My sister and her family came to the house today. Dana’s first task was to go through the two dressers that were in “her” room (even though she’s never lived in this house) so that she could move her childhood furniture into her daughter’s room at their house. After she and my mom completed that task, Finley and I moved the empty furniture down the stairs and onto the truck, where my dad helped secure it. Griffin held open the front door. Amelia served as cheerleader and encourager.
As I worked with Finley to get the furniture down the stairs, I heard this little voice saying, “Step. Step. Step. Be careful, daddy. Step. You’re doing a good job. Step. You’re almost there. Step. Step. You can do it. Step. Step. Hooray! You made it!!”
When I asked Amelia why she hadn’t cheered for me, she said, “Because you could see where you were going.”
A few minutes later, following her big brother’s helpful lead, Amelia attempted to carry a drawer down the steps. Seeing that she was struggling, I volunteered to hold half of the drawer. “I’ve got it!” she said. “I’m going to make it! I can do this because you’re helping me and carrying the heaviest part.”
Earlier today, Amelia and Griffin had a discussion about where one of their grown-up friends works. Griffin said she didn’t work at Belk. Amelia said she did. Griffin said, “I thought she quit.” Amelia said, “She did quit. But she went back.” Finley confirmed that Amelia was correct. I asked Amelia how she knew what was going on and she responded, “Because she told me. And I listened.”
As my mom and I put the kids to bed tonight, I had the privilege of reading the bedtime story. I read Sleep, Baby, Sleep by Maryann Cusimano Love. With Amelia nestled in my arms reminding me that she’s not a baby but that I should still read “baby” because it’s what the book says, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of love for her and her big brother (who was pretending not to pay attention but really was). I read:
Sleep, baby, sleep, snuggled like a sheep. Be always like the lamb so mild, a kind and sweet and gentle child. Sleep, baby, sleep…
...Grow, baby, grown. From our arms you’ll go, unfurling like a butterfly, cocoon opening to the sky. Grow, baby, grow.
Hush, baby, hush. Growing can’t be rushed. Be always like a newborn foal with whispered wind songs in his soul. Hush, baby, hush.
Shine, baby, shine, graceful child of mine. Be like the firefly who glows no matter who the darkness grows. Shine, baby, shine.
Peace, baby, peace. All your cares release. Be always like the snowy dove who spreads her wings and sings of love. Peace, baby, peace.
Dream, baby, dream, rising like moonbeams. Be always like the dragonfly shimmering in the misty sky. Dream, baby, dream.
Sleep, baby, sleep. Our promises we’ll keep. Be the miracle you are, a wish come true on shooting star. Sleep, baby, sleep.
Some people say that we learn all we need to know in Kindergarten. Sometimes I think they are right. Amelia certainly is on to something in wholeheartedly encouraging her daddy who could not see, accepting help when she needed it, realizing that she can’t always do everything alone, and taking the time truly to listen. Little does she know that, even though I could see, her words and spirit encouraged me as well. At age 5, her life is already making a difference well beyond what she intends or knows.
Sing, baby, sing. Or should I say whistle, baby, whistle. As you are going back and forth between both while I finish this note. Do as you are singing and “sleep in heavenly peace…” For you truly are a miracle. And I am lucky to be inspired by you.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Monday, December 23, 2013
The Bells
I spent a lot of time teaching about Beethoven this month. As part of my teaching process, I showed the 4th and 5th graders Beethoven Lives Upstairs. In one scene of the film, the landlord smiles as she turns toward the window. Beethoven asks why she’s smiling and she says, “The bells. I love the bells.” With a look of deep sadness, Beethoven responds, “Ah. I did, too.” Beethoven lost his hearing around the age of 30.
Yesterday at church, Pastor Patrick told the story behind the carol, “I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day,” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Longfellow wrote the carol in 1867 after his son was injured in the Civil War after his wife had burned to death when her dress caught on fire and she couldn’t get out of it. Walking down the street on a cold winter’s day, Longfellow heard Christmas bells begin to play…and then he penned this poem, turned to song:
I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head:
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men."
