Nodding Off

If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is lurking at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it. (Genesis 4.7)

Worthiness Issues

How telling that Scripture’s first recorded human conflict isn’t a power struggle. It’s not about money. It’s not sex-related. Although it ends in murder, it’s got nothing to do with one party threatening the other’s wellbeing and survival. In fact, differing opinions, clashing personalities, or—as many presume—sibling rivalry don’t enter the equation. God’s acceptance is the problem, and the conflict resides entirely in one man. Cain, notoriously immortalized as the Bible’s first killer, is undone when disregard of his worship raises worthiness issues.

The story, as told in Genesis 4, doesn’t say what’s wrong with Cain’s offering. Here’s all we’re told. Cain is Adam and Eve’s oldest son. And it’s important to keep that top of mind, because he retains singular status as humanity’s first-born. He’s the first to discover how growing up works, even as his folks figure out how to raise him. We who’ve been first children or first-time parents know well the anxieties of learning by trial and error, despite caring people who helped us get through it. Cain and his parents manage without any practical advice and emotional support. There’s no one to assure them their concerns are typical. No one consoles them when naïve mistakes trigger profound regret. No trusted relatives and friends take their hands and say, “It’s not the end of the world.”

Although Adam and Eve benefit from experience when their next child, Abel, comes along, everything Cain encounters in life is new to him. He basically invents agriculture by learning to cultivate crops. Abel grows up to be history’s first rancher, herding sheep rather than working the soil. It’s a hard life for both men, as each gradually masters the mysteries of nature’s cycles and setbacks. It is Cain who first offers God a portion of his crop in gratitude for God’s goodness. Abel follows suit, giving God a sample of his new lambs. And here’s where the trouble starts. God honors Abel’s offering, yet disregards Cain’s. God doesn’t say at first why Cain’s gift isn’t accepted and not knowing the reason uncorks a deadly potion of rage, devastation, and self-hatred. The best Cain comes up with is he must lack something Abel possesses. He’s somehow inferior in God’s eyes, and since he and Abel are the first to worship God with giving, there’s no one to suggest God’s apparent disregard may have a higher purpose. Could it be that God wants to teach Cain an invaluable lesson he’s missed?

Regaining Control

So we add another “first” to Cain’s list. As well as Scripture’s first human offspring, farmer, and murderer, he’s its first person to feel blindsided by divine prerogative. Genesis 4.5 tells us he “was very angry, and his countenance fell”—reactions we relate to, as we’ve all felt angry and crestfallen when it seemed like God disregarded us, ignored our intentions, or unfairly favored others. And though the drastic measures he takes to rectify his situation turns his story into a cautionary tale, we still owe Cain a debt of gratitude, because his inner turmoil occasions another critical first. This is the first time we witness God reach for us when fears of inferiority and rejection overtake our thoughts and emotions.

We have no idea what comes of God’s regard for Abel’s offering. Whatever transpires between them doesn’t interest the Genesis writer, whose fascination with Cain alerts us there’s something highly significant in his saga. While we lock on his lame attempt to brush off Abel’s murder—the infamous “Am I my brother’s keeper” moment—I’m convinced the big message appears before the crime, in verse 7, when God urges him to wake up to his self-destructive impulses. “If you do well, will you not be accepted?” God asks, before warning, “And if you do not do well, sin is lurking at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it.”

The problem isn’t Cain’s offering, and the issue isn’t his inferiority or God favoring Abel over him. It’s his reluctance to master ideas and emotions that give rise to flawed beliefs and behaviors. The question isn’t whether God finds Cain worthy. It’s whether Cain’s thoughts and actions are worthy of him. His fear of rejection is rooted in his refusal to reject temptations that endanger him and others. “Do right and you’ll be accepted,” God says. “Control your urges or they’ll do you in.” It sounds so simple. Yet Cain proves how hard regaining control can be when we’ve fallen asleep at the wheel. Nothing he’s told stirs him. He lures Abel into a field, kills him, and pretends nothing happened. Then he finds out that disregard for God’s guidance leads to irrevocable loss. He’s not rejected. He’s dismissed. God sentences him to a fugitive life among people who may want to kill him, yet refrain because he’s cursed with a “hands-off” mark. He ends up living in fear, in a land called Nod, far from God’s presence and everything he knows.

Nothing to Do with God

God’s love is unconditional—too priceless to earn and too pure to deserve. Knowing that moots the question of God’s acceptance. How would a Creator Who goes to inconceivable lengths to embody love—and then die for it—conceivably reject anyone? Doing so would undo all that Jesus achieved and, in John 6.37-38, He flatly says that’s not going to happen: “Everything that God gives Me will come to Me, and anyone who comes to Me I will never drive away; for I have come down from heaven, not to do My own will, but the will of the One Who sent Me.” So our debates and anxieties about who is or isn’t acceptable to God—who’s worthy of grace and who’s not—who’s saved and who isn’t—have nothing to do with God. It’s the same tiresome fear that consumes Cain and ultimately destroys two lives, the oldest human conflict in the Book. While we’re nodding off, conjuring reasons why God accepts some and rejects others, God’s already put the matter to rest with a question and caution that couldn’t be plainer: “If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is lurking at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it.”

