Christmas, darker

God came down to us in the humble form of a baby, in less than ideal circumstances. He did this because he loved his people and wanted to be among them, to eventually save them. His birth as baby Jesus is, therefore, a grand occasion to celebrate.

This is good, but it's not complete. It's like starting a good book at chapter three.

The pulsing, broken heart of the matter is that all this was necessary because God hated having a long-distance relationship with us -- and no, not physically. We drew away from him, hurling curses at God and damnation upon ourselves along the way.

So, if I may be so bold as to speak plainly and, possibly, incorrectly, God's descent into our world in human form was fueled not just by love, but hate -- for that damning distance we stubbornly set our hearts, minds, bodies and souls to augment.

The three wise men showed one way to respond: worship. King Herod showed another: fear.

Herod was right to fear the birth of Jesus. That event is, after all, a direct strike at the heart of all who are powerful and haughty. Tucked away in that manger was final judgment on all our transgressions, an unfiltered revelation of just how dire our situation was, the tearing down of the veil we chose to hid behind. In that baby's presence we were struck down to nothing.

"For the great and powerful of this world, there are only two places in which their courage fails them, of which they are afraid deep down in their souls, from which they shy away. These are the manger and the cross of Jesus Christ. No powerful person dares to approach the manger, and this even includes King Herod. For this is where thrones shake, the mighty fall, the prominent perish, because God is with the lowly. Here the rich come to nothing, because God is with the poor and hungry, but the rich and satisfied he sends away empty. Before Mary, the maid, before the manger of Christ, before God in lowliness, the powerful come to naught; they have no right, no hope; they are judged." - Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Herod's fear-driven response was to order the murder of "all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under" (Matt. 2:16, ESV).

I'm glad we have a God who is worth killing.

"The coming of God is truly not only a joyous message, but is, first, frightful news for anyone who has a conscience. And only when we have felt the frightfulness of the matter can we know the incomparable favor. God comes in the midst of evil, in the midst of death, and judges the evil in us and in the world. And in judging it, he loves us, he purifies us, he sanctifies us, he comes to us with his grace and love. He makes us happy as only children can be happy." - Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Voices and hands

Two things:

1) I don't like it when people use the words "the world tells us" as the be-all, end-all contrast to what God tells us. I deem this to be a sloppy, misleading and malignant phrase that is akin to attributing every sin to "the devil made me do it." Are we bombarded with messages that compel us to the wrong end of the spectrum? Absolutely. But to stop there and say the sources of those messages "tell us" to want, do and think anything is superficial at best and downright irresponsible at worst. What's behind those messages? Yes, money in most cases, but what else? What is that constantly buzzing irritation inside all of us? And to stop at this point and ignore our part in this receiving of notions, along with why we are drawn to what so-and-so tells us, misses the bigger picture entirely. It fails to dig out the wretched corpse inside of each of us that really does the whispering. It also leads the listener to believe that these desires are spoken into us, which is a dangerous notion to instill in any mind. Maybe I'm being too captious here, but this is a point I wanted to make. My heart and mind scream "foul!" whenever I hear that lousy phrase.

2) I had the opportunity to just sit and watch outside of a mall entrance last weekend. It was beautiful outside, the air was crisp and the bench was open.

During these several minutes, I had the chance to see parents walk into the mall with their children -- children of various ages, from toddlers to teens. What struck me most deeply was how the majority of the little children held their parents' hands, without qualms, and how most of the older children walked into the mall with their hands all to themselves. There were one or two older children who walked into the mall with their hands clasped with their mother, and part of me immediately thought: "How embarrassing."

Then I grew sad because I remember how I used to cling to my mother when I was young, and how that notion seems so beneath me now that I'm older and more mature. It made me sad because part of me wishes that I could be dependent like that again, and because I wondered if the absence of that kind of dependence made my parents sad.

After that pang of sorrow, I began to steadily traverse the downward staircase of my memory as I remembered how I used to be so dependent on God, almost naively so. I remember how much I used to cling to his every word, how "shame" was never a word that crept into my mind as I read the Bible and prayed in my school cafeteria, how I used to love him without maturity to get in the way -- and I wondered if God missed that (though I'm not sure I can rightly attribute that sentiment to him).

I want to trace my steps back and see when I stopped holding his hand.

The last card

"As long as what you are afraid of is something evil, you may still hope that the good may come to your rescue. But suppose you struggle through to the good and find that it also is dreadful? How if food itself turns out to be the very thing you can't eat, and home the very place you can't live, and your very comforter the person who makes you uncomfortable? Then, indeed, there is no rescue possible: the last card has been played." - from 'Perelandra' by C.S. Lewis

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Naive, by Sleeping At Last

God knows that i've been naive

but i think it makes him proud of me.

now it's so hard to separate

my disappointments from his name.

Untitled

and in my best behavior

i am really just like him

look beneath the floorboards

for the secrets i have hid

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Sleeping At Last - 'All This to Say' covered by Mark Beasley

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Entitled

The best thing about difficult times is that they tease out the very worst things in you -- the things you'd otherwise never be privy to. Today, the hidden beast that was aroused was Entitlement.

What's funny (if that's the word) to think about is that while we're on this earth and can lay claim to absolutely nothing, we feel entitled to everything. Yet when this grumbling, inexorable monster is finally slain is when that very monstrosity will be made right. That will be the day when we will truly be entitled to everything -- all the best things beyond our feeble desires now -- and will actually have it in abundance.

See -- even now, the evil in me that I so tearfully hate is turned into a seed of something that I will so tearfully love.

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Clarity

I'm more wicked than I give myself credit for.

