A Question

If scripture
and faith 
and Church
do not
touch us
where we live,
then
why bother?


Gary

Anxious for Christmas

It was November 15. I was driving in town, slowed down to make a right turn and saw a pickup truck parked in a driveway. In the bed of the truck there was a Christmas tree. My first thought was, here is a family anxious for Christmas.

I know some people grumble about stores selling ornaments and cards too early, lights on houses and trees decorated in November. To some it seems wrong. They say, we used to wait until after Thanksgiving, but no more. We can’t wait.

The children can’t wait because they know there will be presents. I remember how anxious I was. Even though there would not be many gifts, I knew there would be something special for me under the tree. I still have the cap gun with the white belt and holster and the bow with the quiver for the arrows. I remember the extended family gatherings in our small home for the traditional Norwegian meal of lutefisk and boiled potatoes with lots of melted butter. I certainly remember the women saying, “We will not open any presents until we eat our dinner and the dishes are all put away.” For sure we children were anxious, saying, “Hurry up! Hurry up!”

But it is more than receiving gifts. We are anxious for Christmas because we like what it does to us. We give to others, write letters, gather with family and friends. We put money in a kettle to help people we don’t know. We greet each other and we make sure that those who are struggling to make ends meet have food on the table and toys for the kids. We even go to church in the middle of the week. We visit people in nursing homes. We who can’t sing, sing anyway. All because it is Christmas.

No, it’s never too early for Christmas.

Once again we reach out our arms to hold this baby near our hearts. We smile and relax just a bit, filled with the wonder of this life, so pure, so gentle. This child cannot help but change us for the better.

On that first Christmas night, the angel said to the shepherds, “Do not be afraid” (Luke 2:10). What is there to fear from a baby? A baby is powerless, with no guile, no anger, and no judgment, only needing from us without fearing we will not provide: simply trusting and content to be resting in our arms. This is how God came. This is Christmas. This one child. And for a time, perhaps too brief, our fears are taken over by our love for this child and he is able to change our hearts.

“This will be a sign for you,” the angel said to the shepherds, “you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger” (v. 12). At each Christmas we too find our way to this baby and are glad. The apostle Paul wrote to the congregation in the town of Colossae, “Jesus is the image of the invisible God . . . For in him the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” (Colossians 1:15, 19).

We will light the lights, decorate the tree, buy the gifts, send the cards, gather with family, and greet one another. All good, but we know deep within ourselves that all of it is only the wrapping. We know that the gift is the baby, this one particular child named Jesus. “You are to name him Jesus,” said the angel to Joseph, for he will save his people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21).

In Jesus, we are free to live life as fully and as joyfully as we will allow ourselves. For it is only we who hold ourselves back. God does not. For God has forgiven us in this baby and will not restrain us from living with sheer abandon, trusting in this gentle and gracious God, who keeps telling us, “Do not be afraid.”

When Christmas comes each year, we catch a glimpse of who we are meant to be in our giving, in our joy, and in our care for those with little power in this world.

We are better people at Christmas.

Of course we are anxious for Christmas.

Gary

Thanksgiving

It is the least selfish of days.

The most basic.

We gather to eat,

and to be with

those we love

and those who love us.

We celebrate life.

We say thanks for family

and all good things.

There is no expectation of

gift or card or decoration.

It is not Jewish or

Christian or Muslim or

atheist or agnostic,

or it is all of the above.

It is as plain as plain can be.

A table, chairs all around,

the smell of hot food and

the laughter of family

and friends.

Of course we are

thankful,

and do we not wish

that all of our days

could be as ordinary

as this.

Gary

It is of faith, but I am glad to have such faith, glad to have such hope

Brittany was terminally ill with brain cancer. The cancer brought terrible pain, and sometimes prevented her from speaking or recognizing her own family. There was no hope of a cure. Doctors had removed as much of the tumor as they could, but two months later it grew back. There was only the promise that it would get worse and she would eventually die. She and her husband moved to Portland, Oregon. On November 1, she took a drug that enabled her, in her words, to die on her own terms. Brittany was 29.

She said, “My glioblastoma is going to kill me and that's out of my control. I've discussed with many experts how I would die from it and it's a terrible, terrible way to die. So being able to choose to go with dignity is less terrifying."

