The Word Became Flesh and Blood

Growing up in the First Presbyterian Church of Tonawanda, New York, I sang in the junior choir and attended Sunday School and the worship service each week. The sanctuary at Christmas was glorious, aglow in the wash of candlelight and echoing with historic carols. But the highlight of each Christmas season was the annual Christmas pageant, the nativity story with bathrobes and tinseled angel wings.

The First Presbyterian production was impressive, and casting for the pageant was a formidable task. The kindergarten children were little cherubs who knelt beside the baby Jesus, and I appeared in that role around age five. But following that stellar performance, the female roles were quite limited until junior high when one special girl was chosen to be Mary.

Since my Aunt Florence was in charge of the pageant, I assumed I had a good shot at the coveted part, but another young woman get the plum role of Mary in my first year of eligibility. I was the angel Gabriel, attempting to keep my balance while standing on a wobbly ladder with arms outstretched. By the following year, I knew it was now or never. But with no advance warning, my Aunt Florence decided to change the traditional pageant to some random Christmas drama – with no nativity scene.

To say I was scarred for life by that decision is an overstatement, but I never did get to play the role of Mary. Of course, at age ten or twelve I didn’t know who this ancient woman really was. Yes, she’d ridden a donkey to Bethlehem, given birth in a stable, and laid her newborn baby in a manger. But I had no idea that the news of a pregnancy would have been a problem (naiveté was still alive in children in the 60s), nor did I comprehend the prophetic words of Simeon in the temple that a sword would pierce Mary’s own soul. All I knew was that Mary wore the pretty pale blue robe and looked beautifically at her baby while the cherubs fidgeted and the angelic choir sang.

In Barbara Robinson’s “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” her uproarious account introduces the tough-as-nails Herdman family as they bully their way into the lead parts in the Christmas pageant. The narrator describes the day of the performance: “Imogene Herdman [Mary] was crying. In the candlelight her face was all shiny with tears and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away. She just sat there – awful old Imogene – in her crookedy veil, crying and crying and crying. I guess Christmas just came over her all at once, like a case of chills and fever. And so she was crying.”

In that moment, awful old Imogene Herdman understood the pain and the joy of Mary’s heart. I’ve been there as well in these days leading up to Christmas 2014, as I’ve felt the pain of the sword that continues to pierce the soul of our world. The unrest marching from Ferguson, Missouri across our land, the slaughter of the innocents in Peshawar, Pakistan, and the memory of Sandy Hook Elementary School deeply trouble my soul. I long for the “peace on earth and mercy mild” that Charles Wesley claimed in his classic carol, but somehow we’ve lost that message.

Did Mary know that peace and mercy? Chris Eaton and Amy Grant imagine Mary’s thoughts in their song, ‘Breath of Heaven.” Mary asks, “In a world as cold as stone, must I walk this path alone?” The Christmas narrative itself answers Mary’s question. “They will call him Emmanuel, which means ‘God with us”’ (Matthew 1:21).

The sword still pierces Mary’s soul and our souls, but John gives us good news (1:14) – we are not alone. “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” When the First Presbyterian pageant took a different direction (leading, sadly, to its demise), my mother rescued the sacred, scarred baby Jesus doll from a forgotten shelf and took him home. Today, the baby Jesus still resides in my mother’s home, a poignant reminder that “the Word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood” (John 1:14, MSG). Might the baby find a place in your home as well. Merry Christmas.

The Bells are Ringing

It’s that time of year. It began with the faint ding of my cell phone indicating a text message had arrived. “Waaaayyyy too early for kettles,” wrote my sister from a suburban Buffalo store on the first day of November. She had heard a bell ringing as she walked towards the entrance and she knew it was “that time of year.”

In the 1942 film “For Me and My Gal,” a great question is raised: “Do you hear the bells go ding dong, do you know why they’re ringing?” Gene Kelly answers his own query in the first line of the familiar refrain. “The bells are ringing for me and my gal.” They were wedding bells!   