Till, ringing singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men!
Honestly, I hadn’t given this carol much thought until yesterday. But now I have. And it is so powerful that it moves me to tears.
I get it when Longfellow writes, “And in despair I bowed my head: ‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said, ‘For hate is strong and mocks the song, Of peace on earth, good will to men."
And I get it when he writes, “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: ‘God is not dead, nor doth he sleep; The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men."
I get the journey from joy to despair and back again. I understand walking through heartache and grief, questioning everything I’ve known to be true, but deciding to rest upon peace.
Peace is not the absence of conflict but the presence of Love.
And even when life is difficult—wars raging, people dying, children suffering—Love, always love, is there.
Yesterday at church, Pastor Patrick told the story behind the carol, “I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day,” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Longfellow wrote the carol in 1867 after his son was injured in the Civil War after his wife had burned to death when her dress caught on fire and she couldn’t get out of it. Walking down the street on a cold winter’s day, Longfellow heard Christmas bells begin to play…and then he penned this poem, turned to song:
I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head:
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men."
Till, ringing singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men!
Honestly, I hadn’t given this carol much thought until yesterday. But now I have. And it is so powerful that it moves me to tears.
I get it when Longfellow writes, “And in despair I bowed my head: ‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said, ‘For hate is strong and mocks the song, Of peace on earth, good will to men."
And I get it when he writes, “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: ‘God is not dead, nor doth he sleep; The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men."
I get the journey from joy to despair and back again. I understand walking through heartache and grief, questioning everything I’ve known to be true, but deciding to rest upon peace.
Peace is not the absence of conflict but the presence of Love.
And even when life is difficult—wars raging, people dying, children suffering—Love, always love, is there.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Jesus Got Sick, Too
I just got home from my sister’s birthday dinner. As I drove my parents and myself home, I couldn’t help but notice the brightness of the stars and moon and remember a night many years ago when I lay in bed trying to sleep but having sleep elude me.
Propped on my husband pillow, trying to breathe through stuffed nostrils and coughing lungs, I had a middle of the night revelation: Jesus got sick, too, because Jesus was fully human. And not only that, but Jesus had to sleep—and probably sometimes struggled to sleep—and Jesus got aggravated—and Jesus had to use the bathroom…which was actually the subject of a conversation I had earlier in the week when talking about the bathroom break that I created between my 2nd and 3rd grade classes.
All that being said, as I write this tonight, through stuffed nostrils and coughing lungs, with the Christmas tree in the corner of my eyes, I am not surprisingly thinking about Jesus…and remembering a declaration that I penned awhile back.
I close with that declaration tonight.
Why I Choose Jesus
2.23.12
I choose you...
...not just for raising Lazarus from the dead but for crying when he died.
...not just for sending the rich man away but for leaving the door open for another chance.
...not just for feeding the 5,000 but for having compassion on their needs.
...not just for welcoming children but for once being a child yourself.
...not just for speaking to and forgiving the woman at the well but for valuing the lives, work, and
witness of women.
...not just for calling Zacchaeus down from the tree but for seeing him in the tree in the first place.
...not just for standing against hypocrisy and legalism but for eating with, communing with, laughing
with, and valuing the outcast and those who believed they were unlovable.
...not just for dying a cruel death but for living into, though sometimes struggling with, your call.
...not just for teaching us to pray but for praying for us through agonizing tears.
...not just for being fully God and fully human but for living your humanity in the context of community.
...not just for speaking straightforward truth but for leaving us with story, parable, and thoughts that are sometimes hard to understand.
...not just for breaking bread and drinking wine but for cursing the fig tree when you were hungry and it did not have fruit for you to eat.
...not just for words but for silence.
...not just for the sacrifice of your blood but for the breath of your creation.
...not just for your death but for your life.
...not just for eternity but for right now.
Jesus, I choose you not for judgment but for redemption.
I choose you not for showing up but for being all-present.
I choose you not for comfortable assurance but for hope.
Jesus, I choose you not for condemnation but for love.
