The Gift

The Gift
The Gift - Audio/Visual 

When the eighth day arrived, the day of circumcision, the child was named Jesus, the name given by the angel before He was conceived. Then when the days stipulated by Moses for purification were complete, they took Him up to Jerusalem to offer Him to God as commanded in God’s Law: “Every male who opens the womb shall be a holy offering to God,” and also to sacrifice the “pair of doves or two young pigeons” prescribed in God’s Law.

In Jerusalem at the time, there was a man, Simeon by name, a good man, and a man who lived in the prayerful expectancy of help for Israel. And the Holy Spirit was on him. The Holy Spirit had shown him that he would see the Messiah of God before he died. Led by the Spirit, he entered the Temple. As the parents of the child Jesus brought Him in to carry out the rituals of the Law, Simeon took Him into his arms and blessed God: “God, you can now release your servant; release me in peace as you promised. With my own eyes I’ve seen your salvation; it’s now out in the open for everyone to see: A God-revealing light to the non-Jewish nations, and of glory for your people Israel.”

Jesus’ father and mother were speechless with surprise at these words. Simeon went on to bless them, and said to Mary His mother, “This child marks both the failure and the recovery of many in Israel, a figure misunderstood and contradicted – the pain of a sword-thrust through you – but the rejection will force honesty, as God reveals who they really are.” Anna the prophetess was also there, a daughter of Phanuel from the tribe of Asher. She was by now a very old woman. She had been married seven years and a widow for eighty-four. She never left the Temple area, worshiping night and day with her fastings and prayers. At the very time Simeon was praying, she showed up, broke into an anthem of praise to God, and talked about the Child to all who were waiting expectantly for the freeing of Jerusalem. (Luke 2:21-38)

So, what’d you get for Christmas? That’s a pretty common question now that the gifts have been opened and the dinner has settled. We said it as kids, and today, as adults, we say it around the water cooler at work. Television commercials are already talking about it – returning the things you got that you didn’t want to get so you can get something else. Size 36 will be exchanged for size 38. Eggnog will be on sale for half price. And at home, the cleanup’s in full-swing – lights will come down, trees will be thrown out. Soon, life will be normal again. December’s generosity will become January’s payments, and the magic will begin to fade.

When I hear that question, it reminds me of my teacher, Ms. McDonald, when she asked all her sixth graders at Esther Lindstrom Elementary that same timeless question when we returned from Christmas break. Laura was the first one to enthusiastically answer the question. She sat in front of me, which was fine with me since I liked sitting close to Laura because she was pretty good at baseball, and her answer was a Chatty Cathy doll. But then Laura went on to tell the class – in excruciating detail – about her doll to the point that my eyes began to glaze over and I started to regret my seat assignment. “Maybe the doll’s rubbed off on her,” I thought. Thankfully, I was next.

I don’t remember what I said. I know I didn’t say “a pony,” or a “real guitar.” It was probably something like a baseball glove, or trading cards or Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots. Then, the girl behind me gave her answer. "An engagement ring!” she answered. Now, in the interests of full disclosure, I must say that she’d probably been held-back a couple of years and could have been 13 or 14 years old. But this wasn’t some sort of third world country, or first-century Bethlehem we were living in. So, that was a pretty remarkable disclosure which, apparently, the girls understood, but the boys thought was something you got out of a Cracker Jack box.

But what if, in answer to that question, your first thought was, “I got Jesus for Christmas.” Or, what if a friend asked you, “Hey, what’d you get for Christmas?” and you said, “Same as everyone else.” Bewildered, your friend looks at you and laughs, “What are you talking about? ‘Everybody’ I know didn’t get the same thing.” “Sure they did,” you respond. “We all got Jesus.” Maybe one of the sweetest gifts God gave during his Son’s earthly ministry was when Jesus was only eight days old. And God gave it to two people — a man named Simeon and a widow named Anna.

Now, Simeon’s age isn’t specified, but most Bible scholars presume him to be elderly in light of the phrase, “The Holy Spirit had shown him that he would see the Messiah of God before he died,” which would be kind of a weird biblical footnote if he’d been a young man. Plus, his “Okay, I can die happy now” response after meeting the Christ child (“God, you can now release your servant; release me in peace as you promised”) seems to imply his advanced age since there’s no evidence that he had a death wish. Anna, on the other hand, is verifiably old. That’s because she was married for seven years and had been a widow for eighty-four more. So, if you do the math, and if you assume Anna married when she was around fourteen, as most good Jewish girls did at the time, she was probably 105. Now that’s old.

