of the wall in my sister’s ma-and-pa style bookstore, customers waited impatiently at the cash register with their Christmas purchases.

“You’ve got to fix the turkey,” my sister said as she rushed out.  I balked.  It wasn’t that I didn’t know how.  I’d fixed my first turkey less than a month before when I helped a Norwegian student family celebrate their first American holiday. It was just that I was having trouble putting my heart into any kind of project.  But dutifully, I gathered ingredients for stuffing and located the roaster.

Outside, snowflakes spit over the gray, chilled parking lot.  People, with lots to do and much to shop for, hastened past.  For us, this Christmas meant a funeral and no more holidays with Mom and Dad.  But for others it would bring happy reunions and parties.  There would be gift-giving to carry on the tradition of the wise men, who gave the baby Jesus gold, frankincense, and myrrh—the king’s metal, a sacred incense, and embalming spice.

Three gifts.  Then I realized our wise man had really brought four gifts, one of which was greater than gold.  He could have stayed home, warm and uninvolved.  But he came, and though he said little, he offered much in offering himself.

The store apartment began filling with the aroma of his turkey, a fragrant offering of love and—in its own way—frankincense for a watching King.

Getting off the Xmas Xpress

The hobby building of our local county fair featured this huge set-up belonging to a miniature railroad enthusiast.  As I listened to him tell visitors how his train-land grew, I recalled the simple set my son set up in his bedroom for several years at Christmas. He had a tiny room, ten feet square, and hauled half of a Ping Pong table in there to hold the train. He had to crawl under it to get to bed!

Lately, I’ve been thinking how the Christmas season is a lot like that miniature train. Once a train is set in place, and the tracks are perfectly aligned, it will go round and round until someone hits the “off” button. So it is with “traditions.”  Yes, we had some “traditions” when our children were young.  On Christmas eve they opened the package that contained their new home-sewn pajamas. On Christmas morning, their first package was a box of usually-forbidden sugary breakfast cereal. (Yes, I tried to be their health-conscious mom.)

But as I consider what has become “Christmas tradition,” I wonder if we have courage to call it the “Xmas Xpress”: the intensive retail and party season that propels us into winter with barely a nod to the huge spiritual significance of God coming to earth as a baby.  Have we made too much of gifting each other, and not gifting back in gratitude to God? I can think of several “gifts” that honor the Lord’s birth lots better than the way many are doing it now:

*The gift of kindness and service.  I hope we’ll never forget the simple gifts of showing the Lord’s love.  Like visiting a shut-in. Taking a meal to someone who’s lonely, ill or bereaved. Offering to clean, repair or do yard work for someone who can’t.  One young couple we know, living on a tight college-student budget, decided to do “Twelve Days of Giving” for their Christmas family gift.  They decided on twelve number-related “giving tasks,” and took photos of each for a small album they gave parents.  For example, for Day 10, the wife had ten inches of hair cut off for a non-profit that makes wigs for medically-bald children.  For Day 4, they offered “four hands” of serving in a local food bank.  Day 8 was picking up litter on eight blocks near their home.

*The gift of appreciation.  Has someone’s kindness made your life easier?  Tell them in a heart-felt note. Has someone’s close walk with Christ inspired you or helped you?  Tell them. This year, while adding notes to Christmas letters (yes, I still do that, but to a limited number), I took extra time to write some former, aging pastors and their spouses.

 

*The gifts of alms. It’s not just the red kettle bell-ringers. Our mailboxes are flooded with solicitations at Christmas because it is, after all, a time when we acknowledge God’s amazing way of intercepting history with the birth of His Son. He was born into poverty—not the way we might have chosen things for history. He ministered to the poor. In our family, we decide on at least one “Jesus gift” to support a ministry that has burdened our hearts.   We’ve encouraged family members to do the same in lieu of “gifting” us. It brings me joy to know that instead of more “stuff” for me, that money is instead  buying food for a child in Africa, chickens for a family in Central America, or electricity for a ministry to the homeless.