I choose you not for condemnation but for love.
Propped on my husband pillow, trying to breathe through stuffed nostrils and coughing lungs, I had a middle of the night revelation: Jesus got sick, too, because Jesus was fully human. And not only that, but Jesus had to sleep—and probably sometimes struggled to sleep—and Jesus got aggravated—and Jesus had to use the bathroom…which was actually the subject of a conversation I had earlier in the week when talking about the bathroom break that I created between my 2nd and 3rd grade classes.
All that being said, as I write this tonight, through stuffed nostrils and coughing lungs, with the Christmas tree in the corner of my eyes, I am not surprisingly thinking about Jesus…and remembering a declaration that I penned awhile back.
I close with that declaration tonight.
Why I Choose Jesus
2.23.12
I choose you...
...not just for raising Lazarus from the dead but for crying when he died.
...not just for sending the rich man away but for leaving the door open for another chance.
...not just for feeding the 5,000 but for having compassion on their needs.
...not just for welcoming children but for once being a child yourself.
...not just for speaking to and forgiving the woman at the well but for valuing the lives, work, and
witness of women.
...not just for calling Zacchaeus down from the tree but for seeing him in the tree in the first place.
...not just for standing against hypocrisy and legalism but for eating with, communing with, laughing
with, and valuing the outcast and those who believed they were unlovable.
...not just for dying a cruel death but for living into, though sometimes struggling with, your call.
...not just for teaching us to pray but for praying for us through agonizing tears.
...not just for being fully God and fully human but for living your humanity in the context of community.
...not just for speaking straightforward truth but for leaving us with story, parable, and thoughts that are sometimes hard to understand.
...not just for breaking bread and drinking wine but for cursing the fig tree when you were hungry and it did not have fruit for you to eat.
...not just for words but for silence.
...not just for the sacrifice of your blood but for the breath of your creation.
...not just for your death but for your life.
...not just for eternity but for right now.
Jesus, I choose you not for judgment but for redemption.
I choose you not for showing up but for being all-present.
I choose you not for comfortable assurance but for hope.
Jesus, I choose you not for condemnation but for love.
I choose you not for condemnation but for love.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Say Something
If you know me fairly well, then you know that I don’t give up on people or institutions very easily. If I believe in someone or something, then I am one of the most loyal people you will ever meet.
As such, I find it strange that I’ve been walking around singing lyrics from A Great Big World’s song, “Say Something,” today. What’s even stranger is that I’ve only heard the song twice, and neither of those times was recently.
Yet all day, I’ve been singing:
“Say something, I'm giving up on you.
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you…
Say something, I'm giving up on you…
And I will swallow my pride.
You're the one that I love
And I'm saying goodbye.”
The strangest thing, though? I’m actually doing it.
I’m giving up,
letting go,
accepting limitations,
saying goodbye.
To persons who, for whatever reasons, do not accept my friendship,
To institutions that, for whatever reasons, do not accept who I am.
Somehow, while singing my mysterious ear worm today, I realized that this surrender has been happening for quite some time. It’s been a quiet surrender for the past year or so: a gradual understanding that I cannot be all things to all people no matter how hard I try or how deeply I desire to be so.
Some people choose me. Some people don’t. The same goes with organizations and institutions. So instead of chasing the ones who don’t, I’m actively choosing to embrace the ones who do—like you, reader—and trusting a Love bigger than myself with the rest.
I don’t understand Love. I don’t understand the vastness of it all—its presence in stark opposites—its miraculous appearance in a baby who grew to be a man who looked into the face of brokenness and said, “I see light in you, too.” Yet I know that Love is vast enough to surround all and not give up on any…even as Love tells me it’s okay to set some free.
As such, I find it strange that I’ve been walking around singing lyrics from A Great Big World’s song, “Say Something,” today. What’s even stranger is that I’ve only heard the song twice, and neither of those times was recently.
Yet all day, I’ve been singing:
“Say something, I'm giving up on you.
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you…
Say something, I'm giving up on you…
And I will swallow my pride.
You're the one that I love
And I'm saying goodbye.”