Claiming our Scriptural right to active worship and participation in Christ’s body begins by honoring God’s desire that our lives reflect principles that please God. In Romans 12.1-2, Paul writes, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” It’s Genesis 4.7 all over again, isn’t it? Do well and you’ll be accepted; present yourself as a living sacrifice. Master harmful urges; renew your mind.

Although Cain’s fields produced healthy crops, his life was unfruitful, and that corrupted his offering, which in turn loosed doubt in God’s justice and his self-worth. If only he’d woke up when God nudged him. If only he’d cleared away the clutter of dead-end attitudes and unproductive pursuits. If only he’d renewed his mind. Then he’d have known what God wants us to know. The matter of God’s acceptance has been settled since the dawn of time. Feeling inferior and fearing rejection are nothing more than symptoms of unhealthy thinking.

Wake us, O God. Bring us face-to-face with self-destructive attitudes and pursuits that destroy confidence in Your acceptance and our worth. Heighten our awareness that unhealthy temptations want to do us in. And give us boldness to defy them by renewing our minds in keeping with Your principles. Amen.

While we nod off, conjuring silly reasons why God should accept some and reject others, God’s already put the matter to rest.

Podcast link: Nodding Off

Lookers

She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the Child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. (Luke 2.37-38)

Weighty Words

Just before Christmas I caught a “Primetime” rerun of Diane Sawyer’s report on cloistered nuns. Unlike sisters who dedicate their lives to charitable service, these saintly women heed a monastic calling to denounce all worldly obligations so they’re free to pray for the world. What Sawyer discovered in their fortitude, discipline, and self-sacrifice was astounding. Along with a perpetual intercessory vigil within their abbey walls, they answer a congregational call to prayer every three hours. Eight times a day they forego their communal and personal needs to lift our needs before God. Sawyer’s awe focused on the physical and emotional havoc that must result from such a grueling regimen. The nuns’ selflessness elicited a different response on my part, however. I couldn’t stop thinking, “Somewhere, someone is praying for me.” Think about that. Right now, regardless when you read this, people tucked away in abbeys and monasteries around the world are bowed in prayer for you—for us.

The manner in which the nuns discussed their vows took Sawyer aback. They spoke of their symbolic marriage to Christ as if it were an actual union and described their relationship in intimate terms—not merely loving Christ, but being in love with Christ. Although their passion was startling, their commitment defused any skepticism about their sincerity. Their lives gave weight to their words. In Sunday’s Gospel (Luke 2.22-40), we meet Anna, perhaps the New Testament’s finest example of a cloistered, intensely devout woman. Like the nuns that Sawyer interviewed, her integrity precedes her. On seeing the Infant, she rejoices and bears witness that He is Israel’s Promised Redeemer. And when Anna speaks, people listen. They may be taken aback but, still, they listen.

Substitution

Christmas’s majesty invites us to overlook a sad aspect of its tale. By necessity, it scuttles any dreams Mary and Joseph harbor about being newlyweds and first-time parents. What enthralls us surely disappoints them on many levels. Luke 2.19 suggests Mary comes to terms with it, saying when the shepherds depart, she “treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” Eight days pass before things resemble anything Mary or Joseph may have dreamt about. Per custom, their Baby is circumcised and named “Jesus.” Like today, the bris is a private affair—a notable, yet not notably “big,” event. The big day that Joseph and Mary dream of comes 32 days later, when they go to Jerusalem, where Mary presents herself and Jesus to the Temple priests. That’s when Anna enters the picture, and grasping her importance requires fully understanding what’s going on.

Two essential rites are publicly observed. The first ends Mary’s purification—the 40-day period banning her contact with anyone outside her household. The second, designated for first-born sons, declares Jesus “holy to the Lord” (v23), with a sacrificial ritual that redeems Him just as Israel’s oldest males are saved when the Death Angel visited Egypt. The offering mirrors that of the first Passover: the blood of a lamb. But Mosaic Law makes exceptions for mothers who can’t afford a lamb. In its place, she offers a pair of turtledoves or young pigeons—one to seal her purification and the other a redemptive offering for her first-born son. Mary takes this option for many reasons. With pregnancy coming before her marriage is finalized, it’s doubtful her dowry has been transferred. Her 40-day confinement in Bethlehem has likely drained the couple’s resources. The costs of caring for a new mother and child have added to their burden. So we can assume they’re near penniless when they reach the Temple.

Putting practicalities aside, however, the presentation’s specifics are no less illuminating than the Nativity’s attention to detail. Once again, arbitrary factors combine to establish Jesus’s identification with the poor, uprooted, and those incapable of meeting the Law’s highest demands. More than that, it’s here that the substitution theme comes to the fore. The usual sacrifice is bypassed for a seemingly lower—nonetheless exceptional—offering that obtains astounding beauty in the nature of the exchange. It replaces an earthbound, dim-witted beast with a free and heavenly creature that lights on the ground yet lives in the sky.

Although we often call Jesus “the Lamb of God,” the avian substitution for His redemption more aptly presages His substitution for our redemption. The Lord of Heaven alights on Earth to save us. Our vantage from the far side of Calvary crystallizes the substitution’s meaning, but we can’t fathom anyone who witnesses the presentation perceiving its import. Yet two elderly prophets—Simeon and Anna—not only see it. They get it, because they’ve spent their lives looking for it. They glory in having the long-awaited Christ is in their midst.

