Peace

 

In 1867, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the lyrics to the carol, “I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day,” after his son was injured in the Civil War and his wife died when her dress caught fire. Walking down the street on a cold winter’s day, Longfellow heard Christmas bells begin to play…and he penned this poem:

 

“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!”

 

I don’t know about you, but 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, in the end, to rest upon peace.

 

Friends: Peace is not the absence of conflict but the presence of Love.

And even when life is difficult—

Political upheaval, wars raging, people dying, children suffering—

Love, God’s love, is there.

 

Amen.

Failed Christmas Presents

It’s no secret that one of my favorite things is gem mining. 

I love the process of sorting through dirt and discovering small treasures. 

Over the years, I’ve collected and given a lot of unpolished gems

And a few years ago, I gave away gems that I had polished in my rock tumbler. 

But it wasn’t until this year that I actually paid to have gems cut, professionally polished, and turned into jewelry. 

 

At the time of this year’s mining, 

Having the stones set for the three people I was with seemed like a great idea! 

“These will make great birthday and Christmas presents,” I thought. 

“And they will be something they can keep forever.”

I was super excited! 

I even came home and ordered silver chains to go with the pendants. 

 

But then reality set in a couple of weeks ago: 

Nice jewelry isn’t at the top of a 3rd and a 7th graders’ gift lists .  

Their mama’s? Yes! 

Theirs? No. 

 

Nevertheless, I persisted 

And presented the girls with sapphire and aquamarine necklaces, 

Cut and polished from stones that we had found together on our spontaneous summer getaway away. 

 

Ideally, the girls would have loved their necklaces. 

In reality, they were disappointed in this year’s Christmas gifts.

Last year, I scored big with a Stanley cup and a life-sized teddy bear. 

This year, I got demerits for fancy jewelry . 

 

Don’t get me wrong. 

The girls are not ungrateful brats. 

They will come to appreciate the value of their gifts in due time. 

But for now,

They are just kids. 

And I temporarily forgot that kids like trends and toys more than sentimental necklaces . 

 

So, if you’re like me, 

Then this holiday season will be filled with both joys and disappointments. 

You will both fail and succeed in your gift giving 

And you will be both genuinely happy and pretendedly happy in your gift receiving. 

 

Through it all, though,

Just remember this:

If your heart is in the right place, 

Then that is what matters. 

It’s not about money. 

It’s not about scoring big. 

It’s about giving and receiving love, 

Even when the tangible gift is not fully appreciated in return. 

 

I drove home from my failed gift giving smiling. 

I gave the girls a gift they get to grow into. 

It’s not trendy. 

It’s not a toy. 

It’s a little piece of my heart, 

Of something that I hold dear, 

And I have no regrets…

Except maybe I should have thrown in some baseball cards and Jellycats . 

An Unexpected Gift

 

When I got home from my NYC Day Trip yesterday,

I had a package waiting for me

From Thomas the Tin Art Teacher.

Not expecting a package,

I excitedly, but carefully, opened it.

 

There was a note:

Be careful what you put on FB, he said.

Because you might just get something in response.

He then went on to explain that his gift

Had been sitting in his attic, for years,

And that he thought it might be better served with me.

 

As I began unwrapping his gift—

A tin, nativity scene from Mexico—

I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of Thomas’s gift,

And the fact that he thought enough of me to

1.      Think of me at all.

2.      Go into the attic to unearth the treasure.

3.      Gently package the individual pieces of the nativity.

4.      Retrieve my address.

5.      Go to the post office and pay to send real mail.

 

What an amazing gift!

 

This Holiday Season,

As gift giving weighs heavily on people’s minds and hearts,

May we find ways to achieve the unexpected,

And may the intentions of our hearts

Outweigh the demands of the mind.

 

Gift giving doesn’t have to be a burden,

Rather it can be an overflow of the heart’s love.

And remember that the heart’s love can be shown by

Words of Affirmation,

Quality Time,

Gifts (including the gift of time),

Acts of Service, and/or

Physical Touch.

 

May we find the perfect gifts for those we love,

And may those gifts bring smiles to faces,

And warmth to hearts…

Amen.

Your Place In The Nativity

Thanks to a picture of a Nativity scene where one of the three wise men is holding baby Jesus, I’ve found myself particularly interested in Nativities this year. Truth be told, the interest has been growing over the past few years as 1) I’ve noticed how helpful it is to have a visual image when telling the Christmas story to children, and 2) We went through my Grandmother’s house and I found a handful of Nativities that spoke to me.

