Unbelievably True

 

Unbelievably True

For a child is born to us, a son is given to us. The government will rest on his shoulders. And he will be called: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His government and its peace will never end. He will rule with fairness and justice from the throne of his ancestor David for all eternity. The passionate commitment of the Lord of Heaven’s Armies will make this happen! (Isaiah 9:6-7)

Sometimes I sit at my computer and await the arrival of the Holy Spirit – that impulse that comes and seems to cause my fingers to glide across the keyboard. Other times, it’s not so easy or so “spiritual.” In fact, there are times when nothing happens at all – I just sit there, waiting for the fingers to move, or the Spirit to prompt, or the mind and heart to jump-start.

But I don’t leave it all up to prompting. Throughout the year, I create computer folders for many of what could be my next messages. I label these folders with a date, assign the broad topic in a question and file it away, like: “Christmas – 2025.” Then, if I find a verse, a story or an article that seems to fit the topic, I drop it into the folder. The low moments come when I’m sitting there, staring and listening and then I look in the folder and it’s empty, too. Thankfully, it wasn’t completely empty this week. There were three little tidbits in my folder, “Christmas – 2025.”

One was a Los Angeles Times story about a 16-year-old teenager from Stockton, California who had suffered from chronic bronchitis and in whom they eventually discovered a bit of evergreen lodged in her lung the result, presumably, of inhaling the aroma of a Christmas tree when she was a toddler. The still-green sprig was removed and she’s fine now. The concluding moral of the story was, “Celebrate but don’t inhale.” This brief story, in and of itself, had the potential for a good lesson, maybe even saving that last line for a message titled, “Celebrate, but don’t inhale.” But then again, the image kind of spoke for itself so I simply pass along the “wisdom” of the AP.

The second item in the folder was about a desperate Massachusetts couple trying to sell their home. It seems that in their efforts to sell the property the husband had succumbed to some peculiar customs of the area. I checked with a real estate agent friend of mine who assured me that this is not California practice, but – apparently – Joseph, besides being a carpenter and the husband of Mary, is also the patron saint of discouraged homeowners desperate to sell. So, in an effort to sell their home, the husband bought a statue of St. Joseph and then buried it – head down – in the front yard facing his house. Yes, really.

Of course, that was last Christmas. And although it took almost a year, the couple finally received an offer. The owners tried not to appear too anxious, but they quickly accepted and left the neighborhood. Of particular interest was the husband’s observations about himself, especially in response to the incredulity of his family and friends at his willingness to bury a saint head-down in his front yard.

“It’s true,” he says, “that aspects of my behavior sometimes strike me as bizarre. And yet I firmly believe that to be religious is to be ‘not all there’- not stuck in the status quo, not resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.” The story made me think that maybe that’s what Christmas was all about – a suspension of the world as it appears: the mother, the father, the baby, the angels, the shepherds, the star, the wise men. The unbelievable story of a virgin birth and the child becoming the Prince of Peace. And then the improbable and unbelievable becomes Christmas: angels, shepherds, stars, the birth of a baby, animals, a stable, no room in the inn. We’ve heard it all before. It’s a bizarre story. How could there be such things as angels? How could anyone follow a star? To enter into this story is to be “not all there;” a religious person “not stuck in the status quo, not resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.”

So, I started thinking that the real estate story could have been grist for a rather good message this week, too. However, the “not accepting the world as it appears” message led me to the third note in my “Christmas – 2025” folder, an excerpt from Rebecca Wells’ novel, The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. It’s an exchange of letters between a daughter, Sidda, and her mother, Vivi. Here’s an excerpt from the book:

Dear Mama and Daddy,

I have decided to postpone my wedding to Connor. I wanted to tell you before you hear it from someone else. I know how word spreads in Thornton. My problem is, I just don’t know what I’m doing. I just don’t know how to love. Anyway, that’s the news.

Love, Sidda

And here’s Mom’s response

              Siddalee,

Good God, child! What do you mean, you ‘don’t know how to love?’ Do you think any of us know how to love? Do you think anybody would ever do anything if they waited until they knew how to love?! Do you think that babies would ever get made or meals cooked or crops planted or books written or what-have-you? Do you think people would even get out of bed in the morning if they waited until they knew how to love? You have had too much therapy. Or not enough. God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors. Forget love. Try good manners.

Vivi Abbott Walker

If you’re lucky, maybe you’ve received a letter like that. Or, better yet, written one. “God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors. Forget love. Try good manners.” I think Vivi may be on to something because what she’s saying is at the heart of the Christmas message of the Incarnation, and at the core of Christian belief: God became human in the form of a baby and was born in the most humble of places. Immanuel – God with us.

The second verse of Charles Wesley’s “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” says: Christ, by highest heaven adored; Christ, the everlasting Lord! Late in time behold him come, offspring of the Virgin’s womb. Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; Hail the incarnate Deity; Pleased as man with men to dwell, Jesus, our Emmanuel.