Unlike Kelly’s answer, the constant ringing we will begin to hear on our weekly trek to the supermarket doesn’t come from wedding bells, nor does their echo signify the end of war as church bells did at the conclusion of the Civil War. No, these ordinary and sometimes annoying bells clang throughout our land to signify that the war isn’t over and an Army continues to do battle in that war.

The Salvation Army’s care for the poor is not a new concept for people of faith. Historically, the Hebrew people declared a Year of Jubilee every fifty years as slaves and prisoners were freed and debts forgiven. In the last century, Catholic social teaching introduced the ‘preferential option for the poor,’ explaining that God gives preference to the poor and powerless, and so should God’s people. And in our century, new approaches to address poverty continue to spring up in faith communities around the world.

Government has also tried to stem the tide of poverty. Early approaches included auctioning off the poor, the development of Poorhouses, and the twentieth century answers, the advent of social security and welfare payments. Even with these adjustments, the poor remained with us, so President Lyndon Johnson declared war on poverty in 1965, to be followed by the welfare reform of the 90s.

Yet despite all these well-meaning interventions, still the bells must ring. Some see it as a quaint custom, like the child’s rhyme. “Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, please put a penny in the old man’s hat.” Others pass by unaware, engrossed in conversation or checking cell phones for urgent messages. Some respond to the bell with irritation, tired of hearing it, while others hear the bell and remember that lives can be transformed as a community pools together the spare change in its pockets.

This Christmas, local Salvation Army units are kicking off their bell-ringing campaigns with events designed to create excitement in the community, celebrating the hundreds of volunteers and staff who keep the bells ringing between now and December 24^th. The festive Jingle All the Way 5K is this morning, giving the Ashland bells a running start at 8:30 a.m. For those of us who would jiggle rather than jingle if we attempted a 5K run, there’s a pancake breakfast after the race, followed by the annual Red Kettle Bazaar from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., a great way to get a jump start on Christmas shopping.

In Richland County, the bells will ring at a traditional breakfast gathering at the Mid-Ohio Conference Center on November 19. And for the music lovers among us, the Salvation Army in Wooster will welcome its Ring a Bell, Change a Life campaign with the holiday music of Ashland’s own Kroc Center Big Band on Monday at 6:30 p.m. I’m looking forward to my first taste of Christmas cookies during that event.

I do hope the Kroc Center Big Band plays “My Grown-up Christmas List” on Monday night, because its writer, Linda Thompson-Jenner, communicates better than I can. “As children we believed the grandest sight to see was something lovely wrapped beneath our tree.” Now, as adults, we recognize the rest of the picture, for “heaven only knows that packages and bows can never heal a hurting human soul.” I wish the kettle bells didn’t have to ring this year. But until the war on poverty is truly won, the Salvation Army bells will keep ringing their message of hope.  

Stretching Out the Holidays

A friend posted the following on Facebook:” I love all my FB friends, but those of you who already have your Christmas decorations up are making me feel even further behind than I did before. I don't even have all my fall decorations out yet.”That’s my story. I used to have really cute Halloween decorations, including ceramic pumpkins with my son’s names as teeth (created during my ceramic period), but I never managed to get them out until a day or two before Halloween. Sometimes I wonder if I was adopted – I certainly didn’t inherit the holiday decorating gene from my mother, who, even at age ninety, puts a red, white and blue bow in the flowers for the Fourth of July.

Wait a minute on the Christmas decorations. Isn’t there a rule that we can’t put Christmas trees up before Thanksgiving? That’s right up there with the “no white shoes before Memorial Day” decree. I know retailers have to prepare ahead of the season, but I’m just not ready to hear “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” every time I turn on the radio.

Our current cultural climate stretches holidays out for weeks on end, which worked out great for the lovely Madelyn Simone. Instead of wearing her Little Red Riding Hood costume once, she got to escape the Big Bad Wolf at the grocery store, in her Mee-Maw’s neighborhood, in her neighborhood, and skipping down Main Street here in Ashland at the Costume Capers. If she lived a bit closer to us, we would have done the Monster Mash, (the Halloween movie night sponsored by Main Street Ashland), Tuffy’s party at Ashland University, the Pumpkin Parade at the Ashland Kroc Center, and trick-or-treat in our neighborhood. A candy-loving kid could be set for life!

