Blessed Are . . . by Lois Krogh

Lois and her husband, Steve, are College Church missionaries, serving with Training Leaders International. They are also founding members of our most recent church plant, Christ Church South Metro Atlanta (GA).

I have long prayed that God would "break my schemes for earthly joys that I would find my all in Him." (John Newton)

This morning, the Lord showed me cracks in the false earthly joys I have sought after.

Ray Ortlund has written "Beatitudes" from the world's perspective. These beatitudes caught me off guard.

"Blessed are the entitled, for they get their way.
Blessed are the carefree, for they are comfortable.
Blessed are the pushy, for they win.
Blessed are the self righteous, for they need nothing.
Blessed are the vengeful, for they will be feared.
Blessed are those who don't get caught, for they look good.
Blessed are the argumentative, for they get in the last word.
Blessed are the winners, for they get their way."

Now, which of the rewards of these "beatitudes" do you wish you had?

I looked at this list and had to admit I want to be comfortable and need nothing. I also want to look good. These are false idols. They are not connected to spiritual and eternal realities.

There is no lasting comfort in this world. There is no one in this world who can say he has everything that he needs. There is no perfect person in this world. The world has offered rewards that cannot be given.

And then the world audaciously dictates how to earn these false rewards!

And we nod in agreement.

We put our hope in these rewards and run after them - pretending we are carefree, declaring our self-righteousness, working hard not to get caught. But no matter how hard we try at these things, we do not get the rewards because they are not real.

This exercise in looking at contrasting "beatitudes" made the real ones more beautiful. Each reality Christ offered is a spiritual, eternal and obtainable gift of a gracious and powerful Father who gives us a new heart so that we can be poor in spirit and meek.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, for theirs is the kingdom of God. (Matthew 5:1-10)

It is better to desire to be comforted than to be comfortable. This acknowledges the truth that there are things in my world that will cause me to mourn. This looks outside of myself for the answer to the sadness in the world.

It is better to know the satisfaction of Christ's righteousness than to strive after the impossible goals of self-righteousness and self-sufficiency. This is in line with the reality that no one is righteous. Again, it causes me to look outside of myself for a righteousness that is not my own but is graciously given to me.

To strive after earthly joys and rewards is to strive after the wind. There is only one true way to blessedness.

A Cleansing Walk by Lorraine Triggs

The Theosophical Society’s electronic sign on Geneva Road is promoting a New Year Forest Bathing Walk today. Where? On their well-manicured grounds? At a forest preserve? Does the bathing involve a water source? What if the pond or river is frozen? Would the walk then evolve into a polar bear plunge?

With more questions than answers, I decided some electronic research was in order. Forest bathing has its roots in Japan and Asia, where nature therapy has long been practiced in stress reduction. One site assured me that no actual bathing was required—it was more an absorption of the forest atmosphere. Or “living fully in the moment while bathing your senses in nature.”

Just as I was getting comfortable with the idea, another site warned of potential dangers in forest bathing walks insects, wild animals and uneven ground. Bring a buddy or let someone know where you’re going and how long you’ll be gone. I wasn’t sure I could fully bathe my senses in nature if I were constantly looking over my shoulder for potential dangers.

Then there's the site that offers a beginner's guide to forest bathing, and boldly declares that "the forest holds answers to questions we have yet to ask."

There are snags, however, in forest bathing walks. A certified guide announces the walk is at an end; the forest gives way to a clearing, the dangers still lurk, and the stress returns until my next scheduled forest bathing walk.

And what about all those questions we actually are asking? What about CAT scans and unemployment and sick children or assisted living. Questions about fractured relationships and guilt over past and present sins. No forest has the answers to these questions and the burdens they create.

The sticking point with these walks isn’t the forest or nature. In the psalms, forests sing for joy, fields exult, hills gird themselves with joy, and the heavens talk day and night about God’s glory and his power. The sticking point is that we want to control the answers to questions and the cleansing process from stress, and ultimately from sin. We want to look to ourselves or the natural world instead of lifting our eyes to the One who made the forests.