Luke, whose medical specialty could have been gerontology for all we know, explains that both of these elderly people hung out at the Temple a lot because of their devotion to God. But given their card-carrying AARP status, you can’t help but wonder if they weren’t just a little lonely, too. I mean, at their age maybe they had no one to go home to. No one to talk to at the dinner table. No one to sit beside on the couch and watch Family Feud. Nothing in their tidy, little apartments at the “City of God Retirement Center” to keep them company except a cat and their cataracts.

So, apparently, they puttered around the church every day, praying at the altar, hobbling back and forth on errands for the priests, carrying boxes of candles up from the basement, and carefully rubbing down each church pew with linseed oil until it gleamed. The temple regulars had grown accustomed to always seeing the white-haired gentleman wearing the high-water khakis, and that nice, little old lady who always smelled like Pledge. Most worshipers probably didn’t give Simeon and Anna any more thought than they did the shiny pews or the plentiful supply of candles up front. They were old. They were fixtures. They were invisible. But then one day a teenaged couple walked in the front door of the Temple. The young husband was wearing a clean but tattered pair of blue jeans, and had birds squawking in his backpack. While his wife — she couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen — was carrying what looked like a brand new baby. They shyly approached Simeon. 

That’s when the young man cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but can you tell us where to go to give God an offering on behalf of our new little boy?” Simeon immediately put the mop down and took a deep breath to steady himself. Then he reached his gnarled hands toward the new mom and asked her gently, “May I hold him, please?” Mary nodded and handed the newborn Son of God to Simeon. He cradled the pink-cheeked Messiah for several minutes and then began to sing a praise song he’d written many years before but had never actually sung out loud.

Anna, who’d been in the women’s restroom the whole time refilling the paper towel dispenser, was shuffling back toward the sanctuary when she heard Simeon’s warbling baritone voice. “What’s that old goose up to now?” she thought. And as his voice rose in pitch as she wobbled her way to the sound, her feeble heart skipped a beat because she didn’t realize that the sound was Simeon singing; she was afraid he’d fallen down and broken his hip and was screaming in pain. That was until she turned the corner and saw her dear old friend’s enraptured countenance. Then she saw the baby in his arms and, realizing immediately the miracle that was taking place, ran toward them with the speed and agility of a track star.

Day after day, year after year, Anna and Simeon accepted and appreciated the diminutive joys that came their way. Some place to go to volunteer and feel useful. A friend with whom to share stories and prayer requests. Maybe even free Wi-Fi in the Temple lobby. It makes you wonder if their willingness to recognize the sweet, little gifts Jehovah blesses us with each and every day are part of the reason why God chose them to be recipients of the same incomparable surprise present he gave the shepherds wandering in the fields that special night only a week earlier. Good news and great joy — the Savior of the world wrapped in an ordinary blanket.

The long and patient faithfulness of Simeon and Anna is a beautiful example for those of us who are, similarly, waiting for the Lord’s return. But unlike Anna and Simeon, we’re not left to wait alone. Paul told the struggling Gentile believers in Colossi that “Christ lives in you, the hope of glory!” (Col. 1:27) And when you think about it, Christ grew in Mary until he had to come out. And, like Simeon and Anna, Christ will grow in us until the same occurs. He will come out in our speech. He will come out in our actions. He will come out in our decisions. Every place you live will be a Bethlehem, and every day you live will be a Christmas.

So, what’d you get for Christmas? I got Jesus.

Happy New Year!

Randy

Impossibly Possible

Impossibly Possible
Impossibly Possible - Audio/Visual 

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.” Suddenly, the angel was joined by a vast host of others — the armies of heaven — praising God and saying, “Glory to God in highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased.” When the angels had returned to heaven, the shepherds said to each other, “Let’s go to Bethlehem! Let’s see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.” (Luke 2:8-15)

Some call him Sinterklaas, others Père Noël, or Papa Noël. He’s been known as Hoteiosho, Sonnerklaas, Kanakaloka, Jelly Belly, and to most English speakers, Santa Claus. His original name was Nicholas, which means “victorious.” He was born in AD 280 in present-day Turkey, and was orphaned at the age of nine when his parents died of the plague. Though you’d think that Santa must have majored in toy making and minored in marketing, the original Nicholas actually studied Greek and Christian theology.

