I'm a Believer!

I'm wondering . . .

“You better watch out, better not cry, better not pout I’m telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town.” This iconic song by J. Fred Coots and Haven Gillespie became an immediate hit when it was played on Eddie Cantor’s radio show in November 1934. Within twenty-four hours, orders had been placed for 500,000 copies of the sheet music and more than 30,000 records. Those were the good old days, when families gathered around the piano instead of heading to their respective screens at the end of the day. Ah, but I digress.

Our modern-day version of Santa Claus, based on the sainted Nicholas of the third century, has been shaped by Clement Moore (The Night Before Christmas), political cartoonist Thomas Nast, and Coots and Gillespie – and Rudolph! I’m glad to report that the man, the myth and the legend continues to be in good hands as Dan and Becky teach the sweet Emma Belle, now age two and a half. No piano or record player is responsible for perpetuating the message in their home, nor are Bruce Springsteen or Bing Crosby crooning away – instead, there’s a Santa Spy Cam in Emma’s house, keeping an eye on her day and night. Because we know, thanks to that song from 1934, that “he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.”

Naughty or nice. It’s been a challenge to humans since the beginning of life. Religions use the concept, as Judeo-Christian teachings paint the contrast between sin and righteousness, as does Islam and Hinduism. Contemporary parents use it with the hope of regulating behavior so their children won’t get kicked out of nursery school. We teach the difference between good and bad behavior to our kids, but spending time with Emma and the charming Henry Kyle makes it obvious – there is also an innate sense of right and wrong. They know. Even Gracie, Emma’s four-month-old Bernedoodle, knows when she grabs Emma’s toy and runs away. Moore may have suggested St. Nicholas was a “right jolly old elf,” but he does help out a parent from time to time as well. What kid wants to be on the “naughty” list? Not me!

When I was a small child, we’d make sure we were watching Channel 4 each weekday at 5 pm for a visit from Santa Claus and his friends – Grumbles the Elf, Freezy the Polar Bear, and my favorite, Forgetful the Elf. Might they read my letter to Santa on the show today, I wondered? I was doubtful, as Miss Molly never called out my name on Romper Room.

Emma doesn’t have to park in front of the television at supper time, hopeful that Santa will see her. Instead, he calls her up at night on her mom’s cellphone, talking to her as a dear friend. Becky tells me it’s an app, some newfangled way to tell the story of Santa.

In 1897, eight-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon wrote to the New York Sun newspaper. “Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in THE SUN it’s so. Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?”

The response came quickly from long-time newsman Francis Pharcellus Church. “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. . . A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.”

I’m eager to report that Santa Claus is continuing to make glad the heart of childhood, whether gathered around the piano or a cellphone – and before we know it, around a Christmas tree. As Church told Virginia, any who doubt his existence “have been affected by skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see.” I may no longer stand on my bed for hours, staring off into the night sky on Christmas Eve, hoping for a sighting of Santa, but, as the Monkees sang, “I’m a believer.”

Servant Leadership

Servant Leadership has been a buzzword that's been spoken of from time to time within The Salvation Army. I've witnessed it in many over the years. The divisional leaders who came to visit an officer family with a seriously ill child - one stayed behind at the house to stay with the other children - and the laundry was caught up by the time they left. Exchanging the tunic for an apron to flip pancakes at the corps breakfast. Cancelling Sunday plans so they could fill our pulpit as a firstborn decided to arrive on a Sunday morning.

Say what you want about social media, but I've observed so many glimpses of servants in ministry this past month. They've been everywhere - some were people who could have been home in front of the fire, but instead, they've served at the kettle, in the nursery, in the sorting, packing and distributing of gifts, in coming alongside just when the time was right. Local leaders have done the same, as have staff, volunteers, and so many in community after community.

There've been heavy burdens on Salvation Army leaders at all levels this year, but still, they've served. They've been the last ones out of the building, the first to offer a hand.

Woke? Some choose to use it as a bad word, but these servants of Jesus are truly woke - to the heartache of people, to the needs of those on the margins, and to the Son who comes, again and again.

