As I write this, the sun is shining brightly in the sky outside. I’m sitting beside a hospital bed, listening to the loud beeping of an alarm that should be telling a nurse somewhere to come change an IV medicine bag.
My friends are posting Christmas carols today. I did that earlier this week. Somehow, Christmas isn’t close to my thoughts today.
Even though a niece has started her road trip toward our house from northern latitudes this morning, and a sister-in-law will fly in from eastern longitudes later this week to be with us for Christmas, I find myself contemplating life and its uncertanties on this day.
Sitting in a waiting room of a hospital for nine hours a day ago will do that to a person. Visits with friends who pass by in the hallway—an activity one would expect to lift spirits—allows the shadows to creep into the mind.
A few days ago, I lifted my candle with a thousand other folks and said that the darkness could not overcome the light. I don’t repent of the declaration. It is still true.
Still, the lights of physical life can dim, while the light of Redeeming Grace shines the brighter.
As I waited for the result of a loved one’s surgery yesterday, I learned of a couple of families I know who are facing the loss of their loved ones this holiday season. Somehow, for them, the light won’t seem so bright in this season we call festive.
And, my heart weeps with them.
And, that’s as it should be.
But still, I watched the sunrise this morning before coming to sit beside the bed of my loved one who remains in pain, and I just couldn’t stop the words from welling up.
“When morning guilds the skies My heart awaking cries, ‘May Jesus Christ be praised.'”
As the day goes on, I don’t doubt that my spirit will flag. Sitting beside a bed is hard work. Elation is not the emotion one feels most in that locale.
But, it doesn’t change the fact that every morning we arise to meet the day is one in which we are blessed by our Creator.
“It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not; they are new every morning. Great is Thy faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3: 22-24, KJV)
It was true when the words were written. It’s still true today.
Christmas will come. This Advent season builds the anticipation for the day when we’ll celebrate our Savior’s birth.
I’ll sing the carols. I will.
I hope your voice will blend with mine as we give thanks for His good and perfect gifts.
Even if our voices don’t blend all that well, it will be a joyful noise raised up to the God who bends low—the God who hears us, who understands our frailties, and still He came for us.
I’d still like to have the song in my mouth when the evening comes.
“Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning. Jesus to thee be all glory given.” (from O Come All Ye Faithful, by John Francis Wade)
“The sun comes up; It’s a new day dawning. It’s time to sing Your song again. Whatever may pass And whatever lies before me, Let me be singing When the evening comes.”
I will never understand it. The Christmas season is one filled with light and hope, yet more people are feeling sad than at any other time of the year.
I checked to be sure I’m not spreading fake news. The National Alliance on Mental Illness tells us a 2021 survey shows that 3 in 5 people in America say the holidays make them sad.
A friend who has had a rough year posted her annual birthday note a couple of days ago to share her trials and joys with her tribe. I responded and suggested that sometimes the best we can do is stay in the vicinity of the light. In the shadows, but never far from the light.
But, I don’t really believe that. I don’t.
I wrote recently about preparations for the Christmas Candlelight Service at the local Christian university—one in which I have participated for well more than forty years. Nearly every time I have participated, I have found a new truth to enlighten my journey. I’ve shared many of those truths with my readers.
This year is no exception, even though my participation was in a very different capacity than those services for the past four decades.
When I played my horn with the brass group for the event, we always left the stage soon after the halfway point in the service. Sitting in pews reserved for us, we simply became audience members, enjoying the beautiful choral music the young folks (getting younger every year, seemingly) presented.
I was carried away. Every time.
This year as a vocalist, I stayed on the stage until, as my sweet mother-in-law would have put it, the last dog was hung. (I’m not sure what that means, but it seems to indicate staying until the entire event is finished, so I’ll go with it.)
Right up at the top of the risers, I and my compatriots stood or sat, depending on our part in the program. With a bird’s-eye view, one might say.
We were on display to the whole audience, but we also had a clear line of sight to every part of the cathedral. The view was eye-opening. Well, it took me until the last night to open my eyes, but I can’t unsee it in my mind now.
Forty-five times, I had seen it from the same perspective. Yet, it was always moving.
This is different.
I’m mostly thinking about the candlelighting ceremony at the end of the service.
Over the years, we would sit in the pews, with the student candle-lighters stopping at the ends of each row, lighting the candle of the person sitting there. Then that person would pass the flame to their neighbor, and they to theirs, until all the candles were aflame.
As we sang the words to the old Christmas carol, Silent Night, we held the candles close until the third verse. Then, as we began to sing about the radiant beams from His face, each of us would lift our candle high, flooding the huge building with brilliant light.
It was always moving. I know—I’m repeating myself. It’s still true. Again and again, I’ve been moved.
It all changed drastically this year, especially on the final night. I had always thought it was only that last verse—when we raised our candles—that was moving.
But, on this final night, I had tears in my eyes through every verse of the carol. The tears started before the music did.
I have known how it worked—the sharing of the flame, one person to the next. Yet I’ve never seen the big picture of how it occurred, except from my limited perspective amongst the folks right beside me.