The strangest thing, though? I’m actually doing it.
I’m giving up,
letting go,
accepting limitations,
saying goodbye.
To persons who, for whatever reasons, do not accept my friendship,
To institutions that, for whatever reasons, do not accept who I am.
Somehow, while singing my mysterious ear worm today, I realized that this surrender has been happening for quite some time. It’s been a quiet surrender for the past year or so: a gradual understanding that I cannot be all things to all people no matter how hard I try or how deeply I desire to be so.
Some people choose me. Some people don’t. The same goes with organizations and institutions. So instead of chasing the ones who don’t, I’m actively choosing to embrace the ones who do—like you, reader—and trusting a Love bigger than myself with the rest.
I don’t understand Love. I don’t understand the vastness of it all—its presence in stark opposites—its miraculous appearance in a baby who grew to be a man who looked into the face of brokenness and said, “I see light in you, too.” Yet I know that Love is vast enough to surround all and not give up on any…even as Love tells me it’s okay to set some free.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
This Holiday Season and Beyond
Almighty God, you have blessed me
with the joy and care of children:
Give me calm strength and patient wisdom as I work with them,
that I may teach them to love whatever is
just, true, and good,
following the example of
Peace.
My students are growing up
in an unsteady and confusing world, God.
Show them that
righteousness gives more life than evil,
that light has more power than dark.
Help them to take heartache and failure not
as a measure of self
but as a chance to grow.
Help them to know that they are
persons of worth and value,
even when friends and family tell them it isn’t so.
Grant my students, colleagues, and me,
in all of our doubts and uncertainties,
the space to thrive.
Give us wisdom.
Surround us with grace.
And fill me, O God,
with a holy love that is contagious…
this holiday season and beyond.
Amen.
with the joy and care of children:
Give me calm strength and patient wisdom as I work with them,
that I may teach them to love whatever is
just, true, and good,
following the example of
Peace.
My students are growing up
in an unsteady and confusing world, God.
Show them that
righteousness gives more life than evil,
that light has more power than dark.
Help them to take heartache and failure not
as a measure of self
but as a chance to grow.
Help them to know that they are
persons of worth and value,
even when friends and family tell them it isn’t so.
Grant my students, colleagues, and me,
in all of our doubts and uncertainties,
the space to thrive.
Give us wisdom.
Surround us with grace.
And fill me, O God,
with a holy love that is contagious…
this holiday season and beyond.
Amen.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Probably Not. She Lost The Son of God.
At the end of church yesterday, we sang a congregational version of the modern Christmas classic, “Mary Did You Know.” We sang it more quickly than normal, with a driving beat, and I sang at the top of my lungs. Then, after the song ended, I thought to myself, “Probably not. Mary probably didn’t know that her baby boy would do all of those great things. And that’s okay. Because she chose to be his mom nonetheless.”
Mary, 12 year old Mary,
chose to say yes to God when
God asked her to do the unthinkable.
God asked Mary to do something that could have literally gotten her killed.
It didn’t.
But Mary likely still greeted death:
death of reputation,
death of family hopes,
death of fulfilled expectations,
death of tradition,
death of childhood.
Mary also likely felt
the hurt of being
the center of attention
as an outcast.
Yet Mary chose this.
She chose it because she knew
being the mother of the Messiah was
who she was meant to be—
no matter what.
Mary wasn’t a perfect mom.
She lost the son of God, for goodness sake!
But Mary did her best to raise her son because
She loved him.
And she made the choice,
took the risk,
embraced the ridicule,
accepted the many deaths
that came from
following her call and
living into who she was created to be.
Did Mary know that being herself would lead her to raise a son that would cause the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to leap, the dumb to speak, and the dead to live again? Probably not. She probably didn’t know she’d leave him at the temple either! But she chose to be his mom nonetheless. And the sleeping child in her arms turned out to be the biggest blessing imaginable: the great I am.
Mary, 12 year old Mary,
chose to say yes to God when
God asked her to do the unthinkable.
God asked Mary to do something that could have literally gotten her killed.