*The gift of deference. Not everyone in my circle of influence agrees with cutting back so drastically. To them, Christmas isn’t Christmas without gifts. They’d be disappointed without several packages to open.  I accept where they are, and try to gift wisely.

*The gifts of reconciliation.  My heart aches for families where there is enmity.  Often it’s because of a divorce or separation or some other family difficulty.  I pray for two families divided after a stepparent's death. I imagine Jesus weeping over this, even more than I do. What a gift it would be for either family unit to write or phone and say, “Let’s turn away from the past.  Please forgive me for my part in our conflict. Let’s make a fresh start before the Lord.” Such bold, humble steps are like the image of reconciliation in Psalm 133--of family harmony like precious anointing oil spilling over a priest’s head.  Surely, this is what pleases God.

The scriptures say of Jesus’ coming, “Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift” (2 Cor. 9:15). As Christians, we know the secular celebration has gotten out of hand. But in simple ways like this, maybe we can show the world that it’s still about how very, very much God loves us—so much that He sent a Savior.

Slaughter of the innocents

Our flag, like others, is at half-mast to honor the students and teachers killed last Friday in Connecticut. Droopy in a snowstorm, it reflects how many of us feel: emotionally low and limp. When I first saw the news alert about the slayings on my internet home page, I pushed back my office chair, wept and prayed aloud, “Lord, show your mercy to those who hurt. This is so awful.”

As the news stations recounted emerging details, a common remark was how terrible that this happened before Christmas. It reminded me how our culture has stamped Christmas with a happy image of pleasure and gift-giving. Excessive merchandizing and “political correctness” have diminished the celebration of a holy Birth.

Yet even His birth brought murder to innocents through the decree of a very spiritually sick person. His name was Herod the Great, and he was a greedy, suspicious, ostentatious, sensual, ruthless man who didn’t want anything or anyone to threaten his claim to power. When “wise men” from a far-away eastern land came to Jerusalem to seek a new king heralded by a strange star, he was more than disturbed. Behind a fake grin, he told them to report back about this king so he could come and worship him, too. When they didn’t return with information, he was beside himself. He ordered his soldiers to rampage Bethlehem, killing all little boys two years and under. That, he figured, would eliminate any competition.

Take a deep breath and imagine the wails of mothers and fathers, clutching their murdered babies. One Bible commentary suggests about 26 baby boys were slaughtered in the little hamlet. (Twenty-six were killed in Connecticut: 20 children, six adults.) With this desperately sad, ruthless act, the prophecy of Jeremiah came true. Ramah, near Bethlehem, was the burial place of Jacob’s wife Rachel, who represents the nation Israel:

A voice was heard in Ramah, Lamentation and bitter weeping,

Rachel weeping for her children, Refusing to be comforted for her children,

Because they are no more.” --Jeremiah 31:15

Herod, who intended to enhance his rule through this act, today is remembered only in annals of infamy for the slaughter of the innocents. Sadly, the deeds of the troubled young shooter in Newtown will stain his extended family. They, too, are grieving as we all weep and ask questions.

But it has to come back to this: Christmas is about a baby born to die. Herod’s decree was not Jesus’ time to die, so God had warned Joseph to flee with his family to hide in Egypt until Herod died. Three decades later, at the appointed time, Jesus did die, but as a Savior. As Savior, He understands our deepest grief: “He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). He was there as each child and teacher died in Newtown.

Can there be “Christmas” this year? Maybe not as people traditionally think of it. But there will be Christ in the midst of this, offering comfort in the unspeakable circumstances that happen because we live in a sin-dominated world. Someday, though, “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away” (Revelation 21:4).

Even as I share a tiny corner of national pain, that gives me hope.