I suppose it may be a bit like Job felt in the Old Testament. He had heard with his ears—he knew a little of what he was supposed to know—but seeing with his own eyes made all the difference. Now, he had experienced it. (Job 42:5)
Experiencing it is different than just having a head knowledge. I’m sure of it.
Throughout the entire service (all three nights) I had looked at the dim cathedral and knew there were individuals there—a number of them friends and acquaintances— but because of the darkness, I couldn’t see any individual faces, only a huge indistinct crowd of humanity.
And, as the ceremony began, from my bird’s-eye view, I watched the young folks carry their candles to the dark pews to spread the light. And finally, on the last night, I saw it clearly.
Through the whole room, looking completely random and without plan, the light spread. I could see flames shift from one person to the next, moving laterally along each pew. It wasn’t uniform. There was no pattern—or seemingly not. Row after row, I watched the lights flicker across from side to side.
Now, what was it that I was supposed to be seeing? Sure, the candles were lit in preparation for the holding forth of the light later on, but that wasn’t it.
There! I saw it!
Faces appeared behind the candles. Individual faces. On my left. In front of me, not far back. Then, way back to the right.
Faces.
No longer simply a mass of humanity, the bodies in the pews had faces—identities that could be clearly and individually seen.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” (Isaiah 9:2, NIV)
How did I miss that?
We who have come to His light come as individuals out of profound darkness. And, His light shines on us.
It shines on us. You. Me.
Yes, we’re part of the great cloud of witnesses—like John the Baptist, bearing witness to The Light—but we come to our Savior and He knows each one of us.
He knows me.
He knows you.
And now, we have the great privilege of reflecting The Light.
Again, from that vantage point, I watched the flames—held close throughout the song—as they were thrust forward and upward to the ceiling. If I had been moved through all of those years when I was sitting in the audience, it was spectacular seeing it from above and in front of it!
Spectacular. An explosion of light!
We can spread the light—one to another. It’s in His plan that we do that. We can even hold our light close and have light for the journey.
He knows each one of us and loves us in our individuality.
But, it’s also in His plan that the world around us be overwhelmed by the brilliance of His Light, shared by His people collectively, walking in love for Him and for our neighbors, the people who dwell in the profound darkness.
Overwhelmed.
I’m not sure we’re doing that yet.
But, it’s not too late.
I’m pretty sure it will be spectacular.
Spectacular.
“I will make you a light to the nations, so you can bring my deliverance to the remote regions of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6b, NET)
“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, KJV)
“Silent night! Holy night! Son of God, love’s pure light radiant beams from Thy holy face with the dawn of redeeming grace, Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth! Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth!“ (from Silent Night by Joseph Mohr)
I’m sitting at my desk in the converted garage. There’s a space heater beside me blowing warm air directly at my legs and feet.
I’m not shivering. It’s a good thing.
I wouldn’t expect the reader to know it, but I don’t love the cold. I blame my father. He would be happy to accept the blame. When he was discharged from the Navy in the early 1960s, he took his red-headed wife and five youngsters to the Rio Grande Valley of Texas to make their home.
Saying, “I want to live somewhere where I can sweat twelve months of the year,” the man settled in for the foreseeable future, there in that place with two seasons—Hot and Hotter.
My resulting thin blood has never thickened, in spite of nearly fifty years in a climate with four seasons per annum.
I realized something recently. It was never taught in Sunday School, back when I was learning about King David—he with the harp, and the sling for which he took five smooth stones once upon a time.
In the book of First Kings, David is old. Well, okay, he is about the age I am now. The book’s first verse says, “King David was very old; even when they covered him with blankets, he could not get warm.” (1 King 1:1, NET)
I’m reasonably certain that, if one were to ask her, the Lovely Lady would tell them that this verse describes me to a T.
I don’t like to shiver.
It is the week in which our local university’s choirs present their Candlelight Service. I have had the pleasure of having a small part in the service for many years, all of them before this while playing my horn with the brass ensemble that you might describe as the “warm-up band.”
Now. There’s a good word!
Warm.
I like that.
Oh—where was I? Oh yes, the Candlelight Service.
This year, I am enjoying singing with one of the choirs, as part of a community group, combined with the University Chorus. I’m certain I was not selected for my great skill. More probably it was just to have a warm body sitting in the bass section.
Oh. There it is again. That word.
Warm.
It is nice, isn’t it?
We arrived, the Lovely Lady and I, for the dress rehearsal last night in the beautiful Cathedral of the Ozarks—having walked the few blocks from our home to the campus. It seemed the huge room was almost as chilly inside as the exterior temperature had been, but I took my coat off anyway.
I wished I hadn’t. Several times during the rehearsal.
When they turned the spotlights on, the young man next to me (knowing I was cold) leaned close and stage-whispered (Well? We were on a stage!) in the general direction of my ear, “Now you’ll get warm!”
Light that makes you warm. Now, there’s a thought.
I have been on stages before when the lights were so hot I soaked the shirt I was wearing. Sweat running down one’s spine is not all that much more comfortable than shivering in the cold. Not much, but some.