All

Luke writes that the Spirit guides Simeon to the Temple, where he takes the month-old Child in his arms and praises God. He tells his Creator he’s ready to die, “for my eyes have seen Your salvation, which You have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” (v30-32) He prophesies to Mary, foretelling Jesus’s death by saying He’s destined “to be a Sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” (v34-35)

While Mary and Joseph marvel at Simeon’s words, Anna appears. Luke tells us she’s 84 and cloistered herself in the Temple after her husband of seven years died. Since women of her time marry in their teens, Anna has spent 60-plus years fasting, praying, and anticipating the Savior. To three generations of worshipers she’s a Temple fixture whose permanence and devotion endow her testimony with enduring truth. She enlarges on Simeon’s praise and prophecy by including everyone who wisely attends to her message. Verse 38 reads, “At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the Child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.”

A Breed Apart

No matter who, what, or where we are, trusting God’s Word transforms us from passive listeners into passionate lookers. Like Simeon, we live to see God’s pledges materialize before our eyes. Like Anna, we make great sacrifices to watch patiently for the joy and salvation promised to us. Like Mary and Joseph, we cope with the deferral of ordinary dreams and discover—to our amazement—God’s extraordinary purpose for our lives. As lookers, we’re a breed apart. We’re undaunted when what we observe conflicts with the vision God instills in our beings. We look for something better, purer, and truer than worldly favor or fortune—something so marvelous it can’t be mistaken as anything less than God’s handiwork. And we know it when we see it, because we know how God works. Material hardships result in spiritual windfalls. Periods of isolation bring us into the company of righteous prophets and people, fellow lookers one and all. When the best we can offer falls below traditional standards, faith magnifies our ability to see more than meets the eye. We view moments of inadequacy as new promises of greater things. Mary’s poor sacrifice activates Simeon and Anna’s vision to see the promise is bigger than they realized. The Christ Child’s symbolic redemption signals a New Order of inclusion God has “prepared in the presence of all peoples,” Simeon declares, “a revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.” That’s incredibly big, completely unexpected and unprecedented good news.

How serendipitous that this passage finds its way to us on New Year’s Day, just as midnight resolutions start losing their fizz. The challenge at hand isn’t about resolving to do better in the coming months. It’s about mustering resolve to look for promises God wants to reveal to, in, and through us. Time is immaterial. Tenacious faith is what counts. Marching into 2012, our eyes fixed on God’s pledges, we’ll inevitably stumble on blind spots and momentary impasses of doubt and impatience. We’ll mistake harsh realities for hard-set impossibilities. Dim-witted, earthbound logic will present every reason to stop believing, praying, and watching for God’s Word to come to pass. In those moments, we reach for Christ, the Lord of heaven and earth, the Promise of all promises, Who with infinite compassion and wisdom calls people we don’t know to pray us through hours when our vision falters. May Anna and Simeon’s examples light our way through the coming year and the remainder of our days.

Savior, Whose promises are ever true, we begin another year resolved to look for Your promises to be realized in us. Illuminate our understanding that each ordinary day brings us one day closer to Big Days, when we marvel at Your handiwork. Make us tenacious lookers. Endow us with trust to await the visions You instill in our beings. Amen.

When what we observe conflicts with the vision God instills in us, we look beyond what we see, viewing moments of inadequacy as new promises of greater things.

Postscript: New Venture for a New Year

For some time, Britt, a longtime S-F reader and friend, has urged me to podcast the posts in tandem with publishing them here. It took a while for me to grasp why she was so enthusiastic and confident about the idea. But I finally got it and I’m delighted to report today launches the audio version of Straight-Friendly. It’s not much—just me reading the post—but it’s a start. Currently, I’m posting the podcasts on S-F’s freshly minted podbean site. I’ve yet to solve the inevitable Apple mysteries embedded in making them available via iTunes. Hopefully, that will happen very soon. I ask your prayers for this new venture, invite you to listen, and pass the link along to others who might want to listen in too!

http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/01/01/lookers/

(Thank you so much, Britt, for your gentle insistence. It wasn’t as difficult as I imagined!)

Happy New Year, everyone! May God bless you richly!

Never Alone

The Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen His glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. (John 1.14)

Among Us

We had a bit of a scare this weekend. One of Walt’s online buddies—who, like countless others during the holiday season, has been struggling with loneliness and despondence—messaged that he was giving up. He felt so isolated and unloved that he wrote, “They won’t find me for weeks after I do it, because no one calls or comes around.” Walt had only his friend’s screen name, first name, the town he lived in, and some sketchy information about his professional life to go on. But he also had two invaluable gifts: driving concern and years of journalism experience. He set out to find his friend, hoping he’d reach him in time. Late last night we heard from his town’s police department. They’d located him. He was alive and had come to grips with his depression. As much as all could be well, it was.

When the good news came, I was staring at Sunday’s Gospel (John 1.1-14), wondering what I could possibly say about this famous passage. This is John’s brilliantly mystical Incarnation account, unhindered by human involvement and incidentals. No Mary, Joseph, Baby, angels, shepherds, Magi, star, stable—nothing we can paint or put on a greeting card—just the Word, the eternal God, calling Light and Life into existence and then becoming Life to bring Light to our dark, dangerous, and deadly world. “They found him!” Walt told me with great relief, adding, “I’m wrung out. I’m going to bed.” He kissed me goodnight, we exchanged “Merry Christmases,” and when I returned to the text, two words from John 1.14 caught my eye: among us.