That Perfect Gift

I just got back from buying unsliced french bread and bandages at the grocery store (no, the purchases weren't related). To be more truthful, I just escaped mayhem at our shopping center, dodging between preoccupied, frustrated people in the last hours of Christmas eve. Craziness! Soon...we'll be past the advertisements that urge us to keep buying. Earlier today when I logged on to my computer, the "home page" of my internet server boasted, "It's not too late to find the perfect gift." I had no interest in going to the link, but the phrase was pregnant with meaning (and that's pun intended).

After reading the internet's teaser headline, I thought of another "perfect gift" that someone opened before it was too late. I write of it in my devotional, Heaven,The Greatest Home Makeover. In our small town daily newspaper, survivors can buy space for detailed obituaries about someone who died. Some spend lots of money listing memberships, honors, and survivors, right down to their favorite dog. But one day I read a special one in which the family shared its admiration for the deceased person's amazing, self-taught mechanical how-to. Then they added (and for me, this was the best part!) that two weeks before his death (from diabetes complications, as I recall), he "received Christ as his Lord and Savior and was baptized along with his son. God had been patient, waiting all these years for the Spirit to move in his heart, time and again returning him from death's door."

We won't always have chance after chance after chance to receive God's gift of eternal life through Jesus. I think about that a lot when the holidays come and, for one thing, traffic fatalities related to drinking rise. (For those who don't know, my family was almost killed by a drinking driver in 1997.)

If you're reading this and haven't yet received God's gift, why wait? If you've been praying for years for a loved one to make that decision, don't quit. George Mueller prayed for decadesfor two of his friends to come to Christ. By the time he was buried, both made that life-changing decision.

The internet headline, despite its materialistic intentions, is spiritually right. It's not too late to find the just-right gift. It's been waiting for you all along. The perfect gift is a Person, not a package: "Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift" (2 Cor. 9:15).

P.S. The photo is of decorations on our Christmas tree. Next to the cross is a note telling of our treasured gift this year: a donation on our behalf to an organization that helps the poor and hungry.

Fullness of time

The term “fullness of time” came to mind as I admired the amaryllis blooming in brilliant orange quadruplets this morning on our kitchen table. Three weeks ago, it looked like a withered turnip. After weeks of winter fog and cold, we’re enjoying the display.

It’s appropriate that these fast-growing bulbs are popular for indoor blooming during Christmas. At the time of Jesus’ birth, the world was socked in by centuries of hopelessness. The long-ago prophecies of Someone to change that seemed to diminish with each turn of the seasons. Then it came—not as people thought, in the form of a warrior-king born in a palace, but in a baby born to a teenager in desperate poverty far from home.

Here’s the phrase in scripture: “But when the fullness of the time was come, God sent forth his Son” (Galatians 4:4). Every one of scripture’s prophecies was fulfilled with Christ. By one person’s estimate, using just 48 prophecies, the mathematical probability of all of them being fulfilled in one person is 10 to the 57th power. That’s 10 with 57 zeroes after it.

As the buy-buy-buy ads spill out of your newspaper or prance across your television screen, remember that they’ve got it all wrong. Christmas is not about indulging one another, but marveling that God indulged us with the greatest gift of all, a way to be reconciled to Him forever.

And maybe that’s another reason the amaryllis bloom has a trumpet shape, as a special reminder of the eternal view: “Behold, I show you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed” (1 Corinthians 15:51-52).If the birth of Jesus can overrule a probability of one in 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,-000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000—let’s celebrate, the Christ-coming past and the Christ-return-future!

Gift-wrapped

Charlie Brown had his wimpy Christmas tree. In our house, the art of gift wrapping suffers greatly. I know and admire those who elevate gift-wrapping to an art form. Every corner of wrap on the box is folded as neat as sheets on a hospital bed. The tape is pressed on in perfect parallels to the top and bottom of the box. The ribbons color-coordinate and sport little mini-gifts in the bows. Generous poufs of tissue sprout from gift bags.