After seeing the picture of a wise man holding Jesus, I made it a quiet personal quest to find non-traditional Nativities where persons other than Mary are holding baby Jesus. So far, I’ve seen a picture of a scene where Joseph is holding baby Jesus, but that’s as far as my quest has taken me…sort of…

As I was practicing for a cantata on Saturday morning, I found myself singing, “Come to the manger and kneel as his side, adore Him. Come see him sleeping, this heavenly child, adore Him. This unlikely Savior who sleeps in the cold, this tiny Messiah the prophets foretold. Come see the wonders your eyes will behold, adore Him…” and I suddenly realized what the lyrics were saying:

They were beckoning me, Deanna, to join the Nativity. They were asking me, Deanna, to enter that stable and visit baby Jesus like the shepherds did so many years ago!

And the invitation made me wonder: Where WOULD I have been in the picture had I been there? Would I have been standing at a distance, awestruck by the wonder of it all (or maybe even afraid)? Would I have been talking to Joseph and Mary, inquiring about their well-being? Would I have been trying to make the shepherds feel welcome? Would I have been holding baby Jesus?...

I know that Nativity scenes aren’t accurate. I know that the wisemen didn’t really visit baby Jesus in the stable. I know that there wasn’t snow on the ground on the night that Jesus was born. I know that that night wasn’t silent and still and that the animals weren’t perfectly poised and well-behaved.

Yet, somehow, accuracy doesn’t matter to me this Christmas. Instead, the invitation to join the Nativity is what beckons me to come…and to invite you, too…poorest of the poor…richest of the rich…timid and bold…weak and strong…to imagine yourself in that familiar Nativity…to adore Him…and to see it all anew…again…and again. Amen.

Cut From The Same Cloth, Yet...

Cut from the same cloth
Woven from threads of love, hope
Yet each one unique

You. Your neighbors. Your family and friends. Those you have yet to meet.
We are all cut from the same fabric of humanity.
Skin and bone, flesh and blood.
Fear and worry, hope and possibility.

So this Christmas, as you pause to reflect upon the story of Jesus joining the ranks of humanity, remember that you are part of something bigger and know that your life and work matter.

You are both cut from and in the process of helping weave the fabric of humanity.

May you feel the strands of Love that are woven into you and
May you weave strands of hope, joy, and peace into the lives around you,
Each one the same, yet each one unique.

Love's Broken Record

I’m afraid that sometimes I sound like a broken record.

I get a word, phrase, or thought in my mind and then share it aloud to whoever will listen. Sometimes the word, phrase, or thought will become part of my everyday vocabulary and/or belief system. Other times the word, phrase, or thought will pass after the record is changed.

I fear that my few faithful note readers and choir members receive the brunt of these mental skips—these recurring themes that I can’t easily let go.

I know that the choir heard one such skip as we prepared for December’s Christmas cantata. “Once you’ve found the love of Christ,” I’d say, “you can’t un-see it. You can’t un-know or un-feel it. Once you’ve experienced the peace of Christ, no matter what else happens—no matter how hard things may get—no matter how dark they may become—you can’t forget it. Because once you’ve experienced the light of Christ—really experienced it—you truly are changed.”

I’m pretty sure that I said something like this every time we practiced the song, “Once You’ve Seen The Star.” And I’m pretty sure that I got goose-bumps (also known as Holy Ghost Bumps) every time we sang it.

I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that I found my eyes filling with tears as the choir sang during worship yesterday morning. After a two week break during which the choir took a much-deserved break, we came together and remembered the song that connected to my heart two months ago and created a broken record that very well may never leave my mind.

Once you’ve seen the star lighting up the sky of a cold dark night, hope cannot be far
Once you’ve seen the star, like the dearest friend you have ever known, it bids you come, it leads you home…
Once you’ve heard the song of an angel choir, heaven touching earth, singing peace has come
Once you’ve heard the song, when it’s in your heart and you know it’s true, it lifts you up, it carries you…
Once you’ve found the child, every fear and doubt—come and lay them down to be reconciled
Once you’ve found the child, oh you can’t un-see, un-know, un-feel—for life is new and love is real.
Once you’ve found the child…

For better or for worse, there are many things that we can’t un-see, un-know, un-feel.
The birth of a baby.
The death of a loved one.
The moment of receiving joyful news.
The moment of receiving terrible news.
A successful achievement.
A frightening fall.
There are many things that change us.
There are many things we cannot forget.
Yet none is so powerful as encountering the
Pure, deep, unconditional love of God
Through the peace of Jesus Christ.