All That is God’s

The Good News of Christmas is we are not alone. We can never be alone. The Word, unceasingly present, unconditionally loving, and unhampered by our blindness, lives among us. With us. In us. The Word that called Light and Life into existence becomes Life to bring Light to our loneliness, depression, and hopelessness. “Like a father’s only son,” John says—meaning all that is God’s is Christ’s, and all that is Christ’s is ours—the Word that lives among us is “full of grace and truth.” When human graces like kindness, concern, and acceptance forget where we live, the Christ Who lives among, with, and in us presents us with uncompromised grace. When feelings of isolation and abandonment conjure lies to convince us we’re on our own, Christ’s everlasting truth breaks through our darkness.

We’ve worked the Nativity narratives from every angle. We’ve studied the prophets and rehearsed the fulfillment of their messages. We’ve sung the carols about the humble Infant, the shining star, the angel chorus, and the world-shaking implications of two young peasants’ courage to trust God’s promises. Now it’s time for us to contemplate the grace and truth that surround us: we’re never alone.

Emmanuel

“Call Him ‘Emmanuel,’” Isaiah says, “God with us.” Today we rejoice in the Word that became flesh to live among us, praying we won’t let this sacred season pass without renewing our faith that we are never alone.

May the Word bring Life and Light to us in vivid ways that fill us with grace and truth. Happiest of Christmases to you all. Love, Tim.

Postscript: “No One is Alone”

It’s not a carol, hymn, or Christian song of any kind. It’s not even about God. It’s from Into the Woods, a musical about giants and witches and magic beans. Yet, despite the lyrical anomalies, every time I hear Stephen Sondheim’s “No One is Alone,” I hear the Word speak assurance to me: "I became flesh for you. You're never alone."

Hollow Days

Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you clean the outside of the cup and of the plate, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. You blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup, so that the outside also may become clean. (Matthew 23.25-26)

Red-and-Green Scare

In what’s become a “Daily Show” holiday tradition, Jon Stewart—the mock newscast’s corrosively irreverent, acutely perceptive anchor—has delighted in lampooning this year’s dispatches from the so-called “War on Christmas.” Stewart’s gripe, echoed by millions from every creed and persuasion, takes aim at far-right extremists who blindly equate Americanism with Christianity. Year after year, they scour the landscape for examples of jurists, officials, and merchandisers deleting “Christ” from “Christmas.” This just in: the Littleburg city council has banned the Nativity crèche from the firehouse lawn. This just in: a judge has enjoined Gopher Gulch Elementary from dramatizing Luke 2 at its year-end assembly. This just in: a new Big Store policy prohibits employees from wishing their customers a merry Christmas. This just in: Godless hoodlums who hate Jesus are trying to destroy everything He and America stand for!

This media-spun, 50s-style Red-and-Green Scare reached a new low several days ago, when Bill O’Reilly—FOX News’s über-“American” and self-professed “Christian” pundit—fired back in a commentary capped with this statement: “Jon Stewart is going to Hell.” O’Reilly’s freedom to disagree with, even to disparage, Stewart is a sacrosanct American right. Yet, as a Christian, surely he’s aware no Scripture authorizes him to sentence Stewart or anyone else to eternal damnation. Has he forgot—or does he not care—that the Babe he’s so consumed with enshrining will become the Rabbi Who preaches, “With the judgment you make you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get”? (Matthew 7.2) Is he more concerned with winning arguments than compromising his witness and endangering his soul? Is not deigning to speak for God the height of what he decries—godlessness? There lies the hypocrisy of Red-and-Green Scare tactics. Leveraging condemnation to force Christ down non-believers’ throats is patently unchristian. It’s the antithesis of perfect love that, according to 1 John 4.18, “casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love.” In threatening Stewart with Hell, it is O’Reilly who should be afraid.

All Show, No Substance

Need it be said that Red-and-Green Scare perpetrators run afoul of cherished American principles like inclusiveness, religious diversity, and separation of Church and State? Americanism cannot—and must never—be equated with Christianity for reasons any seventh grader can understand. Saying we’re a “Christian” nation implies non-Christian citizens are un-American. That’s just ridiculous—especially since they’re not exempt from taxes, military service, regulatory compliance, and other civic duties. (Were that so, no doubt many advancing the far right’s “Christian” agenda would flock to alternative beliefs.) The Founders’ resistance to mixing faith and politics was born of a uniquely American desire to safeguard religious liberty. The Pilgrims settled our nation on conviction that freedom to live by one’s beliefs is immune to government mandate and interference. They were so committed to protecting privacy of faith that they outlawed any public religious expression whatsoever—to the point that decorating the exterior of one’s home for Christmas or saying “Merry Christmas” on the street resulted in stiff fines. If the Red-and-Green Scare muckrakers actually lived in the colonial days they mythologize as our nation’s halcyon Christian era, they’d be tossed in jail, never to be seen or heard again.

As an informed citizen, the “War on Christmas” charade strikes me as preposterously anti-American. As an informed believer, it appalls me. It exploits the Prince of Peace’s birth to excuse bloodthirsty partisan attacks. It perverts the season centered on Christianity’s holiest day into a run of hollow days that defile the Christ Child by refuting His message. It astounds me that Christmas’s uncalled-for defenders can say, “Peace on Earth, goodwill to all people” and “Go to Hell” in one breath. I tremble to think how many confuse their phony tantrums with Christ’s true ways. And before my anger rises up, my heart sinks in dismay that otherwise intelligent people have no clue their self-righteous façade exposes their corruption and bigotry. Their devout rhetoric can’t quell one’s sense they’re to our time what many Pharisees were to Jesus’s: all show and no substance.