Let’s just say that protégées of Martha Stewart do not live at my house. I have an under-bed box of wrapping paper, about half of it saved and ironed to recycle, the other half from yard sales. A large box in the garage holds “gift boxes,” which could be anything from a former candy box to one that held an assortment of greeting cards.

Wrapping holiday gifts reminds me of the adage, “It’s not the wrappings, it’s the love inside.” And I remember that God’s one-of-a-kind gift to the world came in humble packaging. Luke 2:7 says Mary wrapped her just-born baby “in cloths and placed in him a manger." The world's most precious baby didn’t wear disposable diapers and cuddle up in a soft, sanitary blanket sleeper. He was bound in long swaddling rags, the custom among the poor.

Recycled cloths—I never thought about it before. But God doesn’t always do things the way we expect.

Merry Christmas! And as you gather up the gift wrappings for the recycling box (or carefully fold them to iron and re-use), make this your prayer: “Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!” (2 Cor. 9:15 NKJV).

Finding the perfect (sensible) gift

In the Middle Ages, children's gifts came in bundles of three. They got something rewarding, something useful, and something for discipline. You might call it the original sweet-and-sour. That heritage came down to my own childhood Christmases with candy bars in my stocking, gift-wrapped new underwear, and something strange or unneeded. The last gift involved the discipline of a prompt and gracious thank-you note.

“Dear Uncle Bob,” began the creative exercise. “How did you know that a Rudolph the Reindeer knitted red nose-warmer was a wardrobe urgency?”

I always wondered how people could so badly misjudge what a kid really wanted. Then I became an adult and the buyer of kid gifts. The minute you enter a store, your mind turns to pudding. You wonder as you wander...and wander...past bulging shelves. What do they need? What do they want? Yes, they offered a suggestion list, but it was coded with strange letters. CD--candied dates? DVD--dark velvet dungarees? Wii—women’s indigo ice-skates? Two hours later, unable to find those items, you emerge--exhausted and exhilarated. You have bought traditional gifts of discipline. They will require creative thank-yous.

A tie, to hone acting abilities. "How did you know I needed another tie? I really do need to switch my garment of choice from tee-shirts to collared shirts. This tie that lights up when you insert the batteries will become my favorite."

Perfume, to sharpen olfactory acuity. "What a splendid fragrance. It seems a mix of passion blossoms and spearmint. I've never sniffed just that combination. Maybe I'll take some to my chem teacher for help in analyzing its content."

A book on study skills, for the study-challenged. “What timing to get this book on academic excellence. In barely a month, I will face finals but with renewed confidence from this book’s wisdom.”

Pajamas, to reinforce healthy habits. "Mother dear, how did you know I needed new garments for the eight hours of sleep I will get every night? I have forsaken my habit of staying up until midnight. From now on, I will put them on promptly at 9:30, rise at 6:30 and neatly tuck them under my pillow upon making my bed."

Who says it's hard to buy the perfect gift?

Okay, end of teasing! I’m grateful that God doesn't get befuddled about his gift-choosing and bestowing. He knows exactly what we need. He may give a reward, something useful, or something to discipline us, but it will be His very best. Matthew 5:17 says even though we humans, inadequate that we are, “know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”

Too busy? Break a leg....

The usual too-busy Christmas season was underway that Saturday morning, Dec. 16, 2006. I had hurried to the shopping center with three items on my to-do list before returning home to wash and set my 86-year-old mom-in-law’s hair. I just needed to find a citrus peeler, buy some groceries, and mail a stack of holiday greetings.

I had checked off item number one and was carefully making my way down an ice-covered public stairway in the mall, gripping the handrails, when my life was changed. Somehow, between handholds, my feet gave way and I landed at the bottom with a broken ankle. I sat on compact snow and ice in pain as passers-by walked around me to take care of their errands. Finally, somebody stopped, saw I wasn’t getting up, and offered to call an ambulance.

Later that evening, as a nurse rolled me out of surgery recovery, she said, “Honey, you won’t be going very many places for six weeks, at least.”