Friends: I hope that you’ve experienced this Love.
And I hope that you will forgive me when
Love’s Peace is my broken record.

Love

I made a B in organ. I practiced harder for that class than any other and I made a lot of progress, yet I still made a B. I was so mad. Yet I already had a blemish in my GPA from my epic B-Failure in freshman English so I tried not to let it bother me too much. (But it still did bother me.)

Grades are somewhat important in the Deaton family. While I’ve come to realize that the goal of 98 or higher on every assignment was a self-imposed goal that built a wall of unrealistic expectation and subsequent fear of failure around my heart, academic achievement is, indeed, something that is valued in my family system. Straight A’s are not demanded or rigidly enforced, but there is a desire to do well and a hope that one’s best will be honored by the grades that he or she receives.

Such is the reason that in the middle of our family Christmas celebration today, we found ourselves in a flustered discussion about a grade that Jack The Oldest Nephew received in his art class. For what was clearly an A+ project to everyone in the family and our very own Barb the Best and for what was displayed in his school’s display cabinet for a couple of months, Jack received a C.

Outraged, all of the adults were expressing comments of disbelief and discussing ways that the grade could have been adjusted, yet Jack was fine. He admitted the even he was a little surprised by the grade since he knew that the teacher liked his piece, yet he also admitted that the teacher had a rubric for all projects and that he had intentionally not completed one part of the rubric.

“He wanted us to use at least three different colors,” Jack said, “but I knew that I was making this for you, so I just wanted to use orange. It’s a coat hanger and two other kinds of wire that I twisted into the shape of a fish. I wanted it to look sort of like a Nemo fish, so I only put orange beads on part of the fins. And I cut up an orange Fanta can and wove it through this wire mesh stuff for the body.”

Somewhere in the sea of adult disbelief, I heard Jack’s mom mention that he knew that his grade might suffer for only using one color but that Jack wanted to do it anyway because he knew how much Aunt Dee would like it.

I didn’t cry in that moment but a lump formed in my throat and I got a bit teary-eyed. I’m crying now.

Jack sacrificed his grade for me.

He spent hours designing and crafting an orange fish for my collection, knowing that his work might not receive the marks that it deserved because he had intentionally gone against standard expectations.

Jack did that for me!

Have I mentioned that I’m crying?

Love came down at Christmas and lay in a humble feeding trough that held him in the first days of his growing into a man who would feed millions with words of hope, peace, purpose, and joy, even in the midst of judgment, misunderstanding, lack of appreciation, and lies.

Sometimes Love makes sacrifices that we don’t feel that we deserve or that we just can’t believe have happened even when they are staring us in the face.

And yet love does what Love must do to reach the hearts of those it cares about the most.

Jack reached my heart today with a gift more profound that anything I can explain.

Love is here.

Love is alive.

May Love be yours this Christmas.

May Love be yours tonight.

"Are We Dirty Or Something?"

This afternoon as I was stealthily trying to place this year’s mass Christmas gift in boxes (mass Christmas meaning that the gift goes to a large group of people), one of my coworkers came in and said, “What. Are we dirty or something?” I laughed and said no and then feverishly continued stuffing boxes.

This year’s mass Christmas gift that warranted my coworker’s question? A washcloth.

This year’s mass Christmas writing?

Friends: This was written for my coworkers…but I challenge you to adapt it for yourself—for whatever profession in which you find yourself—for whatever messes you clean up.

As someone working in the public schools, you clean up a lot of messes—
both figuratively and literally.
From runny noses to broken hearts,
from spilled drinks to empty bellies,
from dirty clothes to disconnected minds,
from cluttered desks to rigid tests,
you are tasked with facing and overcoming whatever obstacles may hinder learning.

Sometimes, it may seem that you are ill-equipped for this task.
And maybe, in many ways, you are.
Maybe we all are.

But maybe in the most important way possible,
you are equipped with everything you need for this task and more:
Love.

Love came down at Christmas.

This Christmas Season and in all the days to come,
may Love—
real,
sometimes tough,
always steady,
unconditional
Love—
help you clean all of the messes that you encounter
both here and beyond.

Amen.