Isaiah's words may have been written to Jerusalem centuries ago, but they ring true to those who serve today.

Arise, shine, for your light has broken through!

The Eternal One’s brilliance has dawned upon you.

2 See truly; look carefully—darkness blankets the earth;

people all over are cloaked in darkness.

But God will rise and shine on you;

the Eternal’s bright glory will shine on you, a light for all to see.

Thank you, faithful ones, for shining so purely.

The Joys and Woes of Christmas Cookies

Christmas cookies and I have a love/hate relationship. Every year. I should give up the idea of baking and just buy them from Becki Dina (Sugar ARTS Bakehouse). But no, I'm going to conquer them one of these years. Because I certainly haven't this year. IThe sugar cookie dough was too soft and sticky, and the few cookies that survived were misshapen. Tonight I tried to make spritz, but my cookie presses (yes, I had two) refused to cooperate and ended up in the garbage. I used a couple of small cookie cutters and we ended up with a few stars and trees.

Tomorrow, I'm going to make peanut butter cookies from the Betty Crocker bag, throw on a few hHershey kisses, and give it up for 2021. At least the Mexican Wedding Cakes turned out fine, but there probably won't be any left by the time Christmas arrives. They're so good . . .

The struggle isn't new. I wrote about a time 35 years ago with its own challenges..

Looking back over the years when my sons were small, I truly have no idea how I – or they – managed to survive the Christmas season. Even though November and December were our busiest months at work, I still wasn’t willing to give up the idyllic images gracing the pages of the popular women’s magazines in the checkout racks at the supermarket. Surely I could carve out time to make my own gifts, entertain in our home and bake six kinds of Christmas cookies, couldn’t I?

In fact, why should I keep the pleasure of baking cookies to myself? Wouldn’t it be fun to invite a few families with small children to our home to bake and decorate cookies on a Sunday afternoon before Christmas? It’s a picture-perfect scene – the little darlings with flour dotting their noses, as Christmas carols played merrily in the background and the scent of gingerbread filled the air. A reality TV Christmas special in the making, long before Jon and Kate and their darling eight were ever dreamed of.

I did plan ahead, truly I did. I made the sugar cookie dough and stuck it in the freezer, and did some for molasses, spritz and peanut butter cookies ahead of time as well. The kitchen table and counters were the cut-out stations, and the dining room table was DHQ (decoration headquarters), with frosting, colored sugars, and sprinkles galore. The sprinkles proved to be the favorite, as I was still picking green and red sprinkles out of the carpet on the 4th of July.

We welcomed our friends with some chili and spiced cider, and then got down to the cookie-baking business. I think we ended up with four moms, ten junior bakers, and four male football fans. Well, the dads helped a bit, serving as taste-testers and referees, but they mostly kept an eye on the Eagles game while the women kept an eye on the kids, the cookies and their nerves.

Memory is such a wonderful gift. If we fully remembered the discomfort of pregnancy and labor – well, the discomfort of pregnancy and the pain of labor, most of us would only have one child. We did have fun at the cookie bake-off, but it wasn’t the smartest idea I ever had. I think if the kids had been a couple of years older (like fifteen instead of five) and if I’d had girls instead of boys (Greg and Drew kept making cookie guns with their buddies) it would have gone a bit smoother. I learned something that day about expectations and attention spans, and about having a cookie decorating party instead of a cutting out, baking and decorating party.

In the end, we got to eat quite a few cookies and each family had an assortment to take home with them, even if most of the gingerbread people were amputees. Nobody got sick, we didn’t have to call the fire department, and the Eagles won. What more could I want? Peace on earth?

Late that night, as I staggered into bed, I gave thanks for healthy and active kids, a dish-washing husband, and adventurous friends. But before I drifted off to dreams of sugar plum fairies, marzipan and Mexican wedding cakes, I made my husband promise that if I happened to mention a cookie party the following year, he’d handcuff me to the chair and place an emergency order at Eiselin’s Pastry Shop just up the Ridge from our house.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Christmas is not for children?