He was honored by the Catholic Church by being named the Bishop of Myra in the early fourth century, and held that post until his death on December 6, 343. And although history has recognized him as a saint, he was actually a bit of a troublemaker. He was jailed twice – once by the Emperor Diocletian for religious reasons, and the other for slugging a fellow bishop during a fiery religious debate at the First Council of Nicaea. So much for that naughty and nice stuff.

Old Nick never married. But that’s not to say he wasn’t a romantic at heart. He was best known for the kindness he showed a poor neighbor who was unable to provide dowries for his three daughters. So, one night Old Saint Nick slipped up to his neighbor’s house and dropped a handful of gold coins through the window so that the eldest daughter could afford to get married. Later, he repeated this act on two other nights for the remaining daughters as well. The gold coins, it appears, came from the inheritance he received upon his wealthy parents’ passing, who’d encouraged Nicholas, as a young boy, to respond to Jesus’ words to “sell what you have and give to the poor.” This story, then, became the seed that, when watered with the centuries, became the Santa legend. Every generation since has adorned it with another ornament, until the legend today sparkles brighter than a Christmas tree.

For instance, the gift grew from a handful of coins to bags of coins. Instead of dropping them through the window, he dropped them down the chimney. And rather than landing on the floor, the bags of coins landed in the girls’ stockings, which were hanging on the hearth to dry. The centuries have also been as good to Nicholas’ image as to his deeds. Not only have his acts been embellished, but his wardrobe and personality have undergone a pretty remarkable transformation as well.

As Bishop of Myra, he wore the traditional ecclesiastical robes and a mitered hat. He was known to have been slim, sporting a dark beard to go along with his very serious personality. By 1300, however, he was wearing a white beard. Then, by the early 1800’s, he was depicted with a rotund belly and an ever-present basket of food over his arm. A little later came the black boots, a red cape and a cheery stocking on his head. In the late nineteenth century his basket of food became a sack of toys. In 1866 he was small and gnomish, but by 1930 he was a robust six-footer with rosy cheeks and a taste for a Coke.

Santa reflects the desires of people all over the world. With the centuries, he’s become the composite of what we all seem to want: a friend who cares enough to travel a long way against all odds to bring good gifts to good people. A sage who, though aware of each act, has a way of rewarding the good and overlooking the bad. A friend of children who never gets sick and never grows old. A father who lets you sit on his lap and share your deepest desires.

Santa. The culmination of what we want in a hero. The personification of our passions. The expression of our yearnings. The fulfillment of our desires. And yet . . . the betrayer of our meager expectations. Because Santa can’t provide what we really need. For one thing, he’s only around once a year. When January winds chill our souls, he’s history. When December’s requests become February’s payments, Santa’s left the mall. When April demands taxes, or May brings final exams, Santa’s still months from his next visit. And should July find us ill, or October find us alone, we can’t go to his chair for comfort — it’s empty because he only comes once a year. And when he comes, though he gives much, he doesn’t take much away. He doesn't take away the riddle of the grave, the burden of mistakes, or the anxiety of demands. He’s kind and quick and cute; but when it comes to healing hurts — don’t go to Santa.

Now, I don’t mean to be a Scrooge, and I’m not trying to slam the jolly old fellow. I’m just reminded that, as a people, we’re pretty timid when it comes to designing our legends. Frankly, you’d think we could do better. You’d think that over seventeen centuries we’d develop a hero who’d resolve those fears. But we can’t. As a people, we’ve made many heroes – from Martin Luther King to John Fitzgerald Kennedy; Lincoln to Lindbergh; Socrates to Superman. We give it the best we can, every benefit of every doubt, and every supernatural strength. And for a brief, shining moment, we have the hero we need — the king who can actually deliver Camelot. But then the truth leaks out, the facts surface amid the fiction, and the chinks in the armor begin to appear. And we realize that our heroes, as noble as they may have been, and as courageous as they were, were conceived in the same stained society in which we live. Except One.

There was One who claimed to come from a different place. There was One who, though He had the appearance of a man, claimed to have the origin of God. There was One who, while wearing the face of a Jew, had the image of the Creator. Those who saw Him — really saw Him — knew there was something different about Him. At His touch blind beggars saw. At His command crippled legs walked. At His embrace empty lives filled with vision.