It didn’t.
But Mary likely still greeted death:
death of reputation,
death of family hopes,
death of fulfilled expectations,
death of tradition,
death of childhood.
Mary also likely felt
the hurt of being
the center of attention
as an outcast.
Yet Mary chose this.
She chose it because she knew
being the mother of the Messiah was
who she was meant to be—
no matter what.
Mary wasn’t a perfect mom.
She lost the son of God, for goodness sake!
But Mary did her best to raise her son because
She loved him.
And she made the choice,
took the risk,
embraced the ridicule,
accepted the many deaths
that came from
following her call and
living into who she was created to be.
Did Mary know that being herself would lead her to raise a son that would cause the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to leap, the dumb to speak, and the dead to live again? Probably not. She probably didn’t know she’d leave him at the temple either! But she chose to be his mom nonetheless. And the sleeping child in her arms turned out to be the biggest blessing imaginable: the great I am.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Self-Discovery Progress Report
Progress reports went home today. Here is my progress in the subject of self-discovery. All three discoveries were made this week.
1) I am not a good music student. Last night at choir practice (I’m a seasonal Christmas Cantata Choir Member—sounds official, huh?) I found myself wanting to talk to and make jokes with my neighbors. I also caught myself singing quite a few times after the conductor signaled for us to stop. I wasn’t trying to be annoying. Melodies, word patterns, and neat motifs just kept getting stuck in my head and I accidentally, mindlessly, kept singing/humming them. At one point I realized, “This is what my students do,” and then I made an intentional effort to be a good student. I must admit, though, sitting quietly while not singing was much more difficult than talking, joking, or humming.
2) I am not good at standing still. After asking my 1st grade students to stand in place and practice singing their program music, I noticed myself absent-mindedly wandering to the middle of the room. I suddenly realized, “This is happens to these kids, too. They’re singing. Getting lost in the music. And suddenly their way far away from their seats. Ugh.”
3) I’m not above (figuratively) throwing a 3rd grader under the bus. Yesterday, while waiting for car duty to begin, I noticed a Highlights Hidden Picture puzzle on one of the computers in the library; a 3rd grade student hadn’t closed the window after printing out the picture. Naturally, I decided to find some hidden pictures as the car-riders filed in for dismissal. As I searched, a 2nd grade student, M, sat beside me to help. [She is the same student who “helped” me type morning announcements on Monday and typed "bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb6666666666666666". I surely did read it.]
About ten minutes later, I found myself standing beside Cone 3 in the car-rider line being scolded by a 2nd grader, complete with grim face, finger pointing, and all.
“You left on your computer, Ms. Deaton. You didn’t log out when you finished. You are wasting electricity. You are wasting power. You are keeping someone from using the computer. You have been bad. Very bad.”
In the middle of my scolding, I found myself defending my actions. “But, M,” I said.
“No. I don’t want to hear it,” she said, turning her head away from me. “You left on your computer. You have been bad. That’s it.”
“But, M,” I continued. “Do you know, H? He’s a 3rd grade student who is very loving and kind like you (because he is). He’s the one who left on the computer. I just used it afterwards. And it’ll cut itself off. Don’t worry.”
M was walking to her car by the time I finished my defense. And then I thought, “Oh good Lord. I just defended myself to a 2nd grader by throwing a 3rd grader (figuratively) under the bus.”
So there you have it, folks. I, Deanna Deaton, K-5 music teacher for nine years, am a non-standing-still, talkative, silly, humming, bad music student who doesn’t like to be in trouble and will therefore defend herself to a 2nd grader by blaming her computer log-out ignorance on a 3rd grader.
Pretty awesome, huh? :-)
1) I am not a good music student. Last night at choir practice (I’m a seasonal Christmas Cantata Choir Member—sounds official, huh?) I found myself wanting to talk to and make jokes with my neighbors. I also caught myself singing quite a few times after the conductor signaled for us to stop. I wasn’t trying to be annoying. Melodies, word patterns, and neat motifs just kept getting stuck in my head and I accidentally, mindlessly, kept singing/humming them. At one point I realized, “This is what my students do,” and then I made an intentional effort to be a good student. I must admit, though, sitting quietly while not singing was much more difficult than talking, joking, or humming.