This could not be! It was Christmas! Plus, I was a care-giver for my mother-in-law, whose Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point where I was taking her meals, dispensing her pills, doing her laundry, and generally keeping her clean and healthy. Once the do-it-all person, now I had to sit back in a recliner, broken limb elevated, and learn a few lessons. Among them:
*The world will not stop even if I do.
*My family would survive.
*Care-giving my mom-in-law would happen with others pitching in.
*I had to accept help (meals, laundry, housework) because I just couldn’t do it.
*My family would find me to be a source of humor (pain pills do that to you).

I wouldn’t wish a broken ankle on anybody. I walk very carefully now when there’s ice about. I have wicked grippers for my snow boots. I’ve healed as best as possible, but those traumatized bones (the surgeon said, “You smushed it good”) let me know in advance that the weather is changing.

And when Christmas comes, I’m no longer the holiday tornado.

Yesterday morning before going to his afternoon substitute teaching job, my husband was listening to a Bill Gaither vocal band video featuring Larnell Harris. As I heated soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches for his lunch, I listened…and was touched by these words Larnell sang: “Precious Lord, take my hand.”

This year, more than any other, that expresses my heart. I’ve learned to cut back on expectations at the holidays. I am seeking more quiet places to listen to God, to sense Him taking my hand.

And it won’t take breaking a leg (or an ankle) for that to happen.

Have yourself a merry lesser Christmas

A few years ago, a frugal living specialist mentioned she made cheap Christmas gifts by stitching pot-holders out of old jeans. To her surprise, hundreds of fans pressed her for step-by-step instructions.

I’ve not yet gone the jean pot-holder route, but I’m still dreaming of a recycled Christmas. I caught the vision a few years ago when my husband and I taught kindergarten Sunday school, a job whose perks included being invited to the annual Sunday school Christmas party. Requirements for attending: two dishes for the potluck and one “white elephant” gift (something humorous you don’t want any more).

One year I retrieved my party “elephant” from my daughter’s wastebasket, where she’d tossed a black plastic spider ring spit out by a grocery store trinkets machine. I tucked it in an old velvet jewelry box.

At party time, who would choose that anonymous gift but our church’s most eligible twenty-something miss, who taught public school music. Her scream of horror was the party highlight. But true to her gracious personality, she actually expressed delight in her creepy gift.

“I’ll wear this when I direct my children’s choir,” she said. “They’ll watch my hands for sure!”

Oh, the variety of gifts in that room. Like a bar of deodorant soap (what I unwrapped). A nine-inch golf bag. Old rock-and-roll record (actually, a secret Elvis fan got it).Of course, the highlight was waiting to see who got the party’s perennial joke gift. Its recipient was supposed to carefully store it during the year, then bring it back cleverly wrapped for the next year’s joke gift exchange. The gift? A crocheted duck filled with melt-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hand candy, which it dispensed via an unmentionable place.

In contrast, I shake my head at the advertising that bombards us in this season. Who really parks in their driveway a luxury car topped with a bright red ribbon, just for Mom? Who really needs diamond necklaces or electronic gadgets? It makes more sense to me to honor the Gift-giver, and that’s why the check’s already gone to a carefully-chosen ministry.

No, I didn’t stitch gift potholders out of old jeans (though I did sew the annual pajamas for my sister’s grandkids). But I am thinking of how my family might revive the hilarity of the Sunday school teachers’ traveling gag gift. Let me dig around in the garage. There ought to be something. Maybe even a spider ring…..

Awry in the manger

I knew something was awry in the manger when the sputtering stopped. I was used to motor noises. I had a boy. Among his first toys were matchbox cars and trucks. They ran on, well, sputters. Little girls giggle. Boys sputter, especially when they’re three and haven’t yet learned words like “carburetor” or “horsepower.”