Remember Naaman and his wife and their little servant girl, who knew the prophet Elisha. Second Kings 5:1 describes Naaman as “a mighty man of valor, but he was a leper.” And oh, did he want to be cured, and oh, did he not like Elisha’s remedy: “Go and wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh will be restored, and you shall be clean.” Naaman not only was angry about the way he was to be cured, but also about the where—the River of Jordan. There he stood outside of Elisha’s door with his horses and chariots, and the prophet didn’t even come out to pay his respects, or to cure him the way he deserved. It was the servants who urged Naaman to wash and be clean, and he finally did and “his flesh was restored like the flesh of a little child, and he was clean.” (2 Kings 5:14)

As followers of Christ, we might be more like Naaman than we care to admit. We’re successful and important people for whom Jesus died. Without much effort, we absorb self-righteousness, and rely on ourselves for both cure and comfort from sin and stress. We forget for a moment that the cure is the same one Elisha gave Naaman, “Go and wash.”

Like King David did when the prophet Nathan confronted him with his sin with Bathsheba.

“Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin! Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” (Psalm 51:2, 7)

We cannot find true, life-changing cleansing in a forest. We cannot perform the cleansing ritual ourselves. No bath will do it. It cannot come from within; it cannot come from the wonders of nature.

The cure is pretty clear and direct: don’t say we do not sin, confess our sins, wash in the blood of Jesus who cleanses us from all sin. We don't deserve this. We will never earn it. There is only one tree on which we can depend--the one on which our Savior hung and died in our place. This is the sacrifice that forevermore forgives, the one-tree forest in which we can freely walk and find new life and the strength to live this day.

Marathon - a prayer poem by Wil Triggs

Run away from the voice
you’ve never run from before,
suddenly aware of your own body,
embarrassed, proud, a little ashamed.

Run to see all the stars,
so many across the sky,
try to count them and consider
how the family mysteriously grows.

Run and give a barren laugh
Run with ineloquence of doubt
Slow of tongue
Slow of speech.

Run across the riverbed
as chariots chase behind
charging, warriors running alongside
toward the crashing waters and our freedom.

Run remembering Egyptian leeks
Forgetting the making of bricks,
Longing for the foody foods,
Blind to bread falling from the sky.

Run away from giants
In the land or Philistine,
striking rock for water
when simple words would do.

Run into the whale’s gut
to temple worlds and idol gods,
Into Gomer’s unworthy arms
and out onto beachy sands.

Run on sands of desert heat
the day burning like an oven
the path with no sounds
and silence like deafening night.

Run to the place the angels sang;
abandon your flocks and run.
See the baby born among sheep
and cow, the Lamb among the lambs.

Run to see the man who heals,
The one who multiplies a lunch
Into lunches, who heals and commands
“Come forth” as grave clothes fall away.

Run and spread the Lazarus news
that someone has come to free
us from Rome and religion
and maybe even death itself.

Run alongside the humble parade
on the road of branches and coats,
Save us we cry and plea
and praise at the same time.

Run away from police and courts.
Afraid, seeing leaders of church and state
arrest, condemn, beat and kill
The One we hoped would change it all.

Run from the shame of warming fires
where you did not know
the one you know, the one
Who knows and loves you still.

Run away from the skull place,
from the nightmare of the universe,
the death of the bread of life,
the solid rock behind the cold stone door.

Run like Mary to tell the others,
how it was not the gardener she saw
but, could it really be, Rabonni,
making paths on which to run.

Run on Emmaus roads with burning hearts
and ears hearing every word explained,
transformed to tell of news so good,
unimaginable, right and true.

Run from stones of Stephen’s fall
To places far away from home
To the Ninevah-Narnia lands
To places you’ve never known.

Run to the cities by the sea,
To villages on mountaintops,
To valleys where strangers live
To deserts, caves and jungles far.

Run with sprains, fractures, breaks
With throbbing pains or subtle aches
With tears and sweat,
To do things we cannot do.

Run without the garments of false gods
Weighing us down. Innovations, Traditions,
The January resolution we label true and right
Family, work, Luddite or trends of tech.

Run to magicians, sellers of silk,
Persecutors, governors, families and foes
Farmers, bakers, artists, neighbors, kings
Wealthiest and poorest, beggers all.