A Humbug

In Matthew 23, Jesus gears up to describe the times preceding the Second Coming by pronouncing seven woes on leaders who poison the faith climate of His day. His list of complaints reads like a modern op-ed diatribe that pulls down the “Christian” extremist platform plank-by-plank. He charges them with: religious exclusion; breeding hatred; placing trust in riches; neglecting justice, mercy and faith; whitewashing rotten ideas; and revising history to enhance their image. Dead-center of His furious rampage against their recklessness, Jesus unleashes His fourth outrage: “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you clean the outside of the cup and of the plate, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. You blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup, so that the outside also may become clean.” (v25-26)

In one fell swoop Jesus crushes the presentation-is-everything myth that media mavens, spin doctors, politicians, and religious pretenders swear by. Just as pinning a flag to our lapels doesn’t make us patriots, defending public Nativity scenes and saying “Merry Christmas” don’t make us Christians. If our motives are impure, our faith is a figment of imagination. Our words ring as hollow as our souls. This isn’t one man’s opinion, a bone of left-right contention, or open for debate. It’s a matter of record, spoken 2000 years ago by the One we claim to serve. If we disagree, we might consider stepping away from the pulpit and off the air long enough to get on our knees and discuss the issue with Him.

Keeping “Christ” in “Christmas” means nothing if we don’t keep Christmas holy. Declaring, “Jesus is the reason for the season,” is futile if our reasons for saying so contradict the purpose of His birth. It’s silly of us to sing, “Peace on Earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled,” while creating disharmony, bullying people, and preaching favoritism. O’Reilly’s impudence was foolish—and disheartening—twice over. First, as a Jew, Stewart subscribes to a faith that doesn’t believe in Hell; it was a hollow threat. But second, O’Reilly took a hammer to his own piety and revealed the hollowness it masks. The “War on Christmas” is a humbug. It proves, once again, there’s nothing to the myth that presentation is everything.

We adore You, O Christ—Prince of Peace, Joy of our desiring, and Mediator between God and humanity. May we not pass this holiest of seasons without searching our hearts. Give us grace to purify ourselves through and through. Make us holy vessels for Your glory and honor. Amen.

The Red-and-Green Scare’s “War on Christmas” is a humbug that contradicts the purpose of Jesus’s birth and everything He represents.

Postscript: “Instruments”

The “War on Christmas” malarkey hastens us to renew the vow St. Francis of Assisi immortalized in his prayer. As Sarah McLachlan’s haunting rendition reminds us, we are instruments of God’s peace, love, pardon, faith, hope, light, and joy. We are called to bear Christmas’s vitally needed gifts to the world, not to stomp them to bits in a phony war to defend its public expression.

Swaddling

This will be a sign for you: you will find a Child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger. (Luke 2.12)

Poetry

Advent’s journey of long, still, and sober nights is winding down. Three days from now, Earth will tilt on its axis—a prized event for those who’ve endured six months of waning daylight. North, south, east, and west, Advent pilgrims have Bethlehem in full view. We who are given to flights of imagination envision millions of faithful believers converging on a country road that snakes across broad meadowlands outlying the hilltop village known as “the City of David.” And right about here is when I (and I suspect many like me) really start to miss the King James Version’s Nativity accounts. Up to this point, newer, more accurate translations of the Advent texts are a godsend. Once we get to the birth, however, modern versions can’t compete with the KJV’s poetry.

Compare the New Revised Standard Version’s translation of the angel’s instruction to the shepherds: “This will be a sign for you: you will find a Child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2.12) Now listen to the KJV: “And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” I would guess the KJV’s use of “swaddling” is the first time most of us encounter the term. Since it sounds comfy, we assume “swaddling clothes” are akin to a receiving blanket—a downy wrap for a newborn. And we may be shocked to learn they're not. The NSRV’s tone-deaf “bands of cloth” is spot-on. Swaddling clothes are fabric strips that bind ancient newborns’ movement. After birth, they’re bathed and salted (to preserve their soft skin), and tightly wrapped below the neck to protect them from insect bites and straighten their limbs. Swaddling is anything but comfy. It’s hot, confining, and makes for very unhappy babies. The Baby Jesus we imagine nestled in a warm blanket is not Whom the shepherds find. They see a cranky, immobilized Infant Who looks more like a mummy than a Holy Child. So much for poetry.

A World That Restrains Him

Swaddling continued into the 1600s, well after artists began depicting the Nativity in paint and stone. Even among works dated before it went out of vogue, however, very few portray a tightly wrapped Child. (Those that do present Jesus as blissfully content to be bound neck-to-foot.) Personally, I can’t recall swaddling in any Sunday school and storybook illustrations from my childhood. Nor do I remember a Bible teacher or minister explaining it—ever. Without asking, the reason seems apparent. A corseted, bawling, miserable Baby Jesus is counterintuitive to all He represents. This is the Child Who brings freedom, peace, and joy to the world. Why would an artist, teacher, or minister present Him any other way but free, peaceful, and happy?