Do You Want To Build A Snowman

I bought Amelia a really nice Wizard of Oz calendar in my annual day-after-Christmas-50%-off-calendar binge. It was printed on thick paper, wire-bound, and included a large, detailed map of the Land of Oz. Amelia liked it. She was kind as she looked through the calendar with a smile both on her face and in her eyes. Yet. She had her heart set on a Frozen calendar. And. She has her aunt’s heart tied around her finger. So. I exchanged the really nice Wizard of Oz calendar for the trendy Frozen calendar. I was sort of sad. Amelia was thrilled. And then I felt a little less sad when Amelia got to her favorite page of the calendar—a picture of…Anna. Not Elsa. Anna.

Shortly after I went to see Frozen, I wrote a note about my dislike of the song, “Let It Go.” The song itself is fine, I suppose—when it’s not being screamed inappropriately by elementary-aged girls or when it’s not being sung prematurely for the plot—but it is not, to me, what the movie is about. Yes. Elsa must overcome the lie that was drilled into her as a child and young teenager—that she should “conceal, don’t feel”—and she must learn to be herself by embracing all of who she is—which is the most important thing that anyone can do—but Elsa would be nothing without the constant, steady, persistent love of her sister, Anna.

Whenever I start to ask anyone a question that starts with the words, “Do you want to…,” I find myself singing the opening motif to the song, “Do You Want To Build A Snowman?” Sometimes I just sing the question. Sometimes I continue onward and make up an entirely new song. Do you want to eat a cupcake? Do you want to have some ice cream? Do you want to get some coffee? Or, as I sang on the intercom this morning for the art question of the week, “Do you want to draw a snowman?”

Thanks to B’s request for me to sing the above question, I had the song stuck in my head all day. Naturally, after the students left this afternoon, I pulled up the song on YouTube and listened to it. Again. And again. And again. Today was actually the first time I’d ever done this. And I’ve only seen the movie once. Yet I found myself moved by Anna’s persistence in pursuing her sister—just as I did before.

For various reasons, Elsa was truly afraid of hurting those around her; I get that fear. I also get the moment when that fear comes true. It’s horrible. Yet I get this, too: After awhile, when someone like Anna keeps showing up—when someone gives space yet keeps trying—when someone keeps wanting to spend time with you—when someone keeps fighting for you even though you’ve hurt them and hidden from them and openly pushed them away—there comes a point when you must accept the fact that they truly love you…and that’s the moment when love changes everything. That’s the moment when you’re truly able to let it go.

Amelia didn’t explain all of that to me when she said that Anna was her favorite character. She simply said that she liked how Anna showed love to her sister…and then we sang the rest of our conversation. It went something like this: “Do you like your Frozen calendar? Better than the Wizard of Oz? Will you hang it on your wall? And mark the days off as they come?” “Yes I like my Frozen calendar better than the Wizard of Oz. And I’ll hang it on my wall and mark the days off as they come.”

Love changes everything, folks. Love changes everything.

Add To The Beauty

A few years ago as I was preparing to lead a women’s retreat, I heard Sara Groves’ song “Add To The Beauty” and immediately knew that I would turn it into the retreat. I did. And the retreat was a success.

On Sunday night, I went to a Sara Groves’ concert in Raleigh. While there, I purchased her latest CD. While listening to that CD, I re-heard “Add To The Beauty.” When the song played this time, I immediately knew that I would turn its message into this year’s mass Christmas gift. [My mass Christmas gift is a gift that I give my coworkers since I cannot afford giving each one of them individual gifts.] I did. We’ll see if it was a success. I pray that it was. And I pray that its words will be a blessing now:

As teachers, we have the unique opportunity to add to the beauty of this world.
We hold the beautiful secret of belief.
We carry purpose on our hearts.
We come to every morning with possibility.
We know that redemption comes in strange places and small spaces.
We know that each new day calls out the best of who we are.
We believe in the value of community and the necessity of helping souls find their worth.

Just as growing a garden takes time,
Growing children takes the same:
Time, effort, patience, and pruning until something beautiful blossoms.

Thank you for the time that you give and the work you do to
add to the beauty of the school and this world.

Merry Christmas.

--adapted from Sara Groves’ song, “Add To The Beauty.”