Run to another year, another time,
To rescue the miners lost underground,
Listening for the tapping cry for help,
Pipes pumping down the oxygen of grace.

Run on the Spirit wings
Scattering love like seed on all grounds
Abiding in the greatest of these
Whispering love like bridegroom and bride.

Run to tell of the living life alive
Of the unforgiveable forgiven
Of the forgotten fathers scrolls found
Of the parabolic pathway golden paved.

Run to the shoulders of the shepherd,
The thick mane of the lion,
The wooly warm slaughtered lamb,
The race finisher, scars and all,
The Man who makes the outdoor stove
Then catches and cooks and bids us eat
The shimmering breakfast He’s cooked for us all
Under the TREE beside the RIVER of LIFE.

A Christmas Prayer

From A Pastor Prays for His People by Wendell C. Hawley

Jesus, God of all our hopes,
We thank you for being
our Wonderful Counselor—
we need you to show us the way;
our Mighty God—
we need you to protect us from all evil;
our Everlasting Father—
we need the comfort of being in your family;
our Prince of Peace—
we need your peace in a troubled world.
Give us grace that we may seek the way, the truth, and the life.
Without you, we would wander off course—broad is the way that leads to destruction.
Without you, we would embrace error and walk in darkness.
Without you, we would remain in our sins and never know eternal life.
We praise you, that you have come so that we might have life and have it abundantly.
Just as you sent your messengers, the prophets, to prepare the way of salvation,
may we prepare traditions that nurture our spiritual lives
and celebrate the dawning of your everlasting Kingdom.
Heaven and earth await that great event.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus.
Amen.

All I Want for Christmas Is a Color Wheel by Lorraine Triggs

Helen was a bit of an anomaly on the street where I grew up. For starters, Helen went to work every day at a real job in the city. She and her husband, Stan, didn’t have children. In fact, theirs was an unconventional marriage. Whatever that meant. Details remained hazy on why Stan didn’t always live at the house, but it might have explained why they didn’t go all out to deck the halls. Not to mention that Helen’s Christmas treats were along the lines of stale chewy coconut candy. Helen doesn’t know what children like, my parents said, as Dad unfolded his handkerchief for us to spit the candy in.

Helen took a no-nonsense approach to her Christmas decorating, but decorate she did in her own unconventional way. Stan would arrive in his Cadillac, but without a Christmas tree tied to its roof or sticking out of its trunk. In just a few minutes, Stan would put up the tree in the front window, and Helen would finish the decorating, then hang a white wreath with blue ornaments on the front door. Stan, chomping on his ever-present cigar, would give a nod of approval and take off to wherever.

It was that tree in the front window that fascinated me. It wasn't just artificial. Helen's tree was silver and lit by an on-the-floor color wheel. At night from my bedroom window at the front of the house, I would watch Helen’s Christmas tree magically change colors glowing from yellow to blue to red to green—without synchronized music. I. never tired of watching it.

Long after we unplugged the lights on our Christmas tree and the other houses on the block had gone dark, Helen’s tree remained lit through the cold December nights, the color wheel turning and shining light into the darkness through the night—and more like Christmas than the now dark, heavily decorated tree that sat in our living room like odd shadows in the sleepy nighttime.

Christmas is a color wheel of light in the hands of people who were anomalies.

There's Mary, the possibly tween girl who submits herself to the Lord and the angel spoke to her. What color light was that? Golden yellow.

There’s advanced-in-years Zechariah, when after months of silence, turns the color wheel, and a sunrise is visiting us from on high, and with another spin of the wheel, this sunrise will give light to those who sit in darkness.

What about Bethlehem, the hometown with no room for the God who made it to be born, save that one innkeeper who could make room among the lambs and kids and cubs and calves for one more newborn. The wheel spins with just barely color at all when the sun went down.

Then shepherds in the field shepherding when the color wheel spun out of control—glory, light, angel of the Lord, multitude of the heavenly host, and singing of good news of great joy. When the angels went back to heaven, I wonder if a few of the shepherds lingered for a moment as the light dissipated in the darkness that didn’t appear as dark as it once did. What color was that glory?