Advent had come, and we'd put out our child-friendly creche of fake moss on wood with plastic figurines. I sat little Zach down with his cloth Christmas book and related its profound plot of single words to the plastic figures. "Mary." Point to plastic mother. "Joseph." Point to plastic father. "Baby Jesus." Point to baby in animal feeding tray. Then on through the cows, shepherds, and wise men. I left him to review the lesson while I did housework.

All mothers of pre-schoolers worry when there is silence. Zach wasn't at the creche any more. All was okay--except the baby Jesus had a visitor. A four-inch motorcyclist had leaned his wheels against the corner by the cow.

"Zach," I said, calling my son to the scene of the personalized manger scene. "Doyou think Baby Jesus might wake up when the motorcycle goes vroom-vroom?” You don’t argue with a sputter specialist. The rider stayed in the no-parking zone.

Another year, when his younger sister Inga reached fashion doll age, the Holy Family had another unscheduled visit. She pushed the Wise Men to the side so that Barbie could pull up in her hot pink plastic Corvette for a social call. As I noticed Inga "walk" the doll over to the manger, I was just grateful Barbie, for a change, was modestly dressed.

We owe to St. Francis of Assisi the heritage of nativity re-creations. His outdoor manger scene helped tell local peasants the story of Christ's birth. But I doubt he imagined a set director like the one that emerged in our home. It was the year one child's personality bent became evident. As I passed by the creche in its traditional spot, I noticed something else awry in the manger. Sputter Boy had become Mr. Neatnik. My emerging perfectionist had lined up all the "people" on the right, and all the "animals" on the left.

I smiled at the sight, grateful he still left Jesus at the center of it all.

White wake-up call

One of the advantages of living in a northern climate is Nature’s winter alarm clock for sleepy children and teens.It’s been a few years, but I still remember the routine. They’d go to bed begging for an extra afghan on top because it was so cold. When morning came, they’d remain cocooned under their multiple layers unless somebody whispered two words and opened the curtains to reveal the truth.

It snowed.

Plus, it happened on a no-school day. Can life get any better? Suddenly, they were awake, eager to rush through breakfast (mean Mom says, “No corn flakes, no snow flakes”) and dig out those snow pants, caps, gloves and mufflers. A white world meant snowballs, snowmen, heaping snow for your own three-foot sledding hill, and making a snow fort. Oh yes, maybe scraping a few sidewalks to be “helpful.”

The only downside was Mom, who kept an eye on the clock and temperature and called them in before they turned into snowmen. Then it was hot chocolate while the wet snow gear tossed in the dryer for another stint in that wonderful white world.

Our first significant snowfall of the winter came yesterday. But those kids who sprang from their blanketed cocoons to revel in its wet whiteness don’t live here any more. They’re grown up and on their own. Now, snow means getting a shovel out to clear their own walks before anything else. Then, if it’s not a work day, maybe a trip to the ski hill.

Yesterday, as I scraped the driveway and sidewalks, I wistfully remember seeing snow through a child’s eyes. I have a picture of my son and daughter all bundled up, faces toward the sky, tongues out, trying to catch a flake on their tongues. Learning each snow flake is unique, they also tried to examine them with a magnifying glass. But their breath melted the fragile flakes before that happened.

The only member of the family not too excited about snow was Aug the cat. He made no secret of disliking having to hop through cold, wet stuff to his favorite guard station under the bird feeder. Who knows the mind of an animal, but snow clearly impaired the smells along the route of his daily territorial policing.

Of the Bible’s 14 references to snow, one of my favorites is in Isaiah 1:18:
“Come now, let us reason together,” says the Lord.
Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.
When we ask God for forgiveness of our sins, a blizzard of mercy pours out from Heaven, covering the dirty stuff in our lives.

And even though most of the world doesn’t experience a “white Christmas,” there’s a lot of symbolism in those Currier-and-Ives snow-time scenes. For isn’t Christmas about the Divine storm of mercy? And of Jesus coming to a sin-polluted world, spreading the soft blanket of pure hope?