Does stretching out the celebration threaten to dilute the specialness of the holiday itself? Not that Halloween is quite the commemorative event as is Memorial Day or Veteran’s Day, but my memories of a childhood Halloween have a sense of one-day uniqueness to them: counting down the days in anticipation, assembling the costume, trekking down the block to knock on the doors of neighbors (only those with their porch lights on), inhaling the scent of scorched pumpkin, and dividing up of the goods on the living room floor, sneaking the Good and Plenty out of my little brother’s pile when he wasn’t looking.

As this idea whirls and swirls through my mind, it leads me to ponder – how did we get from a night of trick-or-treating to a season of Halloween happenings? And, moving ahead to December, how did we get from a baby in the manger to a holiday season that seemingly jumps right over Thanksgiving’s turkeys to the barking dogs singing Jingle Bells? I don’t think there’s a cosmic social planner with a five-year strategic plan to increase our holiday participation by 10%. Life just happens, right?

Ah, that’s the challenge, isn’t it? Contrary to popular opinion, we can choose to put some parameters around our own holiday celebrations. Looking ahead to Christmas (only 45 shopping days away), we can refuse to watch A Christmas Story more than once this year, even during its twenty-four hour Christmas Eve marathon – fa-ra-ra-ra-ra. We can choose gifts for those we love that won’t bankrupt us, or we can splurge on a dream gift just because we can. We can reach out to the other side of the railroad tracks or across an ocean, with an angel tree gift for a little one in our own community or with a shoebox stuffed with goodies for Operation Christmas Child. We can gather with others of our faith traditions, and we can sit alone in the darkness of a winter evening, light a candle and say a prayer.

There’s no Christmas tree for us yet, but I am anticipating the joys of Thanksgiving and the excitement of Christmas, especially with a three-year-old in the mix. And after all is said and done, I’m following Andy Rooney’s advice: “One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don't clean it up too quickly.”

Nana Broke the Santa

Splashing in puddles, eating the cheese off the pizza slice, watching Bubble Guppies and Winnie the Pooh while cuddling with her Nana, and being mesmerized by snow globes – these are a few of our granddaughter’s favorite things to do. Being the semi-dutiful grandmother to the lovely Madelyn Simone, I attempt to limit the puddle-splashing, especially in February, enforce the “now you have to eat the rest of the pizza” rule, and put boundaries on television time – although not on cuddling time.

But her fascination with snow globes created a dilemma for me. Since our darling granddaughter is still quite young, only celebrating her third birthday this week, glass snow globes are not the best choice of playthings. I understand that.  But since they are one of her favorite things, I couldn’t stop myself – a few weeks before Christmas, I purchased a Santa snow globe for her room (not a wise decision, but what’s a grandmother to do?)

I told Madelyn we’d keep it on her dresser and only take it down when Nana was there.. We talked about how we had to be very careful with the Santa, as it could break easily. One December afternoon, we lifted the Santa from the dresser and carried it to the living room couch, where we twisted the music key and listened to Jingle Bells as the ‘snow’ fluttered around Santa. Before we knew what was happening, the precious snow globe slipped out of ‘our’ hands and crashed to the floor, sending water and splinters of glass across the room. 

Madelyn was terribly upset by our accident, and kept announcing “Nana broke the Santa.” When her mother came home, she ratted me out.. “Nana broke the Santa.” She told her dad, her uncles, and her Pop-Pop. Good thing she’s not on Facebook. Talk about feeling guilty . . .

The subjects of blame, shame, responsibility and guilt are common themes that many people struggle with over the course of a lifetime.  How difficult it is to take full responsibility for our own actions. Our reflexive reaction is to find someone to blame – our parents, the dog, or even the old stand-by, “the devil made me do it.” To be able to say, “I broke the Santa” is an important step in maturing as an individual. Since I did share the blame for the Santa’s demise, I was willing to be the bad guy in this traumatizing scene. Yes, Nana broke the Santa.