The spotlights didn’t make me warm. I think they may have been LEDs. I understand the reasons for using LEDs, but the old incandescent bulbs made better heaters.
But, at one point, the choir director had our group sit while the Cathedral Choir (the first-string, you know) ran through one of their pieces. I thought it might be my imagination, but it seemed that I was less cold.
Then, when they sat down later, I was certain of it. It was warmer when they were standing in front of us. Definitely warmer.
I guess the reader understands by now that I like the warmth. But, I also like it when a concept breaks through the chill and warms my brain, too. Maybe, it’s just the light going on in there that does that.
The young folks standing near us warmed us up.
It’s a time-honored concept. I’m not going to belabor the point, but we warm each other up. By our proximity.
Do you know what the wise men who were advisors to King David suggested for his problem all those centuries ago? They selected a young woman to be his nurse and to lie beside him in the bed to warm him up. And, before your mind can explore that road down toward the gutter, the text is very specific; he was not intimate with her. She simply shared her body warmth to make him less cold. (1 Kings 1:4)
We’re warmer when we are close to folks we love. Or, even just like.
It’s odd; I’ve never thought of the Christmas season as a cold time. I, who have disrespected winter again and again, both in real life and in my writing, always think of Christmas as being a warm time.
Perhaps it’s the closeness of our family at this time of year. And of our friends. And our acquaintances at church—and the coffeeshop—and the Christmas parade.
We share warmth.
With music. And love.
And Joy that shall be to all people.
I’m aware that many don’t have family to get together with. But, the concept works with people in general—getting together to share the joy of the coming of a Savior all those years ago.
Share the warmth.
I’m going to do that with close to a thousand people for each of the next three nights.
I’m already feeling warmer.
You?
“Music brings a warm glow to my vision; thawing mind and muscle from their endless wintering.” (Haruki Murakami)
“Furthermore, if two lie down together, they can keep each other warm, but how can one person keep warm by himself?” (Ecclesiastes 4:11, NET)
I remember hearing about a family who visited a live nativity production a few years ago. They had seen Mary and Joseph with the Baby Jesus, the shepherds had come, and the production was over. Some of the kids were going over where the animals were kept so they could pet them.
One little girl’s mom suggested that she might want to go to pet the sheep, but she had a different idea.
“No, Mom. I just want to stay at the manger for a while, okay?”
It’s a simple story; sounding perhaps a bit too contrived. But, I’m wondering why we couldn’t do that.
This morning at our church, the hymns and carols finished, a bearded man mounted the steps to the platform. He almost looked like Santa Claus himself, with his full white beard and twinkling eyes.
He wasn’t. It was simply one of our elders, preparing for prayer time. He started out with a friendly, “Merry Christmas,” to the congregation (which we responded to in kind) and then began to pray.
“Lord, what more can we say?” He had hardly started to pray when a youngster’s voice piped up from somewhere near the front.
“Happy New Year!”
Of course, a ripple of laughter ran through the entire auditorium. We were amused that the child had responded so vocally.
The thing is, others thought the phrase. We’ve been taught that the two go together. Merry Christmas is followed by a Happy New Year. In the calendar, as well as in our greetings to each other.
But, I’m wondering if we could just slow down a bit and stay at the manger awhile.
We’re always in such a hurry to get to what comes next. Through all of our lives, we find it hard to live in the moment because other things, perhaps bigger and better, are coming.
I’m guilty of it, too. I know I’ve written before at Christmastime, assuring readers that we don’t worship a mere baby in a manger, but we worship a Savior who died and rose again for us.
As if the Baby in the manger wasn’t already the Savior of the world.
You think I’m wrong?
What did the angel say to the shepherds?
“For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2: 11, KJV)
At no time in His time on earth was He any more the Savior than when He was born and laid in that manger.
Or, when He taught the teachers in the Temple. Or, when He turned the water into wine. Or, when he wept at the tomb of His friend, Lazarus. Or, when he washed His disciples’ feet. Or, when he healed the ear of the servant in the garden.
Or indeed, when He died on the cross for the sins of the world.
Our friend, Simeon, whom I referenced the last time I wrote, made it clear. He had heard, had known all his life, of the salvation of the Lord. But, as he held the Child in his arms, he saw it.
“For my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke 2: 30, NET)
He saw the baby and he saw in that moment—he held in his own arms—the salvation promised for all of human history.
I’m reminded of the story of Job in the Old Testament when he saw the power of God. Job said:
“My ears have heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and I repent in dust and ashes.” (Job 42:5-6, NIV)
In the manger, for the first time, humans could see the salvation for which provision had been made before time began.
“…the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world.” (from Revelation 13:8, KJV)
I have a hunch that when our eyes are on Him, they can’t be focused on ourselves, our plans, or our silly little time schedules.
So, I’d like to stay at the manger a little longer, if you don’t mind.
The shepherds will visit and return to their fields and the magi will bring their gifts and depart again to their countries. Here and now, the new year will come and go—the parties will go past in a dizzying flash—the demands of the world around us will go on and on.