2) I am not good at standing still. After asking my 1st grade students to stand in place and practice singing their program music, I noticed myself absent-mindedly wandering to the middle of the room. I suddenly realized, “This is happens to these kids, too. They’re singing. Getting lost in the music. And suddenly their way far away from their seats. Ugh.”
3) I’m not above (figuratively) throwing a 3rd grader under the bus. Yesterday, while waiting for car duty to begin, I noticed a Highlights Hidden Picture puzzle on one of the computers in the library; a 3rd grade student hadn’t closed the window after printing out the picture. Naturally, I decided to find some hidden pictures as the car-riders filed in for dismissal. As I searched, a 2nd grade student, M, sat beside me to help. [She is the same student who “helped” me type morning announcements on Monday and typed "bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb6666666666666666". I surely did read it.]
About ten minutes later, I found myself standing beside Cone 3 in the car-rider line being scolded by a 2nd grader, complete with grim face, finger pointing, and all.
“You left on your computer, Ms. Deaton. You didn’t log out when you finished. You are wasting electricity. You are wasting power. You are keeping someone from using the computer. You have been bad. Very bad.”
In the middle of my scolding, I found myself defending my actions. “But, M,” I said.
“No. I don’t want to hear it,” she said, turning her head away from me. “You left on your computer. You have been bad. That’s it.”
“But, M,” I continued. “Do you know, H? He’s a 3rd grade student who is very loving and kind like you (because he is). He’s the one who left on the computer. I just used it afterwards. And it’ll cut itself off. Don’t worry.”
M was walking to her car by the time I finished my defense. And then I thought, “Oh good Lord. I just defended myself to a 2nd grader by throwing a 3rd grader (figuratively) under the bus.”
So there you have it, folks. I, Deanna Deaton, K-5 music teacher for nine years, am a non-standing-still, talkative, silly, humming, bad music student who doesn’t like to be in trouble and will therefore defend herself to a 2nd grader by blaming her computer log-out ignorance on a 3rd grader.
Pretty awesome, huh? :-)
Monday, December 2, 2013
On Mass Murder
My pastor did it again; he delivered a sermon that shed new light on a story that I’d heard many times before.
Yesterday’s light-shedding was on the story of King Herod and the three Wisemen. Specifically, he led me to think about Herod.
Over the years, Herod, though not a Jew himself, earned the title “King of the Jews” through hard work and government-pleasing decisions. In the process of obtaining this title, Herod became obsessed with power and began living a paranoid, possessive, self-absorbed reality.
Herod had people killed if he even suspected a threat or sensed disloyalty, so it’s no surprise that he was not happy when three strange men, obviously from a far away land, arrived in Jerusalem asking for the newly born King of the Jews. It’s also no surprise that he quickly devised a plan to find and destroy this newly born babe. Noone, and he meant no one, was going to usurp Herod’s power—not today, or tomorrow, or any day in the future.
And so…when Herod’s first plan to capture Jesus failed, Herod went into survival mode. Ruled by fear of losing the status that consumed him, Herod made a decree that he likely never imagined himself making: kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under. Mass murder. To kill one, unknown child who could possibly, one day, pose a threat to Herod’s throne.
Sometimes, when we’re in survival mode—when we’re trying to hold on to everything we know—good or bad—we do things we never thought we’d do. As my pastor said, “When Herod was young,I’m sure he never said, ‘When I grow up, I want to be a mass murderer.”
Likewise, I would wager that none of us ever said, “When I grow up, I want to be an adulterer. Or an addict. Or a thief. Or a liar. Or a murderer.”
But sometimes, when the world is falling apart, and all that we have worked for is slipping away, and thoughts of being alone scream louder than anything sane, and we see nothing in front of us except a string that is slipping away, we think, say, and do things we never dreamed possible. We order the mass murder of all males under the age of two,along with dreams of fidelity, freedom, righteousness, humility, integrity, and truth.