With one final turn, the color wheel lights the greatest anomaly of all—a baby who is the Word become flesh, God with us, welcoming us to receive and believe in him, which on second thought might be the greatest anomaly of all—sinners now children of God.

The Hope of the Promise by Virginia Hughes

The stage was set for a time of great worry when Ruthie turned ten years old. Nothing fit together as it once had. Too many things had changed. There were many moving parts and the family felt unstable. Doubt had crept into her young heart.

Money for basic needs was scant. “There is no money for extras,” was a message that rang loud and clear. And to top it off, they had moved to this cramped one-story parsonage with no chimney. It was not a Christmas house at all. No place to hang stockings and where would the tree sit? She doubted Santa Claus more each day but did not dare take too firm a stand lest she be wrong and land deeper on the naughty list missing out on the scraps of Christmas that fell on the just and the unjust. Ruthie was convinced. Christmas would come and it would miss her.

She read far too long into that night with the flashlight under the covers. Come morning, she did not easily awaken. “You better get with it, or you are going to sleep right through school and even Christmas, Lazybones!” Older sister Kathryn warned while tugging Ruthie’s leg off the top bunk. “I am so fed up with you.” Ruthie knew the twins, Jojo and James, needed help getting ready for school. “Get up now. You know better.”

Why had she read that crazy story about Rip van Winkle sleeping for twenty years? Surely twenty years of sleeping was only a grown-up curse. But Christmas came very early in the morning and what if she remained as tired as she was now? She just might sleep through Christmas morning.

A more immediate problem remained: a present for her mother. She had made coupons for Mom’s birthday and drawn a picture of a tulip for Mother’s Day. The grey kitty who liked to visit by the back steps would not work as a gift. Mom had grown suspicious of its presence and let it be known, no more strays allowed to be gifted by any family member. Frustrations piled up like the dirty laundry Mom stacked in the wagon to take to the laundry mat with their youngest sister, Sue sitting beside it.

Caught snooping through closets and dresser drawers just this past week, Ruthie would not admit she was looking for proof there was no Santa Claus. She had never doubted before. Why did she doubt now? With doubts like hers, she was not good enough to deserve gifts.

Still, she couldn't help herself as she collected evidence against Santa Claus’s existence. Having listened well to bits of stray conversation here and there and having saved the gift tags from last Christmas, she compared the writing, “from Santa” to Mother’s handwriting all year long.

She showed proof to her older sisters. They were ready for her. If she was so smart, how had she never heard of Santa’s helpers? Santa was not God. He could not do everything and be everywhere at once. Didn’t she know Santa had helpers everywhere and grown-ups were chief among the helpers? Ruthie persisted that she knew enough to blow the lid off the whole Santa scam, then she was told she had better keep her big trap shut and not ruin it for the three younger ones.

Mom wasn’t smiling these days. Dad’s laughter wasn’t ringing through the house because he worked out of town during the week. He came home to preach on weekends, a beleaguered pastor trying to knit together a sad little church torn apart by the infidelity of the prior pastor.

Ruthie did not know what happened to make the church so empty, but she did know the verse about where two or three gather in my name, there I am with them. There was her family, Mr. Thom the deacon, and a handful of regular attenders. They would keep praying and fill these sturdy pews.

Ruthie heard her mother crying in the night and racked her brain with how to comfort Mom. Maybe a glass of milk and a graham cracker which brought herself such comfort and joy after school. But the milk jug was too heavy and bounced right out of her hands. The disastrous milk spill leaked into the box of graham crackers, which soaked up the milk like eager sponges. Then Ruthie was the one crying when her clatter awoke the house. Her big sisters grabbed dish towels and accused, “What have you done?” along with, “Now there’s no milk!” and “No more snacks left for the whole rest of the week!” Ruthie had only added to Mom’s misery. Ruthie determined to “be less of a burden,” which older sister Jean was always suggesting.

At church, Dad’s earnest sermons echoed in the rafters. Ruthie’s ear caught a musical phrase, “The Hope of the Promise made by God to our fathers. For this promise we serve God night and day hoping to attain this promise. My dear brothers and sisters, I want you to know any of us thinking we serve God fervently night and day may completely miss the Hope of the Promise. The Bible is filled with stories of souls who did.”