Yet peeking into a flea-infested manger to spy a trussed-up, squirmy, fretful Christ Child somehow appeals to me. I’m strangely moved by thought of Jesus coming into a world that instantly restrains Him and causes His parents great anguish. What frustration Mary must feel, as she fights every urge to loose Him and hold the flesh of her flesh to her bosom. How Joseph must ache to take Jesus’s tiny hand in his calloused palm and feel the touch of God. The agony they must experience, as the Baby wails to break free. And in that moment, they epitomize a profound conflict that burdens all of us who carve a birthplace for Christ in our hearts.

Born to Be Free

Conventional wisdom says restricting Jesus’s movement in our lives is best for Him. If we truly love Him, we won’t expose Him to our diseases. His reach must be severely limited and His touch denied. For His health and safety, His cries to be loosed must be ignored. A freely moving Christ is an irresponsibly handled One, we’re told. This Sacred Child’s misfortune is being born into a world of clear and present dangers none so pure as He could possibly withstand. Sharp bites of infectious hatred and violence that barely faze us will destroy Him. Pressures that tie us in knots will bend and break His tender limbs. Swaddle Jesus, we’re told. Wrap Him up tightly to shield Him from evils and ugliness that plague our world. Be afraid for Him—and fear what people will think if you give Him free access in your life. Imagine their discomfort when they see the Christ born inside you held close to your bosom. Think of their alarm when touching the hand of God matters more to you than bowing to custom. Worry more about what will be said of you behind your back than the Christ Child’s cries to be loosed in your heart.

Perhaps painters and sculptors, teachers and ministers don’t present a swaddled Jesus because they’ve freed the Christ born in them. Perhaps they’ve come to grips with a truth that conventional wisdom doesn’t account for: the tiny Babe is indestructible. He’s the Eternal Word made flesh, God Incarnate, the Creator disguised as creation. We need neither be afraid for Him nor fear what people will think and say. The Baby born to free us is born to be free in us. Come to the stable. Look in the manger. But don’t stop there. Lift the Child from the hay. Unravel His restraints and let them fall away. Permit Him to move as He pleases. Permit yourself to hold Him close. Feel God’s touch. Discover the freedom from fear, peace of mind, and joy of living that Christ brings. Set Jesus free.

Most Holy and Indestructible Child, we confess bowing to conventional wisdom that urges us to restrict Your movement. We repent of our foolish fears and conformity. Be free in us. Move as You will. And free us to let You remain free, to hold You close and feel Your touch always. Amen.

See the Newborn trussed in swaddling and set Him free. (Georges de la Tour: Adoration of the Shepherds; c. 1644)

Postscript: “Move in Me”

Take this little song with you to the manger. Sing it quietly, as a prayer to the Infant. Set Him free, and find the freedom, peace, and joy He brings.

Disclosure

Now to God Who is able to strengthen you according to my gospel and the proclamation of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery that was kept secret for long ages but is now disclosed, and through the prophetic writings is made known to all the Gentiles. (Romans 16.25-26)

Mechanics and Meaning

Though I find dogs endearing and admire the mutual loyalty that binds them and their masters, there’s no getting around it. I’m a cat lover through and through. And if I’m not careful, I can easily turn into the worst kind of cat lover—the insufferable kind that bores people blind with tedious testimonials of how clever and unique his felines are. But, as much as I resist saying so, our two are remarkably clever and unique. While Cody and Max get along splendidly, their interests couldn’t be less alike. Mechanics fascinate Cody. We catch him watching us use gizmos, and once he’s sure he’s got the process down, he’ll practice until he masters it. He turns on faucets, flips off light switches, awakens computers, and retrieves pages from the printer. Max doesn’t care how things work. He’s intrigued with what they’re for. He connects their function to the world around him. When suitcases come out, he knows we’re going away. When the microwave whirs, he knows we’re about to eat. When darkness begins to fade, he scurries to a window and doesn’t budge until the sun finds its place in the sky.

So much about Max and Cody reminds me of our responses to God’s promises. Sometimes we’re like Cody. A promise sets off an obsession with how it will work. We devote exorbitant time and energy to questions we can't possibly answer. Then, sometimes we’re like Max. Curiosity about what the promise is for—what it means—overtakes us and we won’t rest until we connect its function to the world around us. Neither is necessarily bad, except when God isn’t forthcoming about the promise’s mechanics and/or meaning. In those cases, our only choice is to let it play out, because obsessing about it is the way of madness.

Advent’s Big Lesson

What is Advent, if not a refresher course in the inscrutable mechanics and indecipherable meaning of God’s promises? It plunges us into the murky depths of Second Coming parables and prophecies, and challenges us to compare our befuddlement to the bewilderment surrounding Christ’s birth. Advent makes no pretense that we’ll solve either mystery. But when we do the hard work it assigns us, actively engaging its material—instead of trudging through the semester to get to the holiday—we come out with increased certainty that God’s great promises always include an intricately detailed strategy to back them up. And with that, we gain a richer understanding that the difference between our relationship with God and those we forge with one another rests in their opposing ideas of mutual trust.

We gauge confidence in human relationships by how we openly confide in each other. With God, comfort with not knowing indicates the extent of our faith that God knows everything about us and what’s best for us. For no reason besides pure love for us, God spares us the heartache—and headache—of wrestling with what we can’t possibly absorb by telling us only what we need to know. We never offend or anger God by asking for more information. Before we ask, though, we should prepare not to be offended or angry when God refuses. God loves us too much to burden us with more than we can digest. In return, God trusts us to wait patiently on God’s promises, knowing they’ll be honored in ways that ultimately make their mechanics and meaning transparent.