Then this, "For people to argue against this choice for sick people really seems evil to me. They try to mix it up with suicide and that's really unfair, because there's not a single part of me that wants to die. But I am dying."

I have sat at the bedside of lovely people who embraced life, but who had come to a place where death looked to be a friend. My father came to that place. In my last conversation with him, he said, all I want to do is go to sleep and not wake up. I believe Brittany came to that place.

The article relating Brittany's story includes comments from a Wyoming woman who serves on a legislative committee that handles health issues in her state. “My sense is Wyoming would reject it (doctor-assisted suicide), . . . it would just be a flat 'no,' . . . That's my personal values as well: we don't get to pick. The big guy upstairs chooses when we go and when we stay.”

I am not a big fan of addressing God as the “big guy upstairs,” but more than that, I would argue that if one has never been in that place where living offers no hope, no joy, no pleasure, but only pain and loss and eventual death, then one should speak slowly or perhaps not at all.

This too. Does God go about choosing “when we go and when we stay,” as the woman from Wyoming states? Does God choose death for us?

When someone dies, especially someone young, we hear words like, “God must have needed another little angel.” Or, “God chooses only the very best.” Or, “God decided it was her time.”

I suggest to you, dear reader, another way of faith.

The Apostle Paul, in a letter to the congregation at Corinth, writes “The last enemy to be destroyed is death.” I Corinthians 15:26

Is it possible there is a battle going on? A battle between God and the enemy?

When his good friend, Lazarus, died, Jesus did not comment, “Well, it was his time to go. God's will. Because we all know, the big guy upstairs chooses when we go and when we stay.”

No. When his good friend died, Jesus wept. God cried. And we do too.

But more. God and God's people do battle against the forces of death: poverty, racism, prejudice, injustice, hunger, cancer, heart disease, diabetes . . . . all that strive to take life away.

Death is the enemy.

A decisive battle took place a long time ago, on a day we now call Good Friday. A young Jewish Rabbi, named Jesus, was put to death. His body was taken down from a cross and laid in a tomb. It seemed once again that the enemy had won.

But when some women come to the tomb early Sunday morning, he is not to be found.

Some, who had been his students, his followers, later said they saw him, talked with him, ate with him, were both surprised and glad at his appearing. They told others. The news has traveled down through the centuries, so we too have heard the tale and are free to tell it.

That long ago Sunday morning changed everything. That Sunday morning is a promise that the enemy will not have the final word. That Sunday morning is a glimpse into our future.

The raising up of Lazarus was a prelude to that Sunday morning. In the resurrection of Jesus from death to life, we are promised that we too will be raised up. We will be set back on our feet again in another part of God's kingdom, no less beautiful than this place called earth.

God's promise. Our hope.

Brittany wanted to live, but what she woke up to each morning was not life. The enemy had already won. She just surrendered early. I will not judge her. Neither should anyone else.

And what about God? God weeps.

One day I will die. As will you. I don't much care for the idea. But it will not be God who takes my life. Death is the enemy.

In the end, God will have the final word. Life. The last enemy will be defeated.

It is of faith for sure.

But I am glad to have such faith, glad to have such hope.

Gary

The light is better

A man is seen late at night, walking in slow circles below a street light, looking down. Another gentleman comes by and asks if he needs help. The first man answers that he is looking for his billfold. The second man asks, “Did you lose it close to this lamp post?” The first man responds, “No, I lost my billfold over there.” He points down the block into the darkness. “Then why are you looking over here?” “Well,” says the first man, “the light is better over here.”

I am angry at a friend, but I do not wish to hurt his feelings, so I say nothing. Then one day I say something to my wife in a joking way, but it is also a criticism and there is anger under the humor. The moment I say the words I know I wanted to say those words to the friend, but it is easier to say them to my wife. The light is better.

We do this. We yell at our children when we want to yell at our boss. We take it out on a co-worker when we are having trouble at home. We express frustration with a friend when we are really frustrated with ourselves. Because the light is better. It is easier. But the truth is never found.

Gary

Belonging

Jesus answered, “I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep.”

– John 10:25-26

We are used to hearing, even saying, “If you will believe as we believe, then you can belong with us; you can be a part of us, be a part of our community.”

In other words, believing comes first. Believe and then you can belong.

Which also means that if you do not believe, you cannot belong.

Jesus seems to be saying something else. Tag along with me, and let’s see what happens. Be a part of my community. Maybe faith will come.