The Savior—our Salvation, our Light—remains.
You’ve got time.
Stay awhile.
Look now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing. O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing!
(from It Came Upon The Midnight Clear, by Edmund H Sears)
I can’t be the only one who does it. Then again, perhaps I am. I’ve always been a little strange.
Still. I spend at least a few moments every day thinking about where I came from. And, where I’m headed. And sometimes even, where I’ve been along the way.
Sometimes, I get my words mixed up while I think about all these confusing things.
One of my brothers was fond of reminding me (when I was still a youngster, mind you) that we start dying the day we’re born. Just something extra for the weird sibling to chew on, you know?
For some reason, my mind wanders (as it often does), and I hear the words of the Skin Horse as he explains to the Velveteen Rabbit how to become real.
“‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.'”
(from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams Bianco)
It’s just a child’s story, but I remember the thought from many years ago when I first read it. I especially remember those powerful two words, “You become.” It seemed to that much younger (but already strange) me that those two words encapsulated what happens to us along the road of life.
For most of my life, I’ve been becoming.
A long obedience in the same direction is the way Eugene Peterson described it. Well, he borrowed the words from Nietzsche, but the thought was that one should continue as one had begun, headed for the goal.
Step by step, day by day. Becoming.
It doesn’t mean there haven’t been missteps. Nor does it mean that there haven’t been falls along the way. But, again and again, we stand up, shake ourselves off, and head again for the goal.
Becoming.
The disciple who was loved by our Savior, and who later taught so powerfully about love, muddies the waters a bit for us:
“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become.” (1 John 3:2a, Good News Translation)
I laugh to myself as I read the words of John again. The uncertainty is not what I want. I’m not even sure I need it.
And, in a way, the uncertainty about what I am becoming is what got me tangled up in this subject in the first place.
As I consider the past (while looking to the future), it seems there is a disconnect of sorts, an interruption in the long obedience in the same direction.
For many years, the becoming was easy, the path ahead clear. A profession that allowed me to minister—to share, to care—was mine for many years. I had grown into it, seeing more clearly than ever as the opportunities and the years unfolded.
Then, a few years ago, my world became smaller. Or so it seemed to me. My business closed and my daily contact with all those folks ended. With COVID and changing circumstances at the university where I had played music with the young folks for years, my practical interaction with performing musicians came to a screeching halt.
And as I contemplated, a surprising thought came to mind:
I’m not becoming. I’m unbecoming!
It is, of course, untrue. That doesn’t stop the wheels from turning.
Did I say my mind wanders? It does.
I’m seeing a white-haired old gentleman, one hand on the scarred-up black steering wheel of the old blue 1967 Dodge van, the other waving in the general direction of a 30-ish young man sitting in the passenger seat as they careen down a dirt road in rural Arkansas. The dust flies behind them.
As they always did when delivering pianos, travel time is spent in discussion. The old man wasn’t happy this day.
“There’s no place for me at our church anymore. I’m thinking about finding a little country church where I can be of some use again.”
The young man, paying more attention to the unattached seat he’s attempting to stay upright in than to the old man, grabs tightly to the door handle and chokes out what he thinks is a wise answer.
“I thought you’d be happy to let younger folks take over and just enjoy the ride. You’ve earned some rest.”
Did I call him an old man? My father-in-law was younger than I am now when he said the words.
And, I answered him back with foolishness. The foolishness of youth.
Unbecoming, did I say it was? It would be easy to sit back and get comfortable with the thought of throwing in the towel. The old man never did, but I might.
But, unbecoming is not fitting or appropriate—unseemly.
No, really. That’s the definition the Oxford Dictionary gives for the word.
I don’t want to be any of those things.
The mind wanders even further back, and I see an old man standing in an ancient Jewish temple. The young couple has brought their tiny baby to be consecrated to God as the Law of Moses decreed.
They brought the child; God brought the old man. He wasn’t a priest—was not a religious official at all. But God had given him something to do before he died.
And, he was doing what God had told him to do. He wasn’t unbecoming at all.
He was becoming. What a moment!
Luke 2 says the Holy Spirit directed him to the temple at the exact time Jesus was brought in. Simeon’s words have always been one of my favorite passages from what we call the Christmas story.
“Now let your servant depart in peace, for I have seen the salvation of the Lord.”
My hair’s not white yet. I can still walk a few miles without faltering and push a lawnmower around the yard with no sign of fainting. I forget names, but I remember faces.
And, God doesn’t throw His servants into the trash heap when He’s done with them.
He just keeps changing us. From glory to glory, we’re told in 2 Corinthians 3:18.
Becoming.
I’m going on.
You’re coming with, aren’t you?
“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he really is.” (1 John 3:2, GNT)
“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” (Dylan Thomas – Welsh Poet – 1914-1953)
“Simeon took him in his arms and blessed God, saying, ‘Now, according to your word, Sovereign Lord, permit your servant to depart in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples: a light, for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.'” (Luke 2:25-32, NET)
I never intended to mention light again this soon. If one writes too often about the same subject, folks begin to whisper about obsessions. And, one-track minds.