The email from Sister Joan Chittister sat in my inbox for a few days:, unopened. “Christmas is not for children.” What? Of course it’s for the children. Have you seen the presents under the tree, the pony tethered in the back yard for the sweet Emma Belle Shade? (just kidding, Dan). Haven’t you heard the children singing ,“Away in a Manger,” or ten-year-old Gayla Peevey whining, “I want a hippopotamus for Christmas?” Christmas is all about the kids.

 

After all, the Christmas narrative as reported by Matthew and Luke is all about the baby – and even the babies who got caught up in Herod’s desperate act, “the slaughter of the innocents.” Wasn’t there a little drummer boy pounding away on his drum, the littlest angel singing heartily with the multitude of the heavenly hosts, and the two cherub angels keeping watch at the holy crib? 

 

As songwriter Alfred Burt so poignantly wrote, the child in the manger came to earth so that children could see themselves in the almighty God of the universe. 

The children in each different place
will see the baby Jesus’ face
like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,
and filled with holy light.
O lay aside each earthly thing
and with thy heart as offering,
come worship now the infant King.
'Tis love that’s born tonight!

Even Victorian poet Christina Rossetti agreed about the little ones in her poem, “In the Bleak Midwinter.” The tone of the poem didn’t begin on a promising note, as Rossetti painted a desolate picture: “frosty wind made moan, earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone.” Yet her last stanza welcomes the voice of a child. 

 

What can I give him? Poor as I am. 

If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb, 

If I were a wise man, I would do my part, 

But, what can I give him? Give him my heart.”

 

Surely, Sister Joan, you didn’t mean what you wrote. You caught my attention, but there’s got to be more, right? Not being willing to settle for the troubling headline, I finally read the entire piece. Here’s her concluding paragraph:

 

There is a child in each of us waiting to be born again. It is to those looking for life that the figure of the Christ, a child, beckons. Christmas is not for children. It is for those who refuse to give up and grow old, for those to whom life comes newly and with purpose each and every day, for those who can let yesterday go so that life can be full of new possibility always, for those who are agitated with newness whatever their age. Life is for the living, for those in whom Christmas is a feast without finish, a celebration of the constancy of change, a call to begin once more the journey of human joy and holy meaning.”

 

More than thirty years ago, Karrie Chen, a college student from Hong Kong, sang Burt’s words in the hush of a candlelit chapel in Philadelphia. It was the children who came to see Jesus that night, “bronzed and brown,” “lily white,” “almond-eyed” – and “ah!, they love him too.” As the little ones came to the cradle of the Son of God with their offering, we too bowed our knees. 

 

Yes, Christmas is for the children, yet it beckons each one of us, weary, wandering and wondering. We wait, as a weary world, for “a thrill of hope,” “the journey of human joy and holy meaning.” O come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord.  

 

A Kerfuffle About Race

In recent days, the charge of being racially “woke” has been leveled against The Salvation Army, a ministry I served in for thirty-four years prior to retirement, and continue to worship in. There have been posts on social media, and a few of the mainstream media have taken up the call, some who have twisted the facts of the matter enough to boost clicks and potentially impact donations to an organization that has served the marginalized of our world for more than 150 years. 

 

As I understand the kerfuffle (always wanted to use that word), it began as a person or people took issue with a curriculum that offers a framework for small groups of people within the Salvation Army to discuss the topic of racism. The critics were concerned with the use of a couple of the resources in the curriculum, and pulled a phrase or two out of the package to find fault with the intent and the content of the study.

 

Ah, the resulting hand-wringing. “The Salvation Army is woke!” – meant in a derogatory fashion. “Don’t give to that organization – they believe white donors should apologize for being white.” That’s not what the curriculum said. Commissioner Ken Hodder, the Army’s national leader, has responded with a statement and video, but what do you say? The proverbial cat is out of the bag, even if the cat isn’t as ugly as claimed. Like so many other scenarios over the past few years, how do you combat misinformation and innuendo? Is it better to ignore it, hoping it will go away (news cycles are fickle), or address it head on, attempting to clarify and correct?  