Ruthie would need to look up these new words, “fervently,” “attain,” and that phrase, “Hope of the Promise,” which flew on such powerful wings, but what did it mean? It was the kind of phrase her mind grabbed onto. She did not want to miss something so grand sounding as that. She asked at dinner, “Dad, who missed it?” He pushed up his glasses and looked at her, “Eh, what’s that?” Ruthie repeated, “Who missed the hope of the promise?”

“Ah, someone was listening!” He smiled at her and then grew solemn, “Many souls have missed the hope of the promise. Jesus is the hope promised by God through Abraham and the prophets, but when Jesus was born here on earth many who heard and even saw him did not believe he was God’s Son. So, anyone who does not believe that Jesus is the promised one, the Savior of the world, the Messiah . . .”

Ruthie interrupted, “But why did you sayyoucould serve God and miss it? Aren’t you the pastor? And all of us; we are in church all the time.”

Dad cleared his throat, “I do believe in Jesus and do not plan to miss the Hope of the Promise, and I pray you children choose Jesus as your Savior, but it is possible to be in church and not believe in Jesus. I’m sorry to say, many leaders of the temple during the time of Christ’s ministry on earth, did not believe in Jesus. In his death and resurrection. Even the ones who fervently studied the law.” Ruthie asked, “Fervently?” hoping to get a definition out of Dad and not have to open the heavy, red dictionary on the shelf. “Yes, ummmm, earnestly, like when you really want to know about something, and you search, seek to know it, to get it.” Ruthie was following, “When you say get it, do you mean attain it?” Dad nodded.

“But how could someone not believe Jesus was God’s Son, in person?” Her dad explained how hearts can be against Jesus and not accept the gift of faith. It’s a long, long list of those who will not confess their sins and be saved by his blood and resurrection power, who will not have fellowship here and throughout eternity.

Ruthie asked, “Is that long list of unbelievers like the other naughty list?”

Dad nodded. “Yes, but it’s even more serious. Because being saved from your sins and enjoying fellowship with Christ begins on earth and lasts into eternity.” “Forever,” Ruthie added. Dad said, “Remember, Jesus said to Thomas, “Be believing not unbelieving.” Ruthie repeated the phrase to herself, “Be believing not unbelieving,” as she walked with her family over to practice for the Christmas program.

Practice was underway, and Ruthie read her part about Jesus’ birth and his name Emmanuel, meaning God with us. She wondered who would watch the Christmas program if the whole church wasinthe program? Another problem to add to the pile.

Her hand shot up when Mom, the play’s director, asked if anyone had an idea for a good name for the Christmas program. The title would be printed on flyers to pass out to the neighbors. “The Hope of the Promise!” Ruthie exclaimed quoting the phrase from the morning sermon that lingered in her mind. She was elated to have her title chosen. Things were looking up.

One afternoon after school, Ruthie noticed that the supply closet in the bus garage attached to their home was unlocked. She took the rare opportunity to search it thoroughly. She found treasure in shopping bags full of unopened packages of the prettiest paper table napkins she had ever seen. The napkins represented each season of the year--autumn leaves, acorns, Christmas poinsettias, holly, spring tulips, cherry blossoms, summer sunflowers and sailboats. Ruthie was thrilled. This could be the perfect gift for Mom this Christmas. She would need to ask Mr. Thom, the Deacon, who helped in the church office while Dad was gone during the week. She hoped to have one package of each of the seasons to give to Mom. Ruthie swung the bag back and forth as she walked to the church office feeling joy over the pretty gift she had found.

Mr. Thom sat in the church office across the driveway. She showed him the shopping bag full of beautiful table napkins and he said she could have them all. They were leftovers from an old fund raiser.

Finally, Ruthie had a gift for Mom and one problem solved. She then noticed the Christmas program flyers sitting on the desk by Mr Thom. “The Hope of the Promise Christmas Program,” was coming up soon and Mr. Thom was delighted to give her a stack of flyers to hand out to the neighborhood.

Ruthie suddenly had an idea so big she could hardly contain it within herself. She would do two things at once. First, hand out the flyers inviting neighbors to the Christmas program. Second, sell the pretty napkins to anyone wanting to buy them. She would not tell Mom or anyone in the family about the selling part. That would be a surprise. Ruthie was going to earn money and actually buy Christmas gifts.