The story doesn’t end there, for Madelyn also had a small butterfly snow globe on her dresser. Yes, you can guess where this is going. I let Madelyn hold it, and she was very careful, but when it was time to return it to a safe place, Madelyn defiantly grabbed it away from me, and it flew out of her hands, crashing to the floor in a replay of the Santa mishap. Her first reaction was to define her own narrative – “Nana broke the butterfly.” While Madelyn has no idea who President Dwight D. Eisenhower is, she instinctively knew the truth of his statement: “The search for a scapegoat is the easiest of all hunting expeditions.” But I understood that to absolve this little girl of the responsibility for her actions in this scenario was the worst thing I could do. No, Madelyn, while Nana may have had a hand in the breaking of the Santa, you broke the butterfly.

More than two months later, with a replacement butterfly sitting on her dresser, we go over the same litany in every conversation and phone call. Madelyn says: “Nana broke the Santa, Mademyn broke the butterfly – we be veeeeery careful with the butterfly.” You’ve got it, my darling girl. Accidents do happen, as do deliberate acts that cause harm, and the best way to respond, long before you’re caught, is “If you mess up, ‘fess up.” I’m glad she’s getting the personal responsibility part down pat, an important life lesson to be sure.  – now we have to work on what it means to forgive and forget.

Advent Prayer for Dec. 20

Moonless Darkness Stands Between

Gerard Manley Hopkins (19^th century)

 

Moonless darkness stands between.

Past, the Past, no more be seen!

But the Bethlehem star may lead me

To the sight of Him who freed me

From the self that I have been.

Make me pure, Lord: Thou art holy;

Make me meek, Lord: Thou wert lowly;

Now beginning, and always,

Now begin, on Christmas day.

 

            As Manley suggests in the last line of his prayer, the marking of a holy day such as Christmas can provide the impetus to a new beginning, a beginning in which the past is no more seen.  We know that we need not wait for any special day to pray a prayer of repentance, but Christmas can become a time when our hearts are stirred to seek after the purity and holiness of Christ in a way we have not done before.

             The danger is that the coming of Christmas will find us far from that awareness, with a hectic pace that tempts us to add one more purchase or one more party to our already overburdened lives.  While Hopkins never experienced a 21^st century lifestyle, his reminder of the role of the Bethlehem star in his own experience of freedom can be ours as well.  We can be freed from “the self that I have been,” particularly when that self is far from pure, far from meek.  ‘Would you be free from your burden of sin?” the songwriter asks.  There is “power in the blood,” power in the One who came in the light of the Bethlehem star.

             

Prayer Focus:  freedom to be Christ’s

 

An Advent Prayer for December 5

Holy Star

William Cullen Bryant (19^th century)

 

O Father, may that holy Star

Grow every year more bright,

And send its glorious beams afar

To fill the world with light.

 

 

            Our granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, is quite the singer.  One of the first songs she learned was “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are.”  Indeed, that must be the question addressed to the star that greeted the birth of Christ.  What are you? 

The ‘holy star’ that Bryant writes of was preserved for the ages by Matthew, who quotes the group of wise men: “Where is the child?  We saw his star in the east.”   The answer to their question came through the star, for “the star they had seen in the east went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was.”

            Was the star supernaturally bright?  Was the star at its zenith in the days following the birth of the baby? Or were the eyes of the wise men opened to what had been present all along? Perhaps the answer is all of the above.

            While Bryant may have prayed for the light to grow supernaturally, it was in Christ that the everlasting light shone in the darkness. He told his followers, “I am the light of the world.”  Indeed, in Him the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. 

            But the light of the star and the light of his own presence wasn’t enough for Jesus.  He turned the tables as he so often did and told his followers, “You are the light of the world.”  When the light of Christ is reflected in his followers, the holy Star grows brighter.  “Shine, Jesus, shine!”