Whether we like it or not, life really does come down to a battle between two kingdoms: the kingdom of God and the kingdom of self. When Jesus was born into this world, he ushered in the kingdom of God which stood in stark contrast to Herod’s kingdom of self…and Herod wasn’t yet ready to lay down his crown.
Lyrics from two songs come to mind as I wrap up this note:
“Grasping to a string in the cold, dark stale air. It won’t get you very far. It won’t get you anywhere. It’s crying out in the night and standing for what it right that’ll heal the hurt.It’ll heal the hurt…” (--D.Deaton)
(and)
“I will rise up, rise up. And bow down and lay my crown. At his wounded feet.” (--Caedmon’s Call)
This holiday season, as we wait in anticipation to celebrate the radically, unsettling but all-together world changing birth of the King of the Jews, ask yourself to what strings you are grasping and if you are ready to begin letting go. When Jesus was born, Herod wasn’t yet there and henceforth made a horrific decree. Yet if we believe in the redemption that Jesus was born to provide, then maybe one day Herod got there. And maybe his crown is now at Jesus’ feet. And maybe ours can be, too.
Yesterday’s light-shedding was on the story of King Herod and the three Wisemen. Specifically, he led me to think about Herod.
Over the years, Herod, though not a Jew himself, earned the title “King of the Jews” through hard work and government-pleasing decisions. In the process of obtaining this title, Herod became obsessed with power and began living a paranoid, possessive, self-absorbed reality.
Herod had people killed if he even suspected a threat or sensed disloyalty, so it’s no surprise that he was not happy when three strange men, obviously from a far away land, arrived in Jerusalem asking for the newly born King of the Jews. It’s also no surprise that he quickly devised a plan to find and destroy this newly born babe. Noone, and he meant no one, was going to usurp Herod’s power—not today, or tomorrow, or any day in the future.
And so…when Herod’s first plan to capture Jesus failed, Herod went into survival mode. Ruled by fear of losing the status that consumed him, Herod made a decree that he likely never imagined himself making: kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under. Mass murder. To kill one, unknown child who could possibly, one day, pose a threat to Herod’s throne.
Sometimes, when we’re in survival mode—when we’re trying to hold on to everything we know—good or bad—we do things we never thought we’d do. As my pastor said, “When Herod was young,I’m sure he never said, ‘When I grow up, I want to be a mass murderer.”
Likewise, I would wager that none of us ever said, “When I grow up, I want to be an adulterer. Or an addict. Or a thief. Or a liar. Or a murderer.”
But sometimes, when the world is falling apart, and all that we have worked for is slipping away, and thoughts of being alone scream louder than anything sane, and we see nothing in front of us except a string that is slipping away, we think, say, and do things we never dreamed possible. We order the mass murder of all males under the age of two,along with dreams of fidelity, freedom, righteousness, humility, integrity, and truth.
Whether we like it or not, life really does come down to a battle between two kingdoms: the kingdom of God and the kingdom of self. When Jesus was born into this world, he ushered in the kingdom of God which stood in stark contrast to Herod’s kingdom of self…and Herod wasn’t yet ready to lay down his crown.
Lyrics from two songs come to mind as I wrap up this note:
“Grasping to a string in the cold, dark stale air. It won’t get you very far. It won’t get you anywhere. It’s crying out in the night and standing for what it right that’ll heal the hurt.It’ll heal the hurt…” (--D.Deaton)
(and)
“I will rise up, rise up. And bow down and lay my crown. At his wounded feet.” (--Caedmon’s Call)
This holiday season, as we wait in anticipation to celebrate the radically, unsettling but all-together world changing birth of the King of the Jews, ask yourself to what strings you are grasping and if you are ready to begin letting go. When Jesus was born, Herod wasn’t yet there and henceforth made a horrific decree. Yet if we believe in the redemption that Jesus was born to provide, then maybe one day Herod got there. And maybe his crown is now at Jesus’ feet. And maybe ours can be, too.
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