That’s the Big Lesson of Advent, isn’t it? While we’re perched in a tumultuous present, peering at impenetrable promises of future peace and deliverance, Advent teaches us to refresh our recall of how God’s promises come to fruition. The immense complexity of God’s covenant with Israel cripples the mind. It spans thousands of years, involves countless people and dozens of nations, accounts for each step in human progress, and acquires no end of finely nuanced implications that affect every aspect of our existence. Even though the Bible records its epic proportions in painstaking detail, synthesizing its mechanics and meaning would exceed our capabilities were it not for how they’re revealed.

The promise arrives wreathed in simplicity and haloed with wonder. It’s revealed through a maiden so far removed from the nexus of political, social, and religious power that the Child she bears irrevocably redefines power’s meaning and importance for all time. Every mortal expectation is subverted by something so impossible it never crossed the brightest minds. Sacrosanct prejudices are abolished, inequitable judgments overturned, and manmade traditions dismantled. And all of this transpires not by deafening pronouncements in vast arenas, but by the barely audible cry of an illegitimate Baby born in the seedy obscurity of a borrowed stable. The promise Israel struggled for generations to grasp becomes transparently evident in ways they never imagined.

What Thwarts Our Faith

As Paul ends his epistle to the Romans—by far his most thorough explanation of why patient trust in God’s promises serves our best interests—he encapsulates Advent’s Big Lesson. He prays God will strengthen the Romans “according to the revelation of the mystery that was kept secret for long ages but is now disclosed, and through the prophetic writings is made known to all the Gentiles, according to the command of the eternal God, to bring about the obedience of faith.” (Romans 16.25-26) It’s likely this passage (Sunday’s New Testament reading) may feel the squeeze of the other texts: Luke’s rendering of The Annunciation and Mary’s song, and 2 Samuel’s account of another great promise, when God ordains David to build a magnificent temple. Yet the majesty foreshadowed in the more auspicious readings radiates its fullness in Paul’s three verses.

We have no doubt God’s promises are true. Obsessive curiosity about how they work and what they mean is what thwarts our faith. It sets us up for needless frustration and impatience. As Advent’s Big Lesson nears it close, it refreshes our memory and reminds us that full and transparent disclosure will arrive the moment God makes good on God’s promise. Without fail, we will be stunned by the extent of God’s plan and meanings it unfolds. Until then, we’re wise to trust God to perform as promised and honor God’s trust in us by waiting until the promise comes to pass. God keeps secrets in order to keep promises.

Giver and Keeper of great promises, we pray Your strength to trust Your love and wisdom in honoring Your vows to us. Increase our capacity to wait. May confidence in Your full and transparent disclosure well up within us as we defer to Your timing, plan, and purpose. Amen.

The makings and meanings of God’s promises exceed our understanding. All we need to know is when God makes good on a promise, everything about it is transparently clear.

Postscript: “All Things Are Working for Me”

What happens when we take Advent’s Big Lesson and scale it down to a personal size? At some point, our trust in God’s promises shrink in the face of looming despair and defeat. No singer/songwriter I know is more gifted than Fred Hammond at translating divine principles like trust and patience into candid responses. This song, which moves me no end, makes no mention of Christ’s birth or what it reveals. Yet few, if any, Advent hymns and Christmas carols express the struggle to wait for delivery of God’s promises—which is what Advent and Christmas are all about.

ALL THINGS ARE WORKING

Falling apart and tearing at the seams

Tribulation lends a hand and squeezes your hopes and dreams

You say you retreat, you say you just can't win

Before you let your circumstance tell you how the story ends

God's Word says you can stand

He'll cover you with His grace

Everything you need is in your hand

So lift up your head and say

All things are working for me

Even things I can't see

Your ways are so beyond me

But You said that You would

Let it be for my good

So I'll rest and just believe

I know you say you've got it bad right now

Let me say I know that feeling well

To make good plans for life

And then you watch them take a downward spin

Let me encourage you while I encourage me

See the raging rain and wind

But He'll speak peace and it will end

All things are working for me...

Many days and night I cried because I felt let down

I won't always receive good

But a praise in my heart will remain

So with tears in your eyes

Know sometimes it might get rough

But say, Lord I love you more and that's enough to know...

All things are working for me...

Magicians and Kings

Wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the Child Who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed His star at its rising, and have come to pay Him homage.” (Matthew 2.1-2)

Wizards

It’s rarely mentioned that the Christ Child’s most illustrious visitors are revered practitioners of occult arts. Bible translators take pains to divorce the star-brought Easterners from their profession, calling them “wise men,” or loosely transliterating Matthew’s word (magoi) as “Magi.” We associate them with storybook images of lavishly robed men presenting treasure to Baby Jesus. But in Matthew’s day, the Magi are legendary disciples of Zoroaster, the Persian seer credited with inventing astrology and composing two epic poems that depict humanity’s struggle to discern truth and lies. The Magi’s quest for truth and reputation for reading the skies lend credence to Matthew’s assertion a star brings them to Jesus's crib. What goes unnoted in his Gospel, however, is first-century readers’ assumption their gifts to divine astral augurs also equip them to alter fates foretold in the stars. In short, they’re wizards at rewriting history.