 

Social issues are complicated. Social justice is complicated. It’s tempting to suggest that an organization like The Salvation Army should stick to helping the poor and refrain from talking about any of the “isms.” For many years, it’s been quite successful in doing so, although a few complaints have cropped up from time to time, generally coinciding with the beginning of the Christmas fund-raising campaign, the nightmare of the PR folks. 

 

To broaden the discussion beyond The Salvation Army, what is the church to do? “Stick to Matthew 25,” comes the counsel. Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, invite the stranger in, clothe the naked, care for the sick, visit those in prison. That’s what Jesus said to do. But is that enough? Or should the church, the body of Christ, be asking why someone is hungry, thirsty, unwelcome, naked, sick or in prison? Did the self-proclaimed people of God have anything to do with the societal structures, historically and culturally, that lead to hunger, nakedness, or incarceration? 

 

Is there room in our actions for self-examination, as Jesus suggested in Matthew 23? His words are strongly phrased, often headlined as the seven woes. “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees [religious leaders], you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. Blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean.” Might it be that a curriculum on racism asks us to take a look at the inside of the cup and dish? 

 

On Dr. Andy Miller’s recent podcast, Dr. Matt Friedeman talked about a guiding principle within his church: “We want to run to the sound of the pain.” Yes, there is pain in being hungry or homeless, and the church is called to respond to that pain. Yet racism has also brought pain to many, both historically and still today. Just read some of the comments around this kerfuffle if you don’t believe me. Perhaps, as challenging as it's been to The Salvation Army in the past few days, maybe this “exposure” will actually bring about more honest dialogue on race than any curriculum could have done.

 

I’ve been accused of being a radical woman, and I’ll stay true to form in the eyes of those who see that as a negative. I want to be woke. I want to run to the sound of the pain of my brothers and sisters of color. I see you. I want to hear you, to listen to your stories. Let’s talk honestly about race, about racism, and about racial reconciliation. 

An In-Between Day

Mixed thoughts this morning, on this in-between day, this weekend nestled between Thanksgiving and “the Christmas season,” where it’s finally permissible (in my understanding of life) to decorate for the holidays. It’s two days after Thanksgiving, one day after the shopping frenzy of black Friday and the cartoon marathon memory of my childhood, “the day after Turkey Day on NBC.” On this between day, it’s also one day before Advent begins.  

 

And yet COVID lurks among us. We’re told it’s to blame for the supply chain issues. “Better buy it when you see it,” the pundits warn, as it won’t be there when you make up your mind. I was in a store yesterday where the merchandise was piled high, cascading to the floor in many spots. Supply chain problems?  Could have fooled me.

 

The nasty virus is to blame for much more than that early run on toilet paper or the inability to find this year’s version of the coveted Cabbage Patch doll or Tickle Me Elmo. It’s changed us a humans, dividing us in ways our parents couldn’t have imagined. I intended to describe those differences, but who am I kidding? We’ve become so entrenched in our positions about being masked and vaxxed that there seem to be no words left to say.

 

And the empty chairs at the Thanksgiving table? 777K, the googled report shows, just here in the United States. Yes, the “K” stand for one thousand. Does the use of the abbreviation lighten the burden of grief over the loss of 777,000 people, of 5,190,000 people around the world? We may act like it’s winding down, but one radio report indicated that this week, somewhere in Ohio, one in six current hospitalizations is for COVID-19 ( didn’t catch the details).

 

This morning, as I sat peeling vegetables for the fragrant pot of soup simmering on the stove, I wondered: what do we do? My thoughts wandered to the biblical women on the day after the first Good Friday. In their grief, we are told, still they “prepared the spices.” They did what needed to be done to prepare the body of Jesus for a burial in accordance with their faith. 