 

Prayer Focus: the light of Christ

Silver Bells

In Silver Bells, Bing Crosby and Carol Richards crooned of the silver bells that mark the arrival of Christmas in the city. It’s a great song, reminiscent of the days when downtown streets across America were filled with holiday shoppers, long before they began their mass exodus to the malls, the big box stores, and on-line specials.
While I enjoy hearing Silver Bells, one of my first piano selections, the Christmas bells I hear most often tend to be more functional in nature, as they’re found clanging rhythmically in search of funds to fill the Salvation Army kettle. The sound of the bell at the kettle can get annoying, as hour after hour it demands to be heard, and some merchants have forbidden the sound of those bells. Yet they faithfully ring on across the country, as much a part of American Christmas tradition as red-nosed Rudolph and the Christmas-stealing Grinch.

I was seduced by the sound of ringing bells at the age of fifteen, and I've spent forty-plus years in a love/hate relationship with their insistent tones. I've rung this bell in the snow of Western New York, in the shadow of Grand Central Station, and with my toddler at my side in New Jersey. It's followed me to Philadelphia, Cleveland, and Canton, and even turned up in our newest home in Ashland, Ohio, side-by-side with the Amish buggies and cow-tipping teens. I love this bell because it's insistent, forever calling attention to those on the margins. I hate it because it only wants to be held when the weather is cold, windy and wet.

I’ve looked at the kettle bell as a necessary evil, one that generates funding for Salvation Army mission, but I also hear another level of insistence in those bells: don’t forget. Don’t forget the poor, the outcast, the oppressed.  They are among you, rings the bell, your brothers and sisters.  They must not be lost in the shuffle of holiday spending. 

It is Luke who records the first public words of Jesus, heard in Nazareth’s synagogue, as he quotes Isaiah’s prophecy:

The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor” (Luke 4:18).

From the poverty of his birth to the abandonment of his death, Jesus heard the voice of the poor. In communities like mine, they don’t sleep on the steps of city hall, but they live here, struggling from day to day. “Don’t forget,” rings the bell.  “In as much as you have done it unto the least of these . . .”

From Christmas Memories: Reflections of a Smitten Believer

 

Ding Dong Merrily on High

DING DONG MERRILY ON HIGH

 

As young Salvation Army officers-in-training, our first quarter of classes ended around Thanksgiving, just in time for a long-awaited break from the classroom. Within hours, the relief over the “no more pencils, no more books” cheer would be replaced by the ringing of bells, as the more than 60 cadets in our session hit the streets of Manhattan to get indoctrinated into the fine art of Christmas kettling. Yes, I know that spell check doesn’t recognize that as a verb, but in our lexicon it surely is. 

Most of us had ‘stood on kettles’ at some time in the past, as I had done as a teen-ager at the old Twin Fair in Tonawanda, New York. But this was New York City, where we’d spend the next five weeks begging the throngs of people to stop and, as the old ditty reminds us, “put a nickel in the drum, save another drunken bum.” Larry and I drew the early shift, which meant we would awaken long before the sun appeared, to begin our shift at Grand Central Station at 6 a.m. – yes, for those who know me, that was 6 in the morning.

Those were the days when female cadets were expected to stand kettles in full uniform, including a skirt and the requisite bonnet. It took me about two days to figure out that with boots and a cape, I could manage long underwear under my skirt and no one would know the difference. 

We were fortunate that we both played a brass instrument, so were assigned to a quartet, expected to fill the air with carols for eight hours a day, rain or snow, sleet or hail.  Some of our friends didn’t fare as well, working solo on a drafty corner in the Wall Street district, so we were grateful for the music assignment, as it made the day pass more quickly.

After a few days we fell into a routine. We’d arrive early enough to get the ninety-nine cent breakfast at the greasy spoon across the street, pancakes or eggs to fill us up for the day’s adventures. We’d play through the carol book once to catch the rush hour crowd, and then take turns heading into Grand Central to thaw out for a few minutes. Lunch would consist of the sandwiches we’d brought, as we hoarded the meal allowance to purchase Christmas gifts for family. Then back to the street corner, hoping our lips would hold out until our replacements arrived. 