That’s why I usually ignore little nudges to write about the things I’ve mentioned recently. Readers don’t need much of an excuse to poke each other and say, “I told you so. He’s taken leave of his. . .”
Well, you get the idea. Still, I did go to the Candlelight Service at the local university yesterday. And, the lights on the tree onstage at our local fellowship shorted out this morning. And, it’s Advent.
So, lights it is. Again.
Did I mention the Candlelight Service? I went to hear the brass. And the choir. I wasn’t disappointed.
But, they lit candles first. I watched the students carry their brass poles with the adjustable wicks down the aisles toward the platform which had scores of candles awaiting the flame at the ends of those wicks.
Just so you know, I really did want the brass poles to have a special name so I could impress you with my knowledge of said designation, but I’m informed by reliable sources they’re just called candlelighters.
Imagine my disappointment at learning that the candlelighters carry candlelighters to light the candles.
But, as they walked the long aisles to the front, at least 3 of the young folks had the misfortune to have the flame extinguished from their wicks.
I watched one young man whose lighter was burning healthily until he was halfway to the front, but it suddenly turned to a brightly glowing ember as he walked. The ember dimmed for a few steps, then disappeared into a stream of smoke which quickly thinned to a wisp and then, nothing.
The two young ladies striding down the opposite aisle had a similar experience, each arriving at the front with useless candlelighters in their hands, as well.
Do you suppose the young lady who found herself the only one with a flame took the opportunity to excoriate the others about the pace with which they had walked, causing their flames to blow out? Did she spend the next few minutes reminding them how precious that flame was, and how careless they had been with it?
Perhaps, she just went ahead and lit all the multitude of candles herself. Without any help. Clearly, it was all up to her.
She didn’t.
Stopping at the base of the steps, she motioned all three of them over and had them light the lifeless wicks of their candlelighters from her flame.
And for all the help she offered them, her flame was drawn down not the slightest bit. It blazed and shone as she ascended the steps, ready to light all the waiting candles on their stands.
They also mounted the steps, lending their aid in lighting the forest of candles, making short work of the task.
The candles were all set ablaze to the background of the violins, violas, and cellos. Then I heard the brass music. For over an hour, I reveled in the music of the choirs and even the organ pieces played by the Lovely Lady’s brother. All of it was lovely.
But the lesson of the candlelighters was what I carried from the Cathedral last night. It was a lesson reinforced by the traditional candle-lighting ceremony at the end of the evening.
From that one candlelighter—yes, every flame in the room that night could trace its origin to that single young lady—each person in the seats eventually held high a flaming candle as we sang the sweet words of “Silent Night.”
And, it cost her nothing.
Nothing except kindness. And generosity.
I want to preach. I want to hammer the message home, reminding all of us of those around who have not tended their flames as well, perhaps, as we have.
There would be hypocrisy in my words.
And, dishonesty in the telling.
It is, as I have said before, a season of lights—the time of remembering the coming of the One who is The Light that has, and will, shatter the darkness, sending it scuttling back into the emptiness from which it emerged eons ago.
His Light is ours to share.
It was never ours to hoard.
“Carry your candle, run to the darkness. . . Take your candle, go light your world.”
(from Go Light Your World by Chris Rice)
“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves.Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too.” (Philippians 2:3-4, NLT)
The light was almost blinding. Not like the super bright LED headlights that had been shining in my eyes for the last hundred miles or so. No. This brilliant light simply shone in the profound darkness of the Minnesota plains we were driving through.
For a moment, we could see nothing else but the tree, bare of any leaves, but budding forth with the bright light of thousands of bulbs wrapped around every single limb, from the ground to the sky. It stood on a slight knoll with long wild grass growing beneath it. We saw no house lights—no business sign—and no indication whatsoever of a power source or reason for the tree being there.
It just shone in the darkness.
I’ve thought about it for several days now—this lighted tree. The Lovely Lady and I took a trip from our home in Arkansas up to the big city of Minneapolis last week to listen to the beautiful music of the young voices in the St Olaf choirs.
Brighter lights were shining in the city. They lit up buildings. Some told us when to stop and when to go. Others shouted out messages to attract business.
They had purpose. They incited action.
The tree on the knoll by the highway just screamed, “Look at me!”
We looked and passed on, unchanged.
We’re entering the time of year when we celebrate the coming of the Light, the Son of God. He came to shine that light into the heart of every person who would recognize it.
“The one who is the true light, who gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.“ (John 1:9, NLT)
He came with a purpose. He came to draw all men to His Father.
“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.“ (John 1:12, NLT)
And, then He gave us the same purpose.
“You are the light of the world. . .In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16, NIV)
It is a season of lights. The little town we live in was having its annual Christmas parade the same weekend we were up north, the floats and vehicles all covered with lights. There were lights flung across the street corners and silhouetting the downtown buildings.
There is joy in light.