Mom immediately said no to Ruthie going out by herself handing out Christmas program flyers. But when Ruthie offered to take the twins with her, Mom readily agreed. “Don’t go too far and don’t be out too long!” Mom called as Ruthie helped the twins into their coats, hats and mittens.

They went door to door selling packages of napkins and handing out invitations to the church Christmas program. She let people pay what they wanted, and many gave whole dollars and said, “Keep the change.” Along the way Ruthie had another idea she had yet to clear with Mother. She also invited the neighbors to come to the church at 5:30 p.m. and bring food for a carry-in dinner before the Christmas program.

Carry-in dinners were just about her most favorite thing at church, but with so few attendees, their church dinners were bleak. When a concerned neighbor asked why the flyer failed to mention the carry-in dinner on the flyer, Ruthie assured her the carry-in idea had come about after the flyers were printed.

It quickly became apparent that only the Christmas napkins were selling. Ruthie and the twins ran home and pulled out the other seasons and replaced them with the Christmas napkins. Ruthie begged the twins to not tell Jean and Kathryn or Mom or anyone else about their grand plan. The older ones would take over and this was her idea.

But on the very first night, the prayers of the twins at bedtime turned into, “Go Tell it on the Mountain - over the hills and everywhere.” The twins finally had real fuel for their prayers, and they went all in, “Help us sell all the napkins. Help us make lots of money. Help neighbors bring good food to the carry-in. Help us not be like ‘The Little Match Girl,’ and get too cold out there.”

Mother, Kathryn and Jean interrupted the twins’ prayers. “What did you say, James?” Ruthie urgently spoke up, “Shhh, James please don’t say it! Mom don’t make them tell. Jojo, shhhh! It’s a surprise!” But Mother was alarmed at what she had heard and demanded to know what was going on. “Jojo, did you say carry-in?” “And what’s this about making lots of money?” James stated they were getting rich.
And e v e r y t h i n g was confessed.

Ruthie got a stern talking to about taking grown up kinds of matters into her own hands such as church potluck dinners and fund raisers. She learned their church does not invite neighbors to a free church Christmas program for the first time and expect people to buy something. And then there was the matter of the carry-in dinner. No permission had been given her to plan such a thing.

However, on second thought, it was decided that the carry-in wasn’t a terrible idea. The remaining flyers would now include a handwritten note with information about the carry-in. And while they would all help Ruthie write the note on the flyer, she would have to write the most.

Ruthie asked the twins why they had told everything after she begged them not to. Jojo said, “You said don’t tell Jean and Kathryn and Mom.” James piped up, “You did not say, don’t tell Jesus.”

Ruthie had to cough up all the money they stashed in the old metal lunch box under her bed. Mom and Dad allowed her to pay tithe and offering, pay her partners in crime, the twins; and keep what was left, a whopping thirty-two dollars. The remaining paper napkins would be moved to the fellowship hall cabinet and be used for upcoming church events.

When Ruthie heard talk of missing Christmas program flyers from Mr. Thom’s desk, she insisted they were “Not missing, but delivered!” The grown-ups were surprised when Ruthie showed them on the neighborhood map where she and the twins had already been. Yes, this street, this one, yes, yes. And yes, people said they would be happy to attend. These were the same neighbors who had said no to previous church invitations over the past year. More flyers were cheerfully distributed. Their prayers to grow the church were being answered.

The excitement began to build in the family and among the regular attendees as they practiced for the Christmas program. Ruthie heard hesitation in the grown-ups’ voices when they wondered aloud if the neighbors would really come to enjoy a special evening at church. Mr. Thom had caught some of Ruthie’s enthusiasm and said, “I think we better start setting up tables and chairs.”

And when the time came, at least fifty neighbors showed up for the carry-in dinner and Christmas program. The church was full of good food, warmth, music and worship. It was a turnaround point for the little church.

Ruthie who had been practicing her faith in the “Hope of the Promise,” had begun to experience joy in her young life. And when doubt crept in, she remembered the words of Jesus, “Do not be unbelieving, but believing!”