In other words, belonging comes first. Belonging may lead to believing.

It works for children.

Gary  

Listening to Elvis or Usher

Vivian and I were preparing lunch. She took a pear, cut it in half, then moaned. “Look, it's black inside. I waited too long. I should have eaten it sooner, when it was fresh. We should buy food daily and eat it when it is fresh. I like my food fresh. I don't like old food. I don't like anything old.”

I thought about that for a moment, then responded, “You don't like anything old? Well that certainly does not bode well for me.”

Recently we traveled to Mt. Carmel, a retreat center near Alexandria, Minnesota, for a reunion of classmates from Luther Seminary. We graduated in 1969, so 45 years have passed.

Someone did the math. About 20 percent of our class is no longer with us on this earth. One couple, with plans to attend, had to stay home; the wife was diagnosed with cancer. Some of my old friends wear hearing aids, one has Parkinson's disease, a spouse told of her hip surgery, and most confess to various aches and problems with memory.

Besides the plain fact that we are all pretty old and get reminded of our mortality on a fairly regular basis, we also deal with retirement in different ways. Some got used to the idea in a couple of minutes. Others are having a more difficult time.

I don't know this for sure, but my best guess is that for some there is the real sense that they no longer have anything to contribute, they no longer have value. Maybe some of you reading these words understand that.

There is a prayer in the Old Testament entitled Psalm 71. It is the prayer of an older person, asking that God not forget. “Do not cast me off in the time of old age; do not forsake me when my strength is spent.” Then these words: “So even to old age and gray hairs, O God, do not forsake me.”

What I say now has been said by others with greater knowledge and insight, but hear it again. If you can identify with me and my seminary classmates, if you are of the same vintage, know that you do have value, that you do have much to contribute. We have what the young do not have yet. We have lived. We have experience. Oh, we may have trouble with technology, but we know something about humanity, about sadness and joy, loss and death. We have some understanding about what counts finally, what is important in life and what can be tossed aside.

May I say we have gained a bit of wisdom, which will not count for much when it comes to how to work the remote, but is a wonderful contribution when it comes to relationships. Is there perfection in us? Certainly not. We too are mighty sinners. But I noticed something at our four day gathering at Mt. Carmel. We laughed. We laughed a lot. We laughed at ourselves and with one another. This too, I heard no unkind word spoken, no complaint about another's presentation or question. We were kind to each other. We no longer had to prove anything or ask for approval. Not a bad lesson to learn early in life.

When we first enter this world, there is no expectation that we do anything in order to receive attention and affection. We are loved and cared for by just being. We are receivers, nothing more. I suggest that some of us will leave this world in the same way. Our bodies and our minds worn out, so we have nothing left to give. But we still are, and by just being we still have value.

You came into this world a child of God, created in the very image of God. That image does not fade with the passing of years. There may be lines on your face reflecting years of hard work and hard learning, but you are still God's little one, precious and loved.

If you, dear reader, are not yet at this place in life, then may these words encourage you to take note of those in your family or neighborhood who are, who would rather listen to Glenn Miller or Elvis (who, by the way, were he still living, would be celebrating his 80^th birthday next January) than Taylor Swift (a mere 25 in December) or Usher. Take note of these older folk and allow them to bring to the table of life what they have to offer: experience, wisdom, laughter, and some spare time.

You may not want to ask us old people to fix your computer or program your smart phone, but we could help you with some insights into how to raise kids, get along with your brother-in-law, live on a tight budget, or not take oneself too seriously.

For we will tell you that life really is short. So pay attention to what counts. Pay attention to things like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

You don't need an “app” for any of the above. They are bestowed upon us from above, from the God who created all things to be good. They are gifts, not to be stored away for a later day, but best opened now and used on a daily basis.

Recently, while visiting our son in Silver Spring, we took the metro to the Washington Mall. On the way home I got separated from Vivian and our daughter, so I was riding the train alone. I asked a woman sitting near about the station where I would exit the train. She told me which stop my station would follow. Then a man sitting next to her said, “I will tell you when we get to the station you need.” He did. I knew I would never see this good gentleman again, who had helped me on this brief journey, so as I got up to leave, I touched his shoulder and said, “Have a good life.”

It is what I say to you today, wherever you are on this journey. Have a good life.

Gary