The Magi’s appearance in Matthew raises eyebrows, since he shapes his Gospel for notoriously xenophobic Jewish readers, whose sacred texts explicitly warn against consulting with astrologers and sorcerers. Thus, it’s likely that Matthew’s intended readership reacts very differently to the Magi than we do. What we find enchanting—the star, fancy costumes, gold, and exotic spices—is worrisome to them. Foreign magicians have no place in their Messiah narrative. Sure, the prophets tell of Gentile kings bowing before Israel’s King with offerings of gold and incense. But Matthew sends in kings’ men—well-paid staff astrologers who answer their king’s beck and call, even accompanying him in battle, where they monitor heavenly signs and wield magical powers that turn the tide in his favor.

Agency

At risk of alienating literal-minded readers, Matthew bends Jewish prophecy in hopes that more insightful ones will perceive the Nativity’s magnitude. The Magi’s presence in Bethlehem confirms Jesus’s birth as a Messianic event that signals the end of religious labels and exclusion—in other words, a New Order aligned with God’s intention that Jesus be the Savior of the world. While Luke stresses the universal significance of Jesus’s birth by setting it in a barn and delegating His worship to country bumpkins, Matthew ignores all of that to sock his readers with a staggering blow. The Magi are everything they loathe and fear—strangers, pagans, and sorcerers! They’re filthier than the filthiest stable. Yet they alone display courage to seek Christ. Which brings us to Matthew’s most radical point.

The Magi’s purported ability to change history invests Matthew’s scenario with a revolutionary concept: human agency. Prior to this, Israel’s hope for a Deliverer reflects the same passive position it takes in relationship to God. It watches and waits. God speaks and works. But the Magi see a star and, ascertaining its importance, they move without delay. Of the Nativity’s players, only they act without angelic directive. In a sense, they intrude on the story by making it their business to find Jesus. That’s not to say their involvement isn’t by divine providence, however. After inadvertently endangering Jesus’s life when they ask King Herod where they can find the King of the Jews, they do precisely what they’re known for: circumvent history. A dream alerts them that Herod plans to murder Jesus, and to ensure His safety, they defy the King’s request that they inform him where the Child is. They bypass Jerusalem, returning home another way. Matthew’s omission of any instructions in the dream makes clear they leave like they came—of their own volition. Acting solely on their agency, they bring something altogether new and dangerous to the Messianic equation. Matthew tells his readers salvation is a joint venture with God requiring our courage and active commitment.

Contrast

Ironically, it appears Matthew is rewriting history to include the Magi and Herod in his account. Historians find no evidence of the infant massacre that he claims directly resulted from the magicians’ disregard for the king’s wishes. Since the brutality of Herod’s attempt to kill Jesus by slaughtering every male baby in Bethlehem couldn’t escape notice, no existing record of it calls Matthew’s veracity into question. Yet supposing his Magi subplot is bald fiction, his integrity remains intact, because he leads us to contrast magicians with kings. Magicians act without asking. Kings ask before they act. Kings just so happen to make history. Magicians change history so what’s just happens. Magicians seek truth. Kings spread deceit. Matthew asks which we will emulate. Will we actively pursue the opportunity to seek and worship Christ? Or will we passively sit by, expecting to benefit from others who do?

Whether or not Matthew’s account is factual, placing people who don’t belong at Jesus’s crib makes it true. He eliminates any visitors other than the Magi simply to dramatize God’s infinite love and acceptance for those who come to Christ of their own volition. That’s the crux of Matthew’s story: faith is a willing act, not a command performance. “We observed His star at its rising, and have come to pay Him homage,” the Magi confess. (Matthew 2.2) The Gospel goes on to say, “When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him.” (v3) The very ones who should rejoice to hear their Messiah is born are terrified—and with good cause. They’re awaiting a ruler who divides and conquers, not one who wins the adoration of strangers, pagans, and wizards.

Belonging

On the strength of a new star, the Magi foresee a New Order that unites the world in harmony and peace. That’s a dangerous prospect for kings, nations, and people who leverage exclusion, labeling, and the hatred they spawn to nullify the legitimacy of anyone they choose. On the strength of a new star—and the fiber to act on what they see—the Magi take back the right to choose. They voluntarily leave palaces where they’re respected and venture into a lowly place where they clearly don’t belong. Their courage illuminates our understanding that not belonging is why they belong.

As we enter Advent’s final days, may we shed any remnants of kingly traits—all hesitance and fear—to embrace the Magi's mindset. May we fix our eyes on the star we’ve seen and exercise our right to discover where it leads. May we ask dangerous questions and take bold risks that alter history. And when our quest ends with paying homage to the Newborn King, may our awareness that many think we don’t belong there secure our conviction we’re exactly where we belong.

Blessed Redeemer, our Deliverer, we’ve seen Your star and willingly followed it without reservation. Equip us with courage to finish this journey. Bring us safely to Your sacred birthplace, where not belonging is why we belong. Amen.

While it would seem Jesus’s birthplace is nowhere for sorcerers, the Magi prove the opposite by actively seeking and worshipping Him. (James Tissot: The Journey of the Magi; 1894)

Postscript: “We Three Kings”

The famous carol gets it wrong; the Magi aren’t kings (and Matthew doesn't limit them to three). Yet it also gets this right: “King forever, ceasing never over us all to reign…”