Looking Forward to Advent by Wil Triggs

When Lorraine was a girl, once upon a time not so very many years ago, when she was in church and the congregation sang “Visions of rapture now burst on my sight,” (from the hymn “Blessed Assurance”) she would sing instead, “Visions of sugar plums dance in my head.” 

I think of this, probably because of the sugar plum tie to the holidays, especially during Advent. Kind of a strange connection, I know, but when it came to mind this year, I asked a few other people if they recall other such modifications of original texts of the Bible or hymns.

Here are a few that people shared with me. 

One family calls the angel who announced Jesus' birth  to the shepherds “Mark” because their four-year-old insists everyone sings. “Mark the herald angel sings.”

“We bring you gifts of gold, Frankenstein and myrrh.”

“Let the God of salivation be salted!”

“For Paul has sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”

“Let the little children come to me, and forgive them not.”

“Him exalting, self a-basting...” (kind of a Thanksgiving turkey take on things!)

“Great is my faithfulness.”

We laugh at these because they’re funny. We know what children mean when they get it wrong. Children don’t know that what they’re saying isn’t right. They’re saying what they think everyone else is saying. (Well, I have a feeling Lorraine realized somewhere along the way that the sugar plum dance was just more fun to sing than whatever a rapture vision meant.) But for the most part, kids are saying what they think is right.

They’re not the only ones.

Even we adults don’t always get it right.

But do we realize it or do we, like children, believe that what we’re saying or thinking in every way is exactly just so, so right.

I’ll bet everyone loves love. Pastor Moody just preached about it in Hebrews. Philadelphia—love for the family. Philioxenia—love for the stranger. Standing with the persecuted. How we talk about marriage and how we should honor and elevate it.

Love may be the thing all of humanity, angry as we all seem these days, chases. Maybe we call it community or relationship or truth or peace; it is the thing we humans search for with relentless longing. In our searching, though, we may find that we stray from love itself. If not the word, well, the reality behind the word.  We say the word, but sometimes it comes out wrong: leave instead of love or laugh instead of love or loathe instead of love. But we think we’re saying love.

We so easily wander, like a lamb, head down, sniffing something it smells and following that away from the flock, unaware that it is moving itself away from the rest of the sheep and the shepherd.

We can become so committed to the part we get wrong and wander unaware and drift away from the flock and the shepherd, self-a-basting ourselves in commitment to forgive them not and give the gift of Frankenstein as we sing “great is my faithfulness.” We say or think or do the wrong thing like children confusing salivation with salvation.

We don’t always put away childish ways even when we think we have.

Yet Jesus is always ready to leave the flock to rescue the lamb who has gone astray. He bears us on his shoulders and carries us back. He believes not in us, but in God, where the source of true hope and endurance comes, the One who helps us know the real love that is so opposite from what we humanly say or do when we wander off on our own.

This week we light the messenger candle. The message that a child had been born was broadcast in full angelic splendor to outcast shepherds watching their flocks. One of them might be named Mark, but probably not. Nevertheless, the message was not to fear, but instead, go. Go and see the baby sleeping where the animals eat, go and see the shepherd of love. Just go.

Bearing, believing, hoping, enduring. Jesus our rescuing good shepherd lives them out.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

This description Paul wrote to the Corinthians . . .  what had he heard about the church in Corinth to prompt this? Which number was higher:  the number of temples to idols like Aphrodite or the number of factious divisions in the church of Corinth? Maybe these believers were too much like us.

Love, like its king, never ends. It doesn’t give up. Maybe when we speak with one another and with those outside the faith we need to take a dose of humility to recognize that we will be surprised someday when we see more clearly all that we got wrong along the way.  There have been times that I have backed away from talking about Jesus with someone out of fear of doing it wrong. But I’ve decided to just go for it. Somehow God has decided to use people like us instead of angels to be the messengers to the people around us.

We don’t know like God knows, but we do know the God who knows all things. And somehow Jesus uses us to offer his love.

Advent isn’t just looking back. It’s also looking forward to when all things become clear. And living and walking in love until that day. By the Spirit and the Word and with each other, we don’t have to wait even as we wait.

When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.