Our Creator made it so. Our hearts are lifted at the coming of dawn—at the brightness of light in a dark room—at the warmth of candlelight—even at the brilliant displays of lights on houses and trees in this season.
But the emotion fades. And, darkness returns to all of them eventually.
Our world today is full of a different kind of light—stars, we call them. They shine brilliantly, solely to draw our eyes toward themselves—to notice and revere them. Never before have there been so many crying out for us to look and be dazzled as there are right now.
But, they too fade. And, darkness reigns still.
The Light who came for us never fades—never dims. He turns our hearts to the Father of Lights.
Surely the light kindled in our hearts should do the same for those around us—for those who have never truly experienced light.
It won’t be some bulb-adorned tree growing on a grass-covered knoll along the way that is passed by in the night, leaving the traveler unchanged.
With purpose this Light shines, effecting everlasting change, pointing the way to that eternal day that can never be swallowed up in night.
It’s our time to shine.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.“
(Isaiah 9:2, NIV)
“Jesus bids us shine with a clear pure light, like a little candle burning in the night; in this world of darkness we must shine – you in your small corner, and I in mine.” (Jesus Bids Us Shine, song by Susan Warner)
I stand at the kitchen window, glad of the warmth inside this old house. Out there, the clear, frigid night edges inexorably into the wee hours, lit by the cold, white light of the moon, only a day past the full.
I always love these bright wintry nights observed from my warm post. I can sense the chill but stay comfortable without the aid of a coat and gloves.
Out under the old mulberry tree, itself not likely to last the winter, the dark outstretched shadows cast by the bare limbs remind me (appropriately) of old bones, gangling and spindly, across the leaf-covered ground.
And just for a moment, practical matters take my thoughts, reminding me that my grandchildren promised to help me rake those leaves later this week. We’ll enjoy the time spent doing that. We always do—teasing and laughing as we work together.
There is something bothering me—I’m not quite sure what. Yes, I know I don’t laugh quite as much as I used to. I get tired more quickly; my back aches from the repetitive motion of raking. The kids step up and carry the load I once did. It will all work out.
But, that’s not it at all. What was it?
Oh, yes! Now, my old brain catches up. In the bright moonlight, I see the two nut trees. The walnut tree, for one. The ground underneath its slim, straight shadow was covered with fallen nuts, long before the leaves fell. We’ll have to rake those up too—a nuisance, at worst.
My eyes (and thoughts) are drawn to the chestnut tree next. The large, brown leaves from its branches are spread far and wide, blown by the cold wind that brought in the last blast of arctic air. It had dropped a few nuts before that, as well.
There will be pain. I’ll have to remember to have the kids wear gloves and be extra careful as they pick up the leaves under that tree. Suddenly, the job loses its appeal, the joyful anticipation turning almost to dread.
Chestnuts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be (if you’ll pardon the pun). In my head, as I write this, I hear the smooth, sweet tones of the man they called the Velvet Fog, Mel Tormé. The lyrics tell of the unusual nuts roasting near the fireplace, and of Jack Frost doing what he is tonight—making my nose cold once again.
Funny. I never think of that beautiful song while I’m bobbling the needle-sharp nuts in the fall, or when I’m sucking the blood from my fingers while muttering nearly bad words under my breath.
Chestnuts are more than a nuisance, waiting under the leaves in ambush for me and my helpers. They seem almost like a threat, a danger to avoid at all costs.
My poor brain, seemingly in ADHD mode tonight, begins to play other words (from a different Christmas carol) almost as quickly as the mellow sounds of Mel begin to fade.
“No more let sins and sorrows grow, Nor thorns infest the ground.”
(from Joy to the World, by Isaac Watts)
Mr. Watts was a little premature in his banishment of thorns from the world. But, he did have the right idea about sins. And he was absolutely right about the eventual healing from the curse under which we labor.
We have entered the season of Advent, leading to Christmas. The media and the world around us are already alive with the tumult of their sales pitches for what is becoming known as “merch”. Voraciously, they pursue our purses and bank accounts.
It will likely be an unpopular opinion, but the “merch” they peddle is what I would describe as the thorns that infest the ground of Advent.
All around us lie the leaves of the season, awaiting our attention, our joyful gathering up, accompanied by people we love. The happy anticipation of celebrating the Child, born to bring light into the world—born to bring us back to His Father.
But the thorns! There will be pain—and stress. Angry words will be spoken to salespeople. Horns will be blown and gestures made at other drivers on the busy roads.
It has ever been so. The serpent present in the Garden yet seeks to subvert our Creator’s plan, hiding lies within half-truths and good intentions. And willingly we participate in his schemes.
image by Paul Phillips
Perhaps this Advent season will be the one when we finally push aside the thorns, leaving them to rot in the trash pile while we revel in the reality of God’s gifts.
The joy of the season is in the Gift from Heaven. Everything else is covered in thorns, awaiting redemption from above.
The Light of the World still bathes His creation in brightness like the full moon bursting from the black sky. The bonelike shadows and reminders of lurking thorns only increase our desire for His presence.
I’m waiting. With hope and joy, I’m waiting.