Oh, the stories. As we chatted in the van on the way back to Suffern, the stories would tumble out. Did you see that? Do you know what so-and-so did? We saw it all during those days, as thousands of people passed by us every hour. Our favorite story was the documentary film-maker who thrust the boom mike in our faces and asked, ‘do you eat grits?’ To this day I’ve not eaten them, but chuckle when I see them on the menu.    

I’m not sure if the Salvation Army has a written statement that indicates the reasoning for this particular practice. Certainly it provides some income to the Salvation Army while also increasing the presence of uniformed Salvationists on the streets of New York. There is also the sense of discipline it gives to the young people, but even more so, it provides each cadet with a deep appreciation for the efforts of the thousands of kettle workers that they’ll meet over their years of Salvation Army service.

Those days on the streets of New York didn’t fully prepare us for the year in Hough when we had two kettle workers arrested (one got in a fight on the kettle, another moved someone’s car from in front of the store – without a license), and another murdered by her boyfriend. That was the hardest kettle season, but each year brings its own stories that may one day grace the pages of my believe-it-or-not memoir. While some areas use a temp service to staff the kettles, we’ve not gone that route, preferring to hire (and fire) from our community. Some eliminated themselves easily, by dropping the tweezers into the kettle while trying to extricate a dollar or two from the locked pot, or by cussing out the store manager. In the most infamous act of cussing, the accused worker said, “It wasn’t me. I don’t cuss.” “So how did the manager know your name?” “Oh, that’s easy – my name’s on my %$#* nametag.” Oops!

So has it been worth it? While I haven’t kept an accurate accounting, I’d guess that over our thirty-two Christmas kettle seasons, we’ve been responsible for the kettle workers who’ve collected more than 2 million dollars. We’ve met some amazing people who’ve ministered to thousands through their faithful presence and allowed us to share for a moment in time in their story. Certainly there are less time-consuming ways to raise funds, but Christmas without a Salvation Army kettle just wouldn’t be Christmas. So the Salvation Army rings on, grateful for the bell that calls us to remember the needs of others and provides those with little means the opportunity to contribute to the well-being of all within the community.            

from Christmas Memories: Reflections of a Smitten Believer

 

 

 

On the 25th . . .

I've been spending the last few weeks getting some devotional materials ready for publication for Advent. So from time to time between now and Christmas, I'll randomly post one of the readings to match the day of the month - and yes, I know it isn't December yet, but the word of God speaks powerfully to us regardless of the season.  So here's the reading for the 25th, taken from Notes of Advent for Christ-Seekers, a collection of devotionals based on the carols of Christmas. (Previously named Advent Notes for Christ-Seekers). Available from me, through Amazon, or at my Createspace link:   www.createspace.com/4036115

DECEMBER 25

            Adestes fideles. O come, all ye faithful. As a child, I often wondered why we didn’t go to church on Christmas day. Here was the most identified “holiday” (holy day) on the calendar, and the highlight of the day was the ten minutes we spent tearing with gusto into a heap of presents. Well, there was the family dinner, and the time around the piano singing carols, but it seemed strange that we didn’t gather with other believers, that we faithful didn’t come together to worship Christ the Lord.

            I suppose that I’ve rationalized away my questioning on this subject at this point in my life by making sure that we at least share in a Christmas Eve service each year. But after writing these twenty-five reflections, I’ve recognized that the faithful “come” in so many ways. We do assemble in worship services, but we also gather around dinner tables, hospital beds, and coffee cups.  We come corporately, and we come alone, at an announced time or at the Spirit’s urge, to worship at both the cradle and throne. We worship now, just as we see now, “through a glass darkly,” a foretaste of our coming worship (Rev. 5:12). 

Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain,

To receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!

 O come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord!

 O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant

O come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem;
Come and behold him, born the king of angels;

O come let us adore him,

                   Christ the Lord.

 Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning,

Jesus, to thee be glory given,
Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing,

Attr. John Francis Wade