“God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors.” It’s all there, isn’t it? Beginning with the story of Jesus’ birth, we read on about his life and teachings, and of his death and resurrection. We don’t have to wait to love perfectly, “(f)or God so loved the world that he gave his only son,” John says. “God knows how to love, Kiddo,” Vivi says.

“The rest of us are only good actors.” And sometimes not so good. We know best our own imperfections, but most of the time we manage to get out of bed in the morning. Some of us may have had too much therapy, and some of us may not have had enough. But we can’t wait to get it right. “Forget love. Try good manners.” Which is to say, the kind of love people speak of when they speak of the love of God. That kind of love is bigger than us. So, how about trying good manners for starters?

Good manners. Like, leaving worship and acting with peace. Acting with courage even when we don’t feel courageous. Not returning evil when evil comes at us. Strengthening the faint heart someone else is carrying around. Supporting the weak and helping the suffering through words and deeds. Honoring all, including the grouchy neighbor next door, or the guy who cut you off in traffic this morning.

It’s Christmas. Try good manners. Listen to the story in a new way. Don’t worry about being “not all there.” Don’t be “resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.” Christmas is the story of a miracle, of the birth of peace, of infinite love, of a God of love that comes crashing into our lives in the unbelievable story of a baby born in a barn in Bethlehem centuries ago, amidst the turmoil of war and government tyranny.

It’s Christmas, but don’t forget about love altogether because God so loved the world that he gave his only son. (John 3:16) So, if you haven’t finished your shopping yet, and you can’t muster up that kind of love, start by trying good manners, instead. Who knows? The improbable can never happen unless you say “yes” to the God for whom nothing is impossible, and who makes Christmas unbelievably true.

Merry Christmas,

Randy

Don't Miss the Moment

 

Don’t Miss the Moment

That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord’s glory surrounded them. They were terrified, but the angel reassured them. “Don’t be afraid!” he said. “I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people. The Savior — yes, the Messiah, the Lord — has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David! And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:8-12)

There were no tapestries covering the windows in this throne room; no velvet garments on the servants of the king. And instead of a golden scepter, the king held a crudely whittled olivewood rattle while cows munched, hooves crunched and a mother hummed as she nursed her newborn. It could have begun anywhere, this story of the King. But, curiously, it began in a manger.

Outside, the noise and the bustle began earlier than usual in the small village. As night gave way to dawn, people were already on the streets and vendors were jockeying for position on the corners of the busiest avenues. Store owners were unlocking the doors to their shops. Children were awakened by the excited barking of dogs on the street and the complaints of donkeys pulling their carts. The owner of the local inn had awakened earlier than most in the town. After all, the inn was full – all the beds were taken. Every available mat or blanket had been put to use. Soon, all the guests would be stirring and there’d be a lot of work to do.

And as the innkeeper sat with his family around the breakfast table, did anyone mention the arrival of the young couple the night before? Did anyone comment on the very pregnant girl on the donkey? Maybe. Maybe someone raised the subject, but it was probably never discussed because there was nothing particularly novel about those two. They were one of several families that may have been turned away the night before. Besides, who had time to talk about them when there was so much excitement in the air? Augustus had done the Bethlehem economy a huge favor by decreeing that a census should be taken. Who could remember when this kind of commerce had ever hit the village?

No, it’s doubtful that anyone mentioned the couple’s arrival, or even wondered aloud about the condition of the girl. They were too busy. The day was upon them. The day’s bread had to be made. The morning’s chores had to be done. There was too much to do to imagine that the impossible had occurred – that God had entered the world as a baby. Yet, if someone from the village had come to the sheep stable on the outskirts of Bethlehem that morning, they’d have seen a pretty unusual sight.

The stable stunk like all stables do. The stench of urine, dung and sheep was pungent. The ground was hard, the hay scarce and cobwebs clung to the ceiling while a mouse scurried across the dirt floor. A lowlier place of birth couldn’t exist. And off to one side sat a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, maybe perplexed, perhaps in awe, but no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. That’s because God goes to those who have time to hear him, and so he went to some simple shepherds to give them the news.

Near the young mother sits the weary father. If anyone is dozing, Joseph is. He can’t remember the last time he sat down. And now that the excitement has subsided, now that Mary and the baby are comfortable, he leans against the wall of the stable and feels his eyes grow heavy. He still hasn’t figured it all out. The mystery of the event still puzzles him, but he just doesn’t have the energy to wrestle with the questions right now. What’s important is that the baby’s fine and Mary’s safe. And as sleep comes, he remembers the name the angel told him to use. “We’ll call him Jesus,” he mumbles as he drifts off to sleep.

Mary, on the other hand, is wide awake. Her young head rests on the soft leather of Joseph’s saddle, and the pain of childbirth is now eclipsed by his wonder. She looks into the face of the baby. Her son. Her Lord. His Majesty. And at this point in history, the human being who best understands who God is and what he’s doing is a teenage girl in a smelly stable. She can’t take her eyes off of him. Somehow Mary knows she’s holding God. “So, this is him,” she ponders and considers the words of the angel, “His kingdom will never end.”