Defining Moments: Music, Music, Music

I knew I wanted to be in band; my brother was in band. But I didn’t know what I wanted to play until my dad came home with a trumpet one day. He’d been at a furniture store when a shipment of used furniture had arrived, and for some reason a trumpet had come with it. The furniture store owner didn’t want the trumpet. My dad did. One thing led to another, my dad paid $10 for the instrument, and a little while later he got the $10 back because the furniture store owner hadn’t really wanted the money in the first place—he just figured he should charge something for the trumpet since other customers were in the store.

And so…Deanna started 6th grade band as a trumpet player playing a free antique trumpet.

I grew up in a small town. In small towns, the band director sometimes works at both the middle and high schools. When the band director works at both the middle and high schools, middle school students sometimes get to march in the high school marching band.

Deanna started marching in the high school marching band as a second/third trumpet player in 7th grade.

In 8th grade, though, my band director decided that he needed depth in his brass section, so he asked me to switch to mellophone. The mellophone, he said, was the marching French horn.

Deanna marched her 8th grade year with the mellophone…and her 9th, 11th, 12th, and 14th. She skipped marching with the mellophone her 10th grade year because she was the drum major that year. She only played one year in college since Meredith did not have a marching band and going to NC State was somewhat of a hassle.

When concert season began my 8th grade year, my band director told me that playing the French horn was just like playing the trumpet. He said that just as he’d needed depth during marching band season, he needed depth during concert season.

Deanna began playing the French horn incorrectly her 8th grade year. She continued playing French horn through college and continues playing for special occasions today.

I auditioned for Governor’s School during my 10th grade year. I auditioned using my school’s broken and dented French horn. The woman who auditioned me immediately realized that I was playing the horn incorrectly. I was using trumpet fingerings and had no idea what the thumb valve even was—because it was broken. Yet she saw and heard potential in me and accepted me for Governor’s School that summer.

Deanna’s family was going to be moving the summer Deanna was slated to go to Governor’s School. Remember: Deanna played her school’s broken and dented horn; therefore, Deanna could not move with the horn. Deanna had a problem. To make matters worse, Deanna’s new band director—the one who had chosen her as drum major her sophomore year—was considering getting a new horn for the school. Deanna’s band director wanted her to try it out.

It was shiny and silver and the thumb valve worked. It lived in a beautiful case. It was perfect. It was perfect when I took it home to practice while my parents cooked supper in the kitchen and it was perfect when I played it in the Christmas concert at school. I was very sad when my band director had to send it back to the company. I couldn’t believe that some other horn player would get to play that beauty the next year.

Deanna was perfectly content with her presents on Christmas morning of her sophomore year when her brother pointed out that there was a large bag under the tree. He suggested that Deanna see what the package was. Deanna confusedly walked to the tree, wondering what in the world was waiting there. She first saw it was for her. She then realized it was in the shape of a French horn case. She then decided that her parents had gotten her a used horn to take to Governor’s School. She finally opened the bag, saw the beautiful case, realized what was inside, hugged the shiny new horn in disbelief, and cried. Her entire family cried, too. Deanna’s family had tricked her and created one of the most beautiful moments in Deaton Family history.

I began learning to play the horn properly while at Governor’s School. My teacher there—the woman who had auditioned and seen potential in me—patiently worked with me and offered to teach me private lessons for the next two years until I went to study with her for four more years at Meredith. Somehow, I became decent enough that I earned a scholarship for playing the horn.

Deanna tells her students all the time that one never knows where music will take him/her. From a free, antique store trumpet to a total surprise of a new French Horn; from a band director who challenged her to a professor who believed in her when maybe she shouldn’t…Deanna’s life has been profoundly impacted by music and by the musicians who have made it.

What about your life? What and who has impacted you? Be grateful today. For you—we—truly are blessed.

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.

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.

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.

A Celebration of Life

Today is B’s birthday. At midnight, I wished her Happy Birthday on her FB wall. This morning at 9:30, I left my house to drive to hers. We spent the day together—running errands with the kids, hanging and rearranging art work, drinking coffee, eating birthday food, exchanging Christmas gifts, celebrating life.

I’ve exchanged Christmas presents with B and remembered her birthday every year since I’ve known her; she has remembered mine as well. But our gift exchanges, remembrances, and celebrations of life haven’t been exclusive to Christmas and birthdays. B and I communicate frequently, hang out when we can, and buy each other gifts every time we see something that reminds us of the other. It’s actually a minor miracle that I was able to wait until today to give B her Christmas present. I bought it for her sometime this past spring!

