B-log

What a difference a year makes.

Last Christmas, we were eight months into unemployment, living on my retirement savings. We were on a restricted budget to stretch our resources as long as possible. In many ways, it could have been a season marked by how poor we suddenly found ourselves, full of disappointment with the awareness of what we didn’t have.

It turned out to be one of the most special Christmases our family ever experienced.

We shopped for Christmas presents for one another from the Dollar Store. That’s not a joke or a typo. We combed that store’s aisles for meaningful presents for one another and thought of creative ways to express our love for one another through these inexpensive items. Our children never complained and jumped right in to the spirit of the opportunity, raising our joy in the process. When the gifts were later exchanged, the time was marked by laughter and sincere appreciation for the thoughtfulness and consideration that went in to each and every gift selection.

We worshipped at Prestonwood Baptist church. We were without a church home since being laid off the April prior. We had “settled in” at Valley Creek church in Flower Mound - a great church that we love. But we had decided that we wanted to go to Prestonwood for Christmas worship. There, we were blessed by the worship, especially by the singing of Holly Knight, who we have known from our days back in Colorado when Kelli had babysat Holly as a child. The church gave away hundreds of Nativity sets to children, and Kelsi brought one home as an unexpected, precious gift. 

We were also blessed by dear friends from Grapevine who surprised us with a large bag full of Christmas gifts…for the entire family. Every gift was a treasure. We were overwhelmed by the love expressed by the selfless, generous presents given to each of us. I never felt more like George Bailey than that day - rich beyond measure because of the kindness and love of friends.

A year later, so much has changed. We live a thousand miles to the west in a suburban community where 83% of the population is unchurched. We are part of a thriving church where I am honored to serve as the pastor of local outreach. God has knit our hearts with many people and we’re making new friends. Our children are thriving and finding their place in God’s work here. While it will take years to financially “recover” from the extended unemployment, we are in a much better place, economically speaking. We shopped at “regular” stores. We didn’t “go crazy,” but we were able to buy our children multiple gifts. In most ways, it was back to “Christmas as usual.”

Except that last night, at the end of the Christmas Eve, before Kelli put on her kerchief and I my cap…we spent time talking as a family about the year between last Christmas and this. We reflected on God’s goodness, on his faithfulness, on his provision, on his love and care and keeping. We worshipped him as a family in prayers of adoration, thanksgiving, requests, and praise.

From time to time, in response to good news, we hear people say, “God is good!” I agree. It’s true. What we learned, though, in this past year, is the first-hand experience of what we already knew to be true: In the “bad times” too, God is good. God was good in bringing to an end our time in Texas…though we wouldn’t have asked for it. God was good in drawing us into an extended time of waiting…though we never would have asked for it. He grew our faith and drew us close to another and to himself. God was good in every door he closed and every opportunity he gave to someone else….though I often begged for it not be so. He brought me (and all of us) to a dependence and trust in him that is more valuable than anything available for purchase at a store…and more fulfilling than any job title.

God didn’t give us patience. He gave us a situation that required patience. We had nothing but God. We had no choice but to trust him. The only thing that we had was the faith that he had given us. We held on to that faith, and accordingly, on to him, with all that we had within us. That faith was his gift to us…and he gave it to us to carry us because he is good.

This year, we know no fewer than 4 families who are today where we were last year, financially speaking. We know of dear friends who are hurting this Christmas. I pray for you daily, asking God to bring you through your pain, through your waiting, through your season of need. I also ask God to be real to you in these days, that he draws you near and that in these days that could be seen as “bad,” you will experience first-hand that God is good.

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, ⁵ even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved— ⁶ and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, ⁷ so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. (Eph. 2:4-7)

Then God said, “Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb that yields seed, and the fruit tree that yields fruit according to its kind, whose seed is in itself, on the earth”; and it was so.

After surveying the grass and herbs and trees that sprung forth all over the earth, with satisfaction “God saw it was good.”

I imagine “God saw” thick trunks, abrasive bark, jagged branches, and offered his approval seasoned with an odd mixture of joy and pain. Here, in the white spaces between the letters of Scripture, I envision God evaluating the trees he created with a deliberate, sentimental pause of poignancy, he alone knowing the fullness of what he created when he created the trees.