He fed thousands with one basket. He stilled a storm with one command. He raised the dead with one proclamation. He changed lives with one request. He rerouted the history of the world with one life. He lived in one country, was born in one manger, and died on one hill. And after three years of ministry, hundreds of miles, thousands of miracles and innumerable teachings, Jesus asks, “Who?” Jesus asks us to ponder not what He has done but who He is. It’s the ultimate question of the Christ: Whose Son is He? Is He the Son of God, or the sum of our dreams? Is He the force of creation, or a figment of our imagination?

When we ask that question about Santa, the answer is that he’s the culmination of our desires; a depiction of our fondest dreams. But not so when we ask it about Jesus. Because no one could ever dream a person as incredible as He. The idea that a virgin would be selected by God to bear Himself... The notion that God would have a crop of hair, ten toes and two eyes... The thought that the King of the universe would sneeze and burp and get bitten by mosquitoes... It’s just too impossible. It’s too revolutionary. We would never create such a Savior because we aren’t that daring.

When we create a redeemer, we keep him safely distant in his faraway castle. We allow him only the briefest of encounters with us. We permit him to swoop in and out with his sleigh before we can draw too near. And we wouldn’t ever ask him to take up residence in the midst of a contaminated world. In our wildest imaginings we wouldn’t conjure up a king who becomes one of us. But God did.

God did what we wouldn’t dare dream. He did what we couldn’t imagine. He became a man so we could trust Him. He became a sacrifice so we could know Him. And He defeated death so we could follow Him. But it defies logic. It’s a divine insanity; a holy incredibility. Only a God beyond systems and common sense could create a plan so absurd. Yet, it’s the very impossibility of it all that makes it possible. The wildness of the story is its strongest witness. For only our God could create a plan this crazy. Only a Creator beyond the fence of logic could offer such a gift of love. What man can’t do, God does.

So this Christmas, when it comes to goodies and candy, cherub cheeks and red noses, go to Santa. But when it comes to eternity, forgiveness, purpose and truth, go to the manger. Kneel with the shepherds. Worship the God who dared to do what man dared not dream.

Impossibly possible. That’s our God – with whom all things are possible. (Matt. 19:26)

Merry Christmas!

Randy

Born In A Barn

Born In a Barn
Born In a Barn / Audio-Visual 

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.

But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.

This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger. (Luke 2:8-12)

Have you ever heard the expression, “Were you born in a barn?” I did a little research on the subject and there are two prevailing theories on the origin of that phrase. The first is from a blog by Amanda Thomson who suggests that it was originally, “Were you born in Bardney?” Bardney is the site of the Tupholme Abbey in Lincolnshire, England. Apparently, years after the King, Saint Oswald, was killed in 642, his niece, Osthryth, moved his bones to the abbey. Unfortunately, the good monks refused to have the King interred in the abbey since, although known to be a godly man, he was from another province and, thus, a “foreign king.” During the night, however, a pillar of light shone from the cart of bones up to the heavens convincing the monks that Oswald was indeed a saint and that they’d been wrong to shut out the cart with his bones. Legend has it that, forever after, the monks left their gates wide open. So, the phrase that developed, “Were you born in Bardney?” means that you’ve left the door open.

Of course, it’s also possible that the phrase’s original question was, in fact, “Were you born in a barn?” It was a custom to leave barn doors open in the early morning to let the cows out to pasture, and they stayed open all day until the cows were herded back to the barn for milking again in the early evening. Hence, leaving the door open.

I heard it when I tracked mud in the house.

My youngest son, William, was born in one of those birthing suites. He had the good fortune of being born at a time when they were just coming into vogue. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Maybe you’ve even been in one before. Yeah, it’s those comfortable, clean, warm and brightly lit rooms where the entire family can be present for the birth, surrounded by the latest in medical technology. It was exactly the sort of place where you'd want your baby to be born.

But Jesus? Not so much. He wasn’t born in one of those immaculate birthing suites. He was born in a barn and laid in a manger – a place where they feed animals. And the question is, “Why?” I mean, of all the places he could’ve been born, why was he born in a barn with a manger as his cradle? And most of you know me. I ponder these things, especially during this time of year. Maybe it’s because I was born in a barn; I don’t know.

But it got me to thinking. Maybe Jesus was born in a barn and laid in a manger to fulfill the scriptures. You know, the prophecies in the Old Testament predicting his coming? The problem is there are no prophecies in the Old Testament about the Messiah being born in a barn. There goes that idea.