Today was also another of my friends’ birthdays. When I saw her birthday notification on my FB page, I wrote Happy Birthday on her wall. I like Mrs. Georgianna. We’ve known each other for many years. I went to her house as part of progressive dinners in high school. We used to have tiny handwriting competitions with one another.

Over the years, though, Mrs. Georgianna and I have remained in contact only distantly. This reality is no fault of either of ours. Mutual respect still exists. Distance has just happened over the years. I’m remembering her birthday today because FB suggested that I do so, yet I wouldn’t have known that today was her birthday had it not been for FB’s announcement. I may remember Mrs. Georgianna’s birthday in the future because I’m writing about it now, because I’ve formed a connection with it, but unless something changes, which it could, our lives still won’t be intimately connected throughout the year…

One of my biggest blessings of 2012 was the 2012 Advent and Christmas Seasons. For the first time in many years, because I wasn’t so busy doing the work of or studying ministry, I was able to step back, relax, and truly live with a spirit of openness in the waiting and celebration. I’ve written about a couple of things I’ve pondered in previous weeks—realizing that Jesus had grandparents and an aunt, accepting the fact that Jesus’ birth-night was both a non-silent and silent night—but I need to write about one more thing for this season’s revelations to be complete:

It seems to me that Christmas has become the universal Facebook announcement of Jesus’ birthday.

For some people, the reminder isn’t necessary. Some people have an ongoing, intimate relationship with Jesus so his birthday isn’t something they can forget—like I can’t forget B’s. Other people have a distant relationship with Jesus—they may have once been close to him but found that the friendship has drifted apart—so the reminder makes them pause and remember—like happened with me today with Mrs. Georgianna. Still other people don’t have much of a relationship with Jesus at all—they may have heard his name, been introduced to him at some point in their lives, but not ever have formed anything more than a distant connection with him—like happens to me sometimes when a name pops up on FB that I’m not very familiar with—so the reminder is just that—a reminder—a simple thought of good wishes.

For some people, Christmas is a simple thought of good wishes. The season comes, it goes, and it ends. For other people, Christmas is a time for pausing and remembering. The season comes, Jesus’ birthday is remembered, the remembrance reignites thoughts and feelings, it lingers for awhile, but unless something changes then it gets lost in the busyness of life. But for other people, Christmas is a focused day of remembering Jesus’ birth—of what Jesus’ life meant—of the hope, peace, joy, and love that came to earth and still lives today. For those people, Christmas may be a universal season of celebration but it is also an individual spirit that is chosen every day…a reality that does not die…a promise that is not forgotten when the decorations come down.

Birthdays are important because they celebrate life. But to truly celebrate life, day-in and day-out relationships must be nurtured.

I’m thankful for this birthday that I was able to spend with B, but I’m more thankful for the friendship that causes me to keep an eye out for Chinese and Japanese art and that causes B to keep an eye out for orange fish for me. I’m thankful that we’re so far in debt to one another that we’ve given up on keeping a tab. But most of all, I’m thankful that I actively get to celebrate life with B…and Mrs. Georgianna…and my family…and my friends…and you…because of the life that was born in Jesus and continues to live today.

Jesus, The Four Boys, and A Girl

Last night, after I carefully navigated the minefield of my bedroom in order to make it to my bed, I felt an overwhelming amount of love for the three bombs sleeping on my floor (and the other two kids sleeping in the house as well).

It’s no secret that I adore my nephews and niece, but I’ve come to love them even more this Advent as I’ve allowed my mind to wander to Jesus’ childhood—to his first steps, his unadulterated joy, his being the life of the party, his being the center of adoration, his having grandparents and aunts/uncles, his being a normal kid like these kids I love.

Somehow, in Jesus’ birth and growth becoming more real, the lives of the five children in my life have become more special.

If I believe that each of us is created in God’s image—which I do—and that Jesus was fully human and fully divine—which I believe he was—then I cannot deny the similarities between Jesus as a child and these children that I love.

Jesus was not an untouchable, fragile, docile baby frozen in a silent manger scene and then moved to the temple as a 12-year-old pawn.

Jesus was real.

He could have been my nephew in another time and another place.

Jesus sang and danced and played and laughed and cried and melted down when he was tired or hungry and had a bed time and probably thought it was funny to make armpit noises.

Do these things make my Prince of Peace any less divine?

No.

They just make him more real, and they make his spirit more easily seen in the eyes of my four boys and a girl.

There is so much life to be lived.