But they’re just trees, you might think. Sure, you appreciate shade offered by generous green leaves. You enjoy succulent fruit of various kinds that falls from branches. But the tree wasn’t the crowning achievement of creation. The highlight of creation came a mere 72 hours later, when God stirred man from the dust of the earth. Why then would God linger as he affirmed his own leafy creation when humans were still on his creation agenda?

Over 2,000 years ago, a village farmer chose a few lengths of planked wood, possibly from a rarely used pile of scrap lumber. Hammering them together with crude nails, he fashioned a manger to feed the animals grazing on his land. Little did he know that it would serve as the first bed for a special newborn, an infant of promise.

The baby was of royal lineage and of priestly heritage. He was conceived by a miracle and would change the course of history. He was the Deliverer, the Redeemer, the Spotless Lamb. He was nothing less than God’s only son, Jesus. Despite this, God himself ordained that this child would be born in obscurity on a anonymous hill outside an unremarkable town, wrapped in plain swaddling, bedded in a box built to be feed box, not a cradle.

When God created the trees on the third day, he knew those trees would beget the wood that would one day give his son warm comfort and security, formed as a humble box that would serve as his cradle. God saw this and “saw that it was good.”

Barely more than three decades after that special night, we again are on a hill. Again, we find wood being used for an immensely important purpose. Again, God’s son, Jesus is here.

Our minds prepare us for a scene of joy, for we remember that Jesus is now the man of promise, the man of deliverance, the man of redemption. He is the Messiah, the High Priest and the King of Kings. Yet what we observe absolutely assaults our senses. It defies logic. It baffles understanding.

Here, we see Jesus not in regal gowns, but stripped to a loin cloth. He wears not a crown of gold, but one of thorns. He bears not sashes of proclamation, but gashes of gore. He is not exalted but shamed, humiliated, mocked, scorned and ridiculed. We see not a king of victory, but a man of defeat.

And the wood? It’s there, too. But rather than being hammered together to make a throne for the lone son of God, it is being roped together in cruciform for the death of the son of Man. Large spikes are driven into the logs, but only after each one pierces the flesh of this man Jesus. The abrasive bark opens the whip-induced wounds on his back, and his blood runs freely down the channels on the log’s surface. This cross is lifted up with Jesus nailed upon it, and planted into the ground. Onlookers raise their eyes to this man on this tree and they weep. Slowly, painfully, but certainly, Jesus dies.

God ordained for this to be so. And when he created the trees on the third day, he did so knowing they would one day beget the wood that would be used for the purpose of killing sis son, Jesus. Even so, God saw this and “saw that it was good.”

Greater than God’s act of creation was God’s act of Redemption. Jesus was born to die. He wasn’t born to give us an example, or to teach us great lessons. He was born to die. When he died, he died for you, and he died for me. And he died so that we could live. It is only by placing your full faith and trust in him that his death was sufficient for your eternal life, that you can experience life in the fullness that God intended when he created you.

Amidst the joys and the toys and the noise this Christmas season, take a moment and thank God for his son. Look at the Christmas tree in your home and remember that “God saw that it was good.” Thank him that the story doesn’t end in a manger, or even on a cross. Thank him for loving you so much that that the story never has to end, and will not if you belong to him, because of the sacrifice of your Lord and Savior, Jesus.

A popular anti-Christmas argument is taken from the biblical admonition found at Jeremiah 10:1-2: 

Hear the word which the Lord speaks to you, O house of Israel. Thus says the Lord: “Do not learn the way of the Gentiles;

Interestingly, it’s been argued that the immediately following verses (3-4) can be interpreted as a condemnation of the ritual of putting up a Christmas tree:

For the customs of the peoples are futile; for one cuts a tree from the forest, the work of the hands of the workman, with the ax. They decorate it with silver and gold; they fasten it with nails and hammers so that it will not topple. (Jeremiah 10:3-4)

Provocative?

Well, remember that this was spoken through the prophet hundreds of years before Jesus’s time, so it’s probably not specifically about the Christmas tree. But it could speak to a practice of putting up wooden totems in homes. A totem was an idol representing a god that the family worshipped.