While I’m waiting, I’ll keep the gloves handy.
“The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined.”
(Matthew 4:16, NLT)
“He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.”
(Henry David Thoreau)
I want to tell you the neighborhood is quiet, but it’s not. The wind is blowing in from the south. It’s not a gentle breeze either.
Even inside the house with the windows closed, I hear it howl. On Christmas Eve, the wind shouts through the oaks that line the neighborhood road. A single step outside the front door reminds me of the temperature.
Nearly sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, says the outside thermometer, even as the mechanism in the old mantle clock readies the energy to strike twelve times on the spring that passes for a chime in the ancient timepiece. I hear it striking faintly as I wander away from the house. There will be no white Christmas here.
Bells. I do hear bells out here. Wind chimes on my house, front and back. I check the ones in the front where I am and they are swinging energetically. The D6th chord the circular pipes make as the clapper makes its rounds is reassuring.
All is well.
Still, I’m not sure.
So, I wander down the street a few feet. There are more bells at a neighbor’s house, and I stop to listen for a minute. When I was in their yard earlier this week, I admired them and found that they have square pipes, not round as mine are.
No matter. They make as beautiful a chord as the one I just left at my place, a G7th, if my ear is to be trusted. But, amongst the dong, dong, dong of the square chimes, I hear a periodic clunk.
I don’t have to trespass in the neighbor’s yard to find the cause. It’s pretty clear that the whole affair, buffeted by the gusting wind, is hitting the porch’s wooden support beam once in a while as it repeats the beautiful chord.
I laugh. I know the feeling. For the last three or four weeks, my life has been wrapped up in playing Christmas music on my horn at various events with other instrumentalists. I just played earlier this evening with a wonderful collection of humans at our church’s Christmas Eve service.
I do. I play some beautiful notes. I don’t think I’m bragging when I say that. But then, the wind (or something else) goes through the horn wrong and a clunker comes out the bell. Some nights, a lot more of them than can be explained away by bad vision, or sticky valves, or even not getting enough sleep last night.
There are some reading this who understand what I mean. Come to think about it, it may be most of you who understand it, even if you don’t play a musical instrument.
Clunkers happen. All our life, they happen.
I used to wonder if God kept track of all my clunkers. In life, I mean; not my horn playing. Even today, in my dark moments, I still do.
He has a lot of those to tally. For me, anyway.
But suddenly, I remember what night it is. And yes, I’m perfectly aware that December the twenty-fifth is almost certainly not the day our Savior came to us as a baby in a smelly stable. But, it is the day we commemorate the event. In the season we consider the great love our Creator God showed for every human in the world by sending His Son.
And, the realization stops me where I stand, listening to the beautiful, tuned chimes as they whirl and gyrate in the unbridled wind.
God Incarnate, Emmanuel, our God With Us, came to earth and was born a baby, not because of our beauty and attractiveness.
He came because He loved us and wanted us to be with Him.
Period.
Or, if you prefer the term our British cousins use—Full Stop.
It is worth a moment or two of consideration. Perhaps, even an hour or—and, I know this is extreme—a lifetime. It might just take that long to take it in.
Clunkers and all, His grace reached down into our midst and gave us—Himself.
Love and Light come down to dwell with us. To die for us. To give us life.
With Him.
Even when things don’t go as we planned. When we fall on our face. When we stand in front of the crowd and let fly a clunker to beat all clunkers.
He wants us to be with Him. Forever.
So, let the wild bells chime! Let the trumpets blast! Let the loud voices rise!
A Child is born.
Clunkers will be remembered no more.
Beautiful music to my ears.
To His, too.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be. (from the poem Ring Out Wild Bells, by Alfred Lord Tennyson)
God showed how much he loved us by sending his one and only Son into the world so that we might have eternal life through him.This is real love—not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.
(1 John 4:9-10, NLT)
My life for the last couple of weeks has been overshadowed by the Big Event. Playing brass music for the local university’s Christmas service is still cause for nervousness and stress in this veteran of almost forty years of the program. But, that’s all over now.
I expected to write about it today. I sat down to do just that, but it seems the story doesn’t want to be the subject of my mental wanderings just yet.
Instead, I want to talk with you about children. Babies. Toddlers. Teenagers. Ninety-year-olds.
All children.
Why are you wrinkling up your forehead like that?
Oh. Ninety-year-old children. I know. We’ll get to that soon enough.
Sunday night, a day after the Big Event was over, the old guys (and one young lady) in the brass ensemble played one last time, this event—my church’s annual Christmas program. Everyone was welcome to share what they had prepared. No pressure. Encouragement and approval for every performer, young and old, was guaranteed.
I had my worst outing of the whole season, missing more than my share of notes, but heard not one word of criticism. I expected nothing less from this joyful crowd. But what my ensemble did really wasn’t noteworthy on this night.
The beautiful little girl whose sisters were singing a duet was. She added to the music with her lovely dancing on the stage. Mama was worried she’d jostle the guitar-playing sister’s arm, but she was careful not to, pirouetting and flouncing in her own space. Her face beamed as she offered her talent to the Baby King.