So, then I thought that, well, since Jesus is called the “Good Shepherd,” maybe he was born in a place cut out for shepherds. Now, it's true that shepherds would often take shelter out in the fields, like in a stable, to avoid the elements. But that kind of place was usually a cave of some sort, and shepherds didn’t live there – they just took shelter there. And they certainly didn’t give birth there. I mean, shepherds were social outcasts and all, and they were the poorest of the poor, but even a shepherd wouldn’t be born in a barn. Sorry. A manger.

And then it came to me. The obvious answer is provided by the story itself: Jesus was born in a barn and placed in a manger because there was no room at the inn. That’s it, I thought. You know. It wasn't something that was planned – it was just an accident. Jesus must have been a preemie. But then I got to thinking that in the life of Christ there were no accidents – everything was planned. Everything. Down to the last detail kind of planned. Planned before the beginning of time. OK, then why the manger?

Well, if you take stock of a real manger, a few things stand out. First, a manger can be cold. And if you subscribe to Jesus being born during an Israeli winter, it’s that damp sort of cold that chills you to the bone. Further, the only heat source would have been the body heat coming from the cows when they came in to feed, and their breath. But in winter, their breath would have made for a cloud of steam that, given the right conditions, could freeze, mid-air.

A manger’s dark, too. In fact, most mangers were located underground, in a cave or below the house it served. So, even when the sun’s shining, it's dark in there. And, perhaps stating the obvious, a manger is filthy: it's full of slobber, drool, mud, dust and cobwebs. It smells bad, too. There's no such thing as a clean or hygienic manger.

At Christmas time, however, we tend to romanticize the manger. We turn it into something beautiful and heavenly – a first century birthing suite of sorts. But a real manger just isn't like that. The truth is that Jesus was laid in a place that was cold, dark, dirty and smelly. But again, why? I mean, if Jesus was God Incarnate, God with skin on, couldn’t He have picked a better spot than a filthy feeding trough – a mangy manger? Maybe it’s because Jesus is always born in a manger.

You see, when Jesus comes into our lives, he’s born in a manger of sorts because the human heart is just like one. Our hearts are cold because we don’t know the love of God; our hearts are dark because we don’t have the light of Christ, or the hope of salvation; and our hearts are dirty because we are stained and soiled by sin. But the miracle of Christmas is that Jesus is willing to be born into hearts just like that! No matter how cold and dark and dirty our hearts may be, Jesus is willing to come in and be born – born in the manger of our lives.

His birth, and where he laid, reminds us that Jesus always meets us at the manger. He encounters us in that place where we feel utterly lost, hopeless and helpless. He meets us in the darkness of our grief and sorrow, and he meets us in the blackness of our despair. He comes into our lives when we feel unloved, unlovable and alone – when inside we feel cold and half frozen to death. Jesus meets us in all the mess and filth of our sin – even those sins which we think are unforgivable.

A while back, I picked up a Newsweek and read an article about Anne Rice. She’s a famous novelist, and her books have sold 50 million copies the world over. Most of her books deal with the occult and vampires, like Interview with a Vampire. The article told the story of her life – how her mother died when she was still very young, and how she grew up afraid of the dark. Later on, she got married and gave birth to a baby girl named Michelle. But when Michelle was just a few years old, she died of leukemia. Crushed, Anne began drinking heavily and sank into a deep depression. So, she began writing about vampires as therapy because vampires, so they say, are able to live forever.

Her novels brought her wealth and fame, so much so that she bought a huge mansion in New Orleans and entertained her many guests with lavish parties. But then a strange thing happened. Anne began reading the Bible, including a number of Christian books. And even though she hadn't been to church since she was a little girl, she felt a strange longing to take communion. Then, in 1998, she renewed her faith in Jesus Christ, and in 2005 decided that she would no longer write about vampires. Describing that moment she said, “I was in church, talking to the Lord, saying, ‘I want everything I do to be for you.’ Then it hit me: ‘It will be for you. All of it. Every word.’” So, it should come as no surprise that when her autobiography, Called out of Darkness: A Spiritual Confession (2008), was released, it rocked the publishing world; it was bordering on the inconceivable that Anne Rice, the queen of the vampires, was now a devout believer in Jesus Christ.

But then again, maybe that shouldn’t surprise us after all. Because Jesus is always born in the manger of dark, cold, and dirty hearts that long to be called out of darkness into light. Out of bondage into freedom. Out of fear and into joy. Out of self and into Christ.

Maybe being born in a barn isn’t so bad after all.

Grace,

Randy