Like most people, we put up a tree. And we decorate it. Not so much with silver and gold, because Kelli’s jewelry would look out-of-place hanging from its branches. We cover our tree with ornaments that are personally meaningful to our family.

We top our tree with an angel. We had a crocheted angel that we lost in the fire (read below). We replaced it with a Victorian angel, and just this year, removed its wings (because human-appearing angels are wingless, biblically). Now, it looks like a Victorian woman atop our tree. So I’m open to shopping for a star to replace her in the future Christmases.

We switched from natural tree to artificial four years ago for a few reasons:

• We were tired of finding pine needles clear into March and April. 
• It was more economic, figuring in the one-time cost versus the annual expense.
• It was pre-lit, and thus time-saving.
• It is less of a fire hazard. And as a family that experienced a Christmas fire, that is particular important to us. Back in 2000 when that happened, the fire crew intervened in the nick of time before our tree ignited. Had that happened, they had said, the entire house would have been destroyed because of the giant fireball the tree would have become.

The-tree-is-evil arguers point to the Christmas tree’s roots (punny!) in pagan beliefs that represented eternal life, virility, renewal, and so on.

The tree has no meaning to me. Looking at it now across the room from me, it’s just a big green thing we put up, decorate, light up at night, place gifts under, and then take down. It’s pretty, as far as those things go. When I think about it, I don’t think about Adonis and his resurrection by the snake Aesculapius. Jesus and eternal life…unless I’m writing a blog entry about it, and then I do.  Mostly, I think its a little silly, because I’m reminded of Jim Gaffigan’s jokes about it:

Make no mistake, we are sober-minded in putting up our tree. But we don’t overly think it. We simply receive this tradition and celebrate the big green, lighted, adorned tree in our living room for a few weeks. 

John Beardsley, a Christian with a web site (a rarity, I know, says the Christian with a web site), asks the rhetorical question, “Should a Christian Celebrate Christmas?”

At the link, he gives an extensive “no” to his own question. The article is good, in that it provides answers to the “where did we get this from?” questions about Christmas traditions, decorations, and even the holiday itself.

That being said, I’m not on board with his conclusion…to abstain from the festivities. I’m more on board with the receive, reject, redeem taxonomy articulated by Mark Driscoll.

Many of the people who ask the topic question do so a lot, under a larger formulaic question of Should a Christian X Y? In this question, X is a verb, and Y is a direct object of the verb. Other variations of this question in history have included:

Should a Christian…

• celebrateEaster?
• celebrate Halloween?
• celebrate Passover?
• celebrate birthdays?
• read Harry Potter?
• read the Twilight books?
• read The Shack?
• read the NIV version of the Bible?
• vote for Democrats?
• vote for Adam Lambert?
• support the right of women to vote?
• support the right of African Americans to vote?
• own slaves?
• practice yoga?
• practice birth control?
• get a tattoo?
• sue other people?
• eat meat?
• eat junk food?
• go to church?
• play Dungeons and Dragons?
• play sports on Sunday?
• watch American Idol?
• watch The Sopranos?
• watch The Passion of the Christ?
• and so on…

So here’s where the 3R question opens to the bigger issue. Each Christian is responsible for deciding on each issue where to receive, where to redeem, and where to reject.  This is the essence of liberty. It is the freedom to explore, to strive to follow the Spirit’s guidance, and to live in grace and mercy.

If you are a Christian, you are free to discover what’s right. You don’t need me to tell you what to do. In posts to follow, I’ll be sharing what we have discovered, not to tell you what you should do, but just to maybe provoke thought in you and help you decide for yourself what to do. In some of these things, we’ve changed:

• from “reject” to “redeem”
• from “receive” to “redeem”
• from “receive” to “reject”

I’ve been wrong about some things, and right about others. I reserve the right to change my mind in the future if at any point I realize that I’m wrong about things I currently think I have right. And you have every right to think I’m wrong about what I have right, right about what I have wrong, and wrong and right about what I have wrong, and right, respectively.