There were so many others; there is not enough room here and you don’t have the patience for me to mention them all. The stage filled with kids in the pageant; a few shy beyond showing their faces, others standing on the steps and waving to the crowd. One after another, they brought their gifts, some flawed, some nearly perfect. All were met with approval from the folks who listened and watched.
Piano duets and solos soared—or limped—through all the notes. Vocal offerings followed the same pattern. Joyous applause was the inevitable result.
Ah, but look! The red-headed young man mounts the steps to the stage and, brushing the shock of hair from his forehead, begins a difficult arrangement of Rise Up Shepherds and Follow at the piano.
The jazz-voiced chords are difficult to shape the hands to and the arpeggios from bass to treble and back again require exact positioning of the fingers. There are some starts and stops along the way, but it is all brought to a triumphant ending, and with a flourish, the last note rings out from the big concert grand piano.
With a joyful thumbs-up to the whistling and cheering crowd, the young man strides to the steps, a grin affixed, permanently it would seem, to his lips.
His friend would follow a few moments later, as he and his dad offered up their version of Little Drummer Boy. Dad, with his guitar, sang each verse from the stage, while his son, smiling broadly the entire time, marched up and down each aisle tapping his sticks on a small drum hanging by a cord around his neck. As the song neared an end, the young man mounted the steps and stood, still striking the drum, behind his dad.
It might have been just a little bit of laughter in his dad’s voice that caused his voice to break (but I think there was more to it) when the words “then He smiled at me” came from his mouth. The young man was beaming from ear to ear himself. He didn’t stop beaming as he bowed from the waist, not once, but three times to the thunderous applause.
The two young men are friends and peers. Both have Down syndrome but are ever anxious to learn and share new things. Their joy is contagious; our desire to encourage them in it, completely understandable.
Christmas is for children. I’ve heard it again and again. I have always—in the past, anyway—disagreed.
Well? Surely, it’s obvious. The Christmas story is for all the world. The Gospel of Grace is freely offered to all who come to the God-who-became-a-baby.
Adults. Children. Teenagers.
Christmas is for all. It’s more than presents and carols; more than candy canes and decorations; more than tales of Santa Claus and of talking snowmen. It is.
So much more.
But—and I can’t get past this—our God began His rescue mission as a baby in a manger. He was helpless and dependent. Our Savior.
God came as a child.
And, when the child became a man, He shocked His followers by telling them the only way they could come to His Father was as children. Helpless and dependent. Lost.
Lost.
I’ve forgotten something.
Oh yes. Her. I didn’t really. Forget her, I mean. It’s just that there is pain. And tears.
But there is joy too. So much.
She climbed the steps carrying a violin. Helped by an older man, she ambled over to the piano where the Lovely Lady who lives at my house waited. Leaning over, clearly confused, she handed the violin and bow to the beautiful redhead. A bit confused herself, the pianist talked to her for a moment to reassure her, then handed the violin back to her.
There were notes from the piano and a tone drawn timorously from the violin. Then, as the piano began to play the first notes of Joy to the World, the melody also flowed from the violin. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter.
When the last notes faded down to nothingness, the crowd cheered and applauded louder than ever. I wiped the tears and smiled at the Lovely Lady as she returned to her seat beside me.
Christmas is for children.
The violinist has lived nine decades. She was recognized for many years in our fellowship as a wise woman, a source of advice and wisdom for many young mothers and middle-aged empty nesters. The love and respect she knew from all were well deserved. And she reciprocated those qualities many times over.
For the last several years, we’ve watched her change as an illness has robbed her of memory and wisdom. She still beams as I greet her, but my name is not on her lips anymore. That kind nature has not been lost, but there is no gleam of recognition in her eyes, nor personal bits of conversation when we speak. And therein lies my sadness.
Ah, but the joy is there, too. I heard it in the voices and applause when she finished playing. I feel it when I realize that even in this time of the dear saint’s life, a second childhood if you will, she knows her God and Savior.
Her husband, constantly at her side, related that as my brass group played the instrumental prelude earlier in the evening, she sang every carol. It wasn’t just humming; she sang the words and the tunes.
She does. She still knows her Savior and He knows His dear child.
Christmas is for children. Old and young.
It’s for the Infant, weak and helpless, who was laid in a manger all those years ago.
It’s for the little girl, dancing, carefree, on the stage beside her sisters.
It’s for the young men, adult in age but children in spirit, who will need the care of others their whole life, but who will always have more to give than they ever take.
It’s for folks like you and like me, sometimes arrogant in our certainty, but more often, childlike, coming before a God who knows us. He knows us and still, He loves us.
It’s for the old ones, who have lost the ability to remember and to function as they once did. The Creator of all that is has never forgotten them. Ever.
He won’t forget us either, as we come weak, helpless, and lost.
He became like us, that we might become, one day, like Him.
Christmas is for children.
I pray I’ll be one all my days.
I pray the same for you.
For unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given… (Isaiah 9:6a, NKJV)
But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.”
(Matthew 19:14, NLT)