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Baby talk

There were two small children sitting near the back of the train car with their mother. Portable media players in hand, their giggling, bright voices filled the metal snake filled with tired, silent adults. Then another voice floated through the air -- the high-pitched, overly-amicable voice of the children's loving mother, speaking to her two beloved in what is best known as "baby talk."

Baby talk is a curious thing: It's sickening when adults speak it to one another, but when it's spoken from an adult to a young child -- or a parent to a child -- it's nothing short of warming.

Why do adults speak to their tiny counterparts in such carefully paced, meticulously pronounced, shrill voices? I'm no expert, but from a gaggle of personal experiences and observations, it would appear that it is at least partly rooted in the adults' desire to comfort, not threaten, the young child -- and even more, to bring a smile, not a frown, to their dear faces. This endeavor is so highly esteemed that even some of the coldest, harshest, most callous of people are glad to take part, regardless of what passersby might deduce.

"God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world." - C.S. Lewis

During the past several months, I've asked God to "speak" to me on many occasions. I know that he speaks every moment, but it's always in a manner that is unsatisfying to me. So, when I plead for him to speak louder, clearer, more definitively in my head and heart, I do so out of discontent. He speaks too softly, too quietly, too subtly for me to comprehend, I tell myself. And he uses such inadequate outlets to do it. Why won't he just shout and make things clear!

What I fail to realize is that if God were to actually speak to me with his real, unfettered voice, I would fall to pieces and be completely blown away. It is, in fact, a little-appreciated grace that he speaks baby talk to me, lest I be terrified and tearfully misconstrue his blaring, blinding, deafening roar as furious damnation of all I am. (Yes, there is damnation in it, but it does not fall on me.) Indeed, it's during the "silent" times when it seems God speaks most nakedly, as all the flecks of what's left of me are continuously torched, hammered and blasted away, until all I was is gone and an inconsolable heap of ruin remains.

"And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper." - 1 Kings 19:12 (ESV)

For my infantile ears and mind cannot discern all that is in that voice -- yet. So, he lovingly filters it for me and speaks to me in a tongue I can begin to understand, even if it means risking his reputation as the God who is because of the use of such insufficient men and words.

Adults speak to their adored children with voices raised and emphases deranged to make them feel safe, happy.

God speaks to his beloved babes with fallen humans and easily distorted words to make them feel known, understood -- and to make himself known, understood.

And he goes to the fullest extent to speak to us in terms we can grasp, not by merely bending over us or kneeling before us to make himself more friendly -- he becomes a baby himself and delivers his words in person.

"We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade, the presence of God. The world is crowded with Him. He walks everywhere incognito. And the incognito is not always easy to penetrate. The real labor is to remember to attend. In fact to come awake. Still more to remain awake." - C.S. Lewis

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Splatter

Sometimes, when I'm able to silence me, I'm amazed that I'm living my life. I don't mean that in an "oh-my-God-I-just-won-the-lottery" kind of way -- I mean it in an "oh-my-God-what-have-I-done-with-28-years" kind of way. How is it possible to have existed this long and accomplished so little? How is it possible to have encountered so much and learned so little? How is it possible to have been given so much and done nothing with it?

I look back with dripping regret.

I look forward with frozen trepidation.

Of course, I'm using the wrong measuring sticks -- I always am -- and relying on the wrong ignition to start my engine each morning.

Grace is often an unbearable burden to me, and this reflects my deep immaturity.

I earnestly hope that one day, I'll be able to sit in those fleeting moments of true silence and just smile, because I'll be appropriately amazed that I'm living my life.

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Life brings death, and vice versa

Here are the basic circumstances under which our Savior entered our world:

- birth out of wedlock

- welcomed by a group of mystics who probably didn't understand his majesty

- forced to flee in the face of danger

And Irony's deepest kiss: his birth meant the death of many others:

"Then Herod, when he saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had ascertained from the wise men." (Matt. 2:16, ESV)

Lately, I have been empty - of words, thoughts, joy, peace, comfort, strength and so much more. And it's in this trajectory toward nothingness that I find the deepest sorrow and gloom. I'm forced to guess that hell, in some way, must be like this, projected out into eternity - the endless, inexorable erosion of me with no end in sight. It isn't in becoming nothing that I find dread, but in being carried toward that courteous end forever, with the certainty that I'll never actually be granted it.

Yet I am told to have hope, to understand that good things are withheld from me now so that the best may fall into my lap in the future, to wait and see that this drought serves a very worthy purpose. My mind agrees and pleads with this chorus of voices for my soul to follow suit, but it will not. I can say this in many euphemisms, but simply put, I refuse to accept any of this.

I've seen spring follow winter, without fail, every single year of my life. I've ridden roller coasters, literal and metaphorical, and have found great pleasure in the ups and downs once I've gotten off. I've waken up after falling asleep, without fail, every single day of my life.

Yet even with all this embedded in the deepest fibers of my feeble mind's understanding, and memories of post-suffering thanksgiving and apologies flowing from my eyes and lips each and every time life arises again fresh in my mind's eye, I choose to turn my eyes away and doubt all of this all over again.

So, tonight, I am trying to thrust the accounts of Jesus' disruptive arrival into this world down into the depths of my double-speaking heart, because it reminds me of this:

If, out of all the death, disregard and despair that saturated his Son's supremely afflicted existence - what seemed a downright God-damned mess - God can pull out resurrection and life to the fullest, can he not also do the same with my trifle?

Do I, or will I ever completely understand why Christ, who would mean life to so many, was born in circumstances submerged in death? Will I ever fully know why it should require this much destruction to get what's left of me to whatever end awaits?

No, and no.

Though a more composed me might have the gall to protest this, the weary me has nothing left to protest with. He only cries for the same kind of reversal - for relief, for retreat, for pardon, for faith and for the upswing to happen soon so that life might be tasted again, whatever the cost.