The point is, if you are a Christian, you are free. Living in freedom means you are free to pursue your responsibility to think for yourself, free to obey God’s Holy Spirit as you perceive him leading, and free to change when you discern change is needed.

Moonless nights were always difficult. With even a fingernail of a moon, shadows move and prowling dogs give up their secret movements. Tonight, though, everything was a shadow and my ears were my eyes. On nights like this the flock stood quiet, with the lambs nestled close to the ewes. It would be an exhausting turn at watch, with every noise demanding my attention. Overhead, the canopy of stars punctured the blackness of the dark, blinking a coded message that echoed God’s promise to Father Abraham made so many generations earlier.

I was well settled into the night’s vigil. I whistled the low trill of the grouse to alert my young brother that all was secure in my quarter. He mimicked my call, careful not to rouse the flock. With no winds to mask the cautious steps of prairie wolves, I would be able to listen for their advance, even as I closed my eyes. I found a flat spot on the rocky outcrop and rested my head and my tired sight.

A brilliant light flashed, chasing away the darkness from behind my closed eyes. I bolted upright and raised my arm to shield my sight. In front of me, the flock had startled and scurried chaotically in every direction. From their outposts, my brothers ran to me and together we saw the source of the light at the same moment.

It was a messenger from heaven.

He appeared as a man, but not like any man I had ever seen. And the glory of the Lord came out from around him. We could not behold him. We fell to our faces, huddling together in terror.

Then, with a voice that sounded like the call of ten strong men, the angel spoke.

“Do not be afraid,” he said.

I barely lifted my head, peeking upward at this majestic creature. He gestured at me and continued. “I bring good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David, a Savior who is Christ the Lord.”

Instantly, a host from heaven appeared around the heavenly messenger, chasing away any lingering dark of the night. As though they stood upon an unseen platform taller than any man-made construction, as a choir they worshipped in song.

Glory to God in the highest,
      and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.

Then as suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone.

The night was again black and moonless. No wind whispered a clue to where they had gone. The flock instantly calmed and went back to their night’s routine, as if nothing had even happened.

Finally, I stood on wobbly legs and looked around. I picked up my staff and offered it as an aid to my brothers. The silence rang in my ears and seemed to demand that I say something to acknowledge what we had witnessed.

“Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about,” I said.

My brothers agreed.

We quickly gathered our flock and made our way the short distance to Bethlehem. The journey was silent. We could not understand why this messenger had come to us. Unlike the Pharisees, we are continually unclean. Unlike the scribes who study the law, we are hopelessly unlearned. Yet, as we approached Bethlehem, it was obvious that the city of David slept, wholly unaware of who had been born within its walls.

The echo of the angel’s words overwhelmed me. 

“Savior.” We have been asking God to save us from Roman rule and Parthian threats for generations.

“Christ.” We aren’t trained men, but we knew this Greek word meant “Messiah,” the one who God had been promising for ages. This savior would lead us because he was God’s anointed.

“Lord.” This baby born this night was the one who would be our king!

We entered the city by the sheep gate, as was custom for us to do. We were far from where the wealthy and important families slept. Though we did not know where we were going, we easily found the baby. The child’s father greeted us at the door and he smiled as we told our story. He shared that an angel had visited him, too. He bade us to enter.

Just like the angel said, he slept in a manger, wrapped in cloth. We gathered around the makeshift crib and we simply watched him.

We worshipped him.

I can’t tell you how long we stayed in his presence, but I relive it as though each second was a lifetime. At one moment, the baby woke and stirred. He cooed as babies do, and hiccupped. I stood before him and thanked God for this gift.

He was ordinarily beautiful. Though plainly human, the angel had told us he was divinely regal.

Eventually, we quietly stepped away from his presence.

Light was breaking and this part of the city began to stir as the day’s duties beckoned.

We could not keep this news to ourselves. We ran down the roads telling everyone we met, yelling, “God has kept His promise! He has sent His Savior! The Messiah has been born! To God be the glory!”

***

I remember that amazing night where an angel of the Lord invited me to sit in the presence of our King, and I can scarcely believe that more than thirty years have passed.