 

Somehow, in the valley of the shadow of death, more than five million bodies lining that valley, we must find time to both grieve and to “prepare the spices.” I’m searching for ways to live in the midst of the uncertainty that surrounds us, to find meaning. What I’m realizing in these anxious days is that sometimes it is enough to stir the pot of soup, decorate the Christmas tree, and light a candle of Advent. For, as Fleming Rutledge reminds us, “Even our smallest lights will be signs in this world, lights to show the way . . .” Might it be so.

 

 

I'm Lovin' It

Larry, Henry and I made an impromptu visit to the food court at the mall this week, meeting up with Dan and Emma for lunch. In Henry’s meal from Chik-fila included a place mat with a variety of animals. What does the dog say? Ruff-ruff. What does the pig say? Oink oink. What does the kitten say? Meow. And finally, what does the cow say? “Eat mor chikin!”

 

That may be the brilliant tag line for the chicken restaurant, but I’m grateful that people around the world have taken to heart the slogan, “there’s a little McDonald’s in everyone” and headed to the Golden Arches for burgers, fries and milkshakes. Those Happy Meals lined the pockets of Ray and Joan Kroc (capitalism at its best – and worst), and upon Joan’s death, her fortune  was distributed to The Salvation Army with specific instructions on what to do with those dollars.

 

As a result of her legacy gift, twelve years ago, on a pleasant April weekend, we celebrated a milestone in Salvation Army history in Ashland, Ohio as the  Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center was dedicated to the glory of God and to the people of the community. What a weekend it was. We had one working phone for the whole building. The heat worked too well; the air-conditioning, not so much. We sang out hearts out in Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” and Booth’s “O Boundless Salvation” with over a hundred of our closest friends (thanks, Libby Slade). Mountain Man entertained the New York Staff Band with great fervor. We bought a run-down motel in three days, placing us on the Ripley’s Believe It or Not list for the speediest Salvation Army property transfer ever. And then, on Sunday afternoon, with flags waving and horns blaring quite melodiously, we marched from 40 East Third Street to 527 East Liberty Street. What a weekend!

 

This chilly November weekend marks another ribbon-cutting at the East Liberty address, as an addition to the Kroc Center building is dedicated to the glory of God and to the people of the community. In our COVID-19 world, this dedication will be by invitation only, and held “under the big top,” brrrr. No Mountain Man for entertainment, as its likely he is serenading St. Peter in the heavenly realms. The phones work, the motel is long gone, and I’m told the temporary tent has heat. After the singing and the speeches are over, the highlight of the day will be the inaugural trip down the new waterslide. Will Joe, Doug or Billy have that privilege? The suspense is killing me – and the three contestants as well, who may be secretly hoping that they won’t be the winner by having the top donor amount to support scholarships to the center. 

 

Joan Kroc’s vision for the nearly thirty facilities now spread across the U.S. was a gift for sure, and money reallocated from her initial bequest made this Ashland addition possible – the gift that keeps on giving. Like the original project, the Ashland community stepped up and is pitching in a chunk of change to complete the construction as well. Kroc’s generosity, the community’s support, and their faith in the Army’s ability to serve, continue to astound me, and I remain thankful for the opportunity to reimagine Salvation Army ministry in the twenty-first century. We had claimed the words of Isaiah 54 back in 2009, and they are just as fitting today: “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back, lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes.”

 

The water park won’t be open for a few more weeks, but when it’s ready, the Shade family is coming to test it out. The lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday have loved their visits to RJ’s Spraypark, and we look forward to introducing the charming Henry Kyle and the sweet Emma Belle to the wonders of the new water park. We may not be in Speedos, but we’re sure to be wearing smiles. 

 

Happy Expansion Ribbon-Cutting Day to all the Ashland Krockettes. Kudos to the staff, board, and community for all you’ve done to turn a dream into reality once again. with a special word of appreciation to our friends, Majors Annalise and Billy Francis, who have shepherded this expansion. No broken bones on that waterslide, Billy. And get some rest, because, thanks to Mrs. Kroc, “you deserve a break today!”