The merry music making, present opening, food eating, game playing, and joke telling of my family’s Christmas celebration has reminded me this much.

Jesus came to live it.

He wants us to live it to.

With deep, deep love.

And careful avoidance of the minefields having a sleeping over on our bedroom floors.

Was It Or Wasn't It A Silent Night (Part Two)

Yes.
It was a silent night.
Yes.
It was not a silent night.
Or at least that’s what I think these days.
And here’s what changed my mind:
The memory of a college fire drill.

It was my junior year at Meredith.
I was sick, much like I am now.
I had Vicks vapor-rubbed my chest and taken some NyQuil.
I was very asleep when the fire alarm went off.
I stumbled out of the building with the help of a friend.
I sat down on a little wall and swayed back and forth,
Trying not to fall onto the ground.
It was foggy outside.
The fog against the street light created that unique foggy orange light look.
It was silent.
It was ringingly silent.
It was middle-of-the-night-silent that comes when you’re jolted awake or
You’re sick or
You just can’t sleep.
There was noise.
Yet it was silent.
It was a silent night.
It was not a silent night.
And I’m thinking that’s how things were the night that Jesus was born.

As my friend Amy said in response to my note on Monday:

I like Amy Grant's spin on the song..."I need a silent night, a holy night, to hear an angel voice through the chaos and the noise. I need a midnight clear, a little peace right here--to end this crazy day with a silent night." I imagine it was super hectic for Mary, and loud, with all the doors Joseph was knocking on and all the grumpy people who were irritated that 2 kids would have the nerve to interrupt their sleep to ask for a place to have a baby. Shuffling feet, doors slamming, Mary's cries, Joseph's pleas, cows mooing, sheep baahing, horses nickering, the scraping of stone as Joseph cleans out the only thing in the stable he could find to prepare for a baby. Mary screams, a new born baby cries, and then. Then. There is that one silent moment as Joseph wipes Mary's brow and Mary smiles down at her sweet sleeping baby through silent glistening tears. And I think that that moment is what the silent night is about—the moment when we realize that while the world is busy slamming doors and being rude we miss out on the mercy that is meek and mild and the truth that is as pure as this child. That night, redemption was knocking on the doors of Bethlehem (and our hearts) but they couldn't drown out the noise (or chose not too) long enough to hear the heartbeat of the Savior. So maybe every now and then, a silent night is a good thing.

Or as my friend Jaime said:

I have always loved the song Silent Night and always (even as a child) pictured it as a scene from AFTER Christ was born. And, as a mom who has cuddled and coo'd and watched two precious newborns sleep peacefully in my arms (and am eagerly awaiting this one), I think Mary DID probably have those moments of peaceful, silent euphoria with her sleeping or nursing baby that night.

God…thank you for both/and rather than either/or. Amen.

Was It Or Wasn't It A Silent Night?

A few years ago, I reached my breaking point with still life, snowy nativity scenes and other unrealistic views of Jesus’ birth and the Christmas season. It was then that I began to refuse to sing “Silent Night” because I didn’t agree with the lyrics and that I penned the following poem:

So maybe it wasn’t a silent night (and)
maybe Mary screamed (and)
maybe the Wise Men didn’t find Jesus in a stable (and)
maybe Jesus cried (and)
maybe there wasn’t snow on the ground (and)
maybe it wasn’t even winter (and)
maybe the animals stank (and)
maybe meaning is more than a story (and)
maybe the story is more than “Merry Christmas” hanging over a
commercialized,
dumbified,
secularized,
polarized
modernized America that
maybe worships the imaginary, still-life manger scene
maybe more than the Man who lived to walk out of the hay.

It was also at that point that I began to sing “Labor of Love” by Andrew Peterson because I did agree with his words:

It was not a silent night
There was blood on the ground
You could hear a woman cry
In the alleyways that night
On the streets of David's town

And the stable was not clean
And the cobblestones were cold
And little Mary full of grace
With the tears upon her face
Had no mother's hand to hold

It was a labor of pain
It was a cold sky above
But for the girl on the ground in the dark
With every beat of her beautiful heart
It was a labor of love

Noble Joseph at her side
Callused hands and weary eyes
There were no midwives to be found
In the streets of David's town
In the middle of the night

So he held her and he prayed
Shafts of moonlight on his face
But the baby in her womb
He was the maker of the moon
He was the Author of the faith
That could make the mountains move

It was a labor of pain
It was a cold sky above
But for the girl on the ground in the dark
With every beat of her beautiful heart
It was a labor of love

And little Mary full of grace
With the tears upon her face
It was a labor of love

What do you think? Silent night or not? What Christmas songs can’t you sing because you don’t agree with or like them and what Christmas displays, demonstrations, and/or beliefs really don’t sit well with you? Share your thoughts…but please share respectfully.