I still tend flocks, but long ago I moved my family to Jerusalem. The completion of another Passover usually gives me reason to rest, but today I am troubled in my spirit.

You see, just a few days earlier on the eve of Passover, I watched from afar as Roman Centurions hammered spikes through the wrists and ankles of a rabble-rousing Rabbi.  They nailed him to a wooden cross.

In this time set aside to celebrate how God delivered us from Pharaoh, I was part of the crowd that watched this man—one of our own—be killed because he committed crimes worse than those of Barabbas.

They said that he was guilty of blasphemy. They said he was a threat against Rome. They said he was an agent of Satan.

Others, though, said he was kind. They said he taught the people about God. He healed people. They said he could provide miracles. They said he was a friend to sinners.

He was arrested at midnight and all his followers fled in fear. Alone, he faced this hangman’s jury. If guilty, he should have been stoned to death according to our laws. Instead, he was tried in the Roman court. So Pilate commanded him to carry his own cross to Golgotha.

The news quickly spread. The one known as “The King of the Jews” would be crucified. Just days earlier, crowds were worshipping him.  Now, they gathered and mocked him.

At Golgotha, he was hung from the cross to die. The surrounding audience taunted him. Centurions jammed a crown of thorns atop his head, scorning his reign over us people of Israel.

From a distance I watched this tragedy unfold. I was too afraid to come near. My soul ripped in two as I watched him suffer.

I was too far away to hear the words he spoke to the two criminals on either side of Him. In their dying breaths, one wept in gratitude while the other gnawed his tongue with bitter anger.

Now this man in the middle was alone on his cross, abandoned by everyone. I approached the cross, but was too fearful to draw near, lest someone identify me as one of his followers.

We all abandoned him.

Without warning he cried out, “Father, why have you forsaken me?”

The silence beat against my ears with a violent slap.

 In a voice barely above a whisper he said, “it is finished.”

And he was gone.

Of course, you know these events are connected.

That man who died. He was that baby who was born back when I was a shepherd boy.

I met him laying in the manger. I saw him nailed to the cross.

I met him wrapped in swaddling cloths, and I watched him be stripped of his robe and his dignity.

A choir of angels announced him, but he died rejected and alone.

His name was Jesus.

The angel called him Savior. Christ. Lord.

So did I.

In the shadow of the cross, the manger seems so far away, so long ago.

At his death, the sky went dark and the earth shook. News of the temple’s damage became the gossip of the streets. Some people mourned the death of Jesus, comparing him to the Passover lamb. Most people returned to their quiet lives of desperate faith.

It’s been three days since, his followers took him down from the cross and buried him in tomb belonging to a wealthy friend. The men and women who associated with him mourned there daily, according to our customs.

This morning, though, the most unusual news spread through Jerusalem.

Mary (the one who was once demon-possessed), Peter (the fisherman), and the one Jesus loved like a brother (I think his name is John) all have come announcing that the tomb of Jesus is empty. They claim the stone had been rolled aside and the grave lay empty, except for the burial cloths that once covered him. They say that Jesus is alive!

I had to see for myself. I made the short journey, again feeling as though my steps were guided and the truth unfolded before me. My sorrow changed to hope as I approached the grave and peered inside its dark depths.

The tomb is empty!

Jesus is alive!

He is the Savior!

He is the Christ!

He is Lord!

He is alive!

Disclaimer: The following is simply an explanation of one family’s decision to exclude Santa Claus from their Christmas experience. It is not intended to be a polemic against any personal decision you have made. It is offered without judgment or criticism that you may have made for your family. The author is not telling you what to do, how to do it, when to do it, or why to do it. Merry Christmas.

I don’t remember how we came to the decision to exclude Santa Claus from our family experience. I can tell you that it was no monumental decision. Both Kelli and I were raised in homes where Santa had been welcome, and neither of us had been scarred irreparably by it. Neither of us were hagiophobes who feared Saint Nick, or even the specter of a manic, white-bearded man wearing an over-sized crimson jogging suit climbing down our chimney in the middle of the night with a large sack filled with home electronics slung over his shoulder. We just made a calm, rationale decision that our home would be Santa-free as much as it was up to us to do so.

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