Funny, he doesn’t look like a king. His face is all prunish and red. His cry, though strong and healthy, is still the helpless and piercing cry of a newborn. And he’s absolutely dependent upon Mary for his well-being. Majesty in the midst of the mundane. Holiness in the filth of sheep manure and sweat. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager, in the presence of a carpenter.

This baby had created the universe. These rags keeping him warm were the robes of eternity. His golden throne room had been abandoned in favor of a dirty sheep stall. And worshiping angels had been replaced with kind but bewildered shepherds. Meanwhile, the city’s humming. The merchants are unaware that God has visited their planet. The innkeeper would have never believed that he’d just sent God out into the cold. And the people would scoff at anyone who would have told them that the Messiah lay in the arms of a teenager on the outskirts of their village. They were all too busy to consider the possibility.

Those who missed his Majesty’s arrival that night didn’t miss it because of evil acts or malice. They missed it because they simply weren’t looking. And little has changed in the last two thousand years, because it all happened in a moment; a most remarkable moment.

And as moments go, that one probably appeared no different than any other. If you could somehow pick it up off the timeline and examine it, it would look exactly like the ones that had already passed. It came and it went. It was preceded and succeeded by others just like it. It was one of the countless moments that have marked time since eternity became measurable. But in reality, that particular moment was like none other. For through that segment of time a spectacular thing occurred. God became a man. While the creatures of earth walked unaware, Divinity had arrived. Heaven opened itself and placed its most precious gift in a human womb.

In one instant, the Omnipotent had made himself breakable. The One who had been spirit became pierceable. He who was larger than the universe became an embryo. And the One who sustains the world with a word chose to be dependent upon the nourishment of a teenage girl. God as a fetus. Holiness sleeping in a womb. The creator of life being created. God was given eyebrows, elbows, two kidneys and a spleen. He stretched against the walls and floated in the amniotic fluids of his mother. God had come near.

He didn’t come as a flash of light or as an unapproachable conqueror, but as one whose first cries were heard by a peasant girl and a sleepy carpenter. The hands that first held him were unmanicured, calloused and dirty. No silk. No ivory. No hype. No party. No hoopla. In fact, were it not for the shepherds, there’d have been no reception at all. And were it not for a group of stargazers, there’d have been no gifts later. Angels watched as Mary changed God’s diaper. The universe watched with wonder as the Almighty learned to walk.

Children played in the street with him. And had the synagogue leader in Nazareth known who was listening to his sermons, he might have changed his delivery. Maybe he had pimples. Perhaps a girl down the street had a crush on him, or vice versa. Maybe he had bony knees. One thing’s for sure, though – he was, while completely divine, completely human.

So, what was it like watching him pray? How’d Jesus respond when he saw other kids giggling during services at the local synagogue? And when he saw a rainbow, did he ever mention a flood? Did Mary ever feel awkward teaching him how he created the world? Did he ever come home with a black eye? How’d he act when he got his first haircut? Did he have any friends named Judas? Did he do well in school? Did he ever have to ask a question about Scripture?

Did the thought ever occur to Mary that the God to whom she was praying was asleep under her own roof? And what do you think Jesus thought when he saw a prostitute offering to the highest bidder the body that he had made? Did he ever get angry when someone was dishonest with him? Did he ever wake up afraid? Who was his best friend?

When someone referred to Satan, how’d Jesus act? Did Mary ever accidentally call him Father? What did he and his cousin John talk about as kids? Did his other brothers and sisters understand what was going on and who he was? Did Mary ever think, “That’s God eating my dinner?”

For thirty-three years he would feel everything you and I have ever felt. He felt weak. He grew weary. He was afraid of failure. He was susceptible to wooing women. He got colds, he burped and had body odor. His feelings got hurt, his feet got tired and his head ached. And to think of Jesus in that light is … well … it seems almost irreverent. It’s not something we like to do because it’s uncomfortable. It’s much easier to keep the humanity out of the incarnation. Clean the manure from around the manger. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Pretend he never snored or blew his nose or hit his thumb with a hammer.

He’s easier to take that way. There’s something about keeping him divine that keeps him distant, packaged and predictable. But don’t do that this Christmas. Let him be as human as he intended to be. Let him into the muck and the mire of your world because he can’t pull us out until we let him in. Listen to him.

“Love your neighbor” – spoken by a man whose neighbors tried to kill him. The challenge to leave family for the gospel was issued by the very one who kissed his mother goodbye in the doorway. “Pray for those who persecute you,” came from the lips that would soon be begging God to forgive his murderers. “I am with you always” – the words of a God who in one instant did the impossible to make it all possible for you and me. It all happened in a moment. In one moment. A most remarkable moment. The Word became flesh. (John 1:14)

And there will be another. The world will see another instantaneous transformation. You see, in becoming man, God made it possible for man to see God. When Jesus went home he left the back door open. As a result, “we will all be changed — in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.”

The first moment of transformation went unnoticed by the world. The second one won’t. So, the next time you use the phrase “just a moment,” remember that’s all the time it will take to change your world. So, instead, don’t miss the moment this coming Christmas and decide to change it today.

Grace,

Randy