…to be continued…
…on Thursday…

The Moon and The Nativity

I had the privilege of babysitting my niece (Amelia) and nephew (Griffin) on Saturday night. As part of their bedtime routine, they each chose one book for me to read aloud. Amelia chose a short picture book while Griffin chose two chapters of a Magic Tree House Book. They each listened to the other’s selection, Amelia sitting on my lap, Griffin curled around my shoulders like a comfortable cat or dog.

As I read from The Magic Tree House, Amelia leaned her head back and looked around the room. She said, “I can look anywhere I want during this story because there aren’t any pictures.” I didn’t think much of her comment until church on Sunday morning. As I sat listening to the cantata, I thought about the Christmas story that was being read to me through music and spoken word. For some reason, it made me think about reading to Griffin and Amelia the night before—reading and imagining what it would be like to travel to the moon and ride on a moon buggy.

The story on Saturday night was exciting and alive. While Amelia looked around the room, she pretended to be in the story. She wasn’t tied to pictures on a page but free to imagine images in her head. She was fully engaged in the story. So was Griffin. They didn’t want me to stop reading because they wanted to know what would happen next…

I wish I could say that I greet the Christmas story with this same excitement and imagination. But if I’m honest, then I must admit that I don’t. I’ve heard the story so many times and I’ve seen so many nativity scenes and I’ve witnessed so many arguments about keeping Christ in Christmas that the story has lost something along the way. I wish this confession weren’t true. I wish that I approached the season of Advent with the same anticipation and wondering with which Griffin and Amelia approached The Magic Tree House on Saturday night or that I’ve approached the 57 audio books that I’ve “read” this year. But I don’t. I know the Christmas story. I know how Christ’s life began and I know how it ended. The story is familiar. It’s comforting. It’s part of the narrative of my life. Yet I grieve the fact that it’s been reduced to a still, stale nativity scene. I grieve that the “greatest story ever told” has gotten stuck on the page in a clean, perfect moment…

Because it couldn’t have been a clean, perfect moment. Well. It could have been perfect, but I doubt it was clean. Mary had a baby in a stable. On its own, having a baby isn’t clean. I’ll leave you to ponder the details of childbirth. And on its own, a stable isn’t clean. I’ll leave you to ponder the smells that accompany a stable. And Mary and Joseph couldn’t have remained frozen in a posture of peaceful adoration while shepherds and wise men came to visit. They still had to eat and drink and sleep and take care of normal bodily functions and “household” chores. And Joseph probably had to leave the stable to be counted in the census, right? [I don’t know about this because I don’t know how the census worked…but the census is why they were going to Bethlehem, right? So it makes sense that they had to do something with the census at some point.]

And the shepherds probably had to heavily weigh whether or not to leave their sheep—their livelihood—alone in the fields to do what the angels said. They probably had to discuss what they’d just seen and heard and figure out what they wanted to do. And they probably had to figure out what to say when they arrived at the stable. How do you introduce yourself to the parents of a newborn baby who is declared to be the Son of God? And when they got there, they probably didn’t freeze in humble submission as much as they gazed upon the baby Jesus in awe—like we gaze upon newborns in awe. They probably made silly little noises and funny little faces and ooo-ed and ahh-ed about how beautiful Jesus was. I’m not saying they didn’t bow down. But I don’t think they froze in one silent position.

And…I don’t know. The possibilities of LIFE in the nativity scene and the Christmas story seem endless when I take the time to read or listen beyond the page—to look around the room and imagine what it might have been like to be there—not just on the night Jesus was born but during the moments when Mary and Joseph found out they were having a child, when Mary marveled at the changes taking place in her body during pregnancy, when Simeon and Anna saw their lives’ ambitions fulfilled when Jesus was presented at the temple, when Joseph changed his first diaper, when…you fill in the blank.

Oh God, forgive me for allowing your story to become stale. Give me fresh eyes to see and new ears with which to hear and allow my holy imagination to sense the same excitement, anticipation, and wonder about your presence in this world as children sense about their visit to the moon. Amen.