Dots, Lines, Circles . . . Eternal Life By Wil Triggs

I like to read book reviews. Sometimes these reviews are more about the writer of the review than they are about the writer of the book being reviewed. Still, if it’s a well-written review, for me at least, it’s worth reading. But most reviews, like most books, don’t stand the test of time.
 
But William Tyndale and Thomas More, back in the 1500s—their words survive.
 
When William Tyndale translated the New Testament into English, it was a struggle. He had to invent new words to express truths for which English, at the time, did not have just the right word he was looking for. So, the translation itself was a challenge. Then, he had to figure out how to get it printed.
 
He journeyed around Germany--Hamburg, Wittenberg, Cologne, Worms. His goal was the whole Bible in English. But the New Testament was his first step. At last, his translation of the New Testament was completed in 1525. Sir Thomas More wrote this in his review: "not worthy to be called Christ's testament, but either Tyndale's own testament or the testament of his master Antichrist."
 
Eleven years later, Tyndale was condemned as a heretic, strangled and burned at the stake.
 
Something or someone got ahold of William Tyndale, and he determined to get the Bible into English and into the hands of English-speaking people. He persevered in his translation and publishing efforts and years after his death, his work became the basis for future English-language Bibles.
 
We may think of England today as a Christian or post-Christian nation, but in Tyndale’s time, it was not a welcome place for the English Bible. Though not a life-threatening project exactly, a man in College Church is persevering in his own way for his own people in a land that is less-than-welcoming to his Christian work.
 
Imagine a boy in a Muslim-majority country waking each morning to the Muslim call to prayer. He sits up and at the same time, hears his father singing Christian psalms in their native tongue. The boy wonders how his father learned such songs, where did they come from?
 
The man is not William Tyndale, but Yousaf Sadiq and the country is not England, but Pakistan. The book is not the Bible, but The Contextualized Psalms: A precious heritage of the global Punjabi Christian community.
 
Over time, Yousaf discovered the prayer songs his father sang were Punjabi-language psalms native to this land and passed down orally from generation to generation. He began to write them down, along with a history of how they came to be. They are a core part of every branch of Christian churches in Pujabi-language worship. Yet cultural shifts mean the preferred language for many is Urdu or English. “Punjabi is my mother-tongue,” Yousaf told me. “As I studied how these psalms came to be, I began to see who I was as both a Christian and a person.”
 
Now, a citizen of the U.S., Yousaf is a member of College Church and on the Board of Missions. And Yousaf’s updated history of the Punjabi psalms and his translation of these psalms are being published in Punjabi this summer. He and his wife, Ruth, are actually traveling to South Asia to meet with the publisher and make different churches and ministries aware of this new book.
 
Both Tyndale and Sadiq worked in the context of persecution to bring word truths to their people. Language mattered to both.
 
Have you ever considered the miracle of written language, what a gift from God is language. How we moved from people without language to where we are today.
 
Think of how little dots and lines and circles arranged in a certain way make up letters and then how those letters arranged in particular orders become words that represent both things and thoughts. We become so accustomed to language that we forget how amazing it is that we can communicate with one another using letters, words, sentences, paragraphs. Words matter more than we realize…Tyndale created new words in his work to bring to life the Bible and the psalms; Yousaf's work can bring a persecuted people together in worship like no other words or writing in his homeland.

Whether it’s Greek, Hebrew, Punjabi, English or another language, words point us toward God or away from him. We have the privilege and ability to use words this day in ways that could cause harm or in ways that God might use to bring people to Christ.
 
We all have words, spoken or written, that we can use to express truth and love. We are all messengers of eternal life. Let's choose our words with great care. Let's not keep the words of life to ourselves but speak them and write them as we can to those around us.

“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.” (John 6:68b-69)

Voice Recognition by Lorraine Triggs

Had my father lived to see this digital age of ours, he would have been hooked just as his daughter is. Now, my mother? Not so much. She relied more on face-to-face than FaceTime for her communication. As a college student, I came to value her reliance on the face-to-face.

We were a one-car family that operated on the principle that if you wanted the car for fun and someone else needed to be somewhere else, then you had to take the other person to wherever and pick her up from the same said place on time and without complaint. That principle explained why, one summer, I woke up every morning at 5:20 to take my mom to work. As part of the facilities crew at our church, her shift started at 5:30 and I was forever thankful for our very local church.

Our routine was simple: pull up in front of the main glass doors of church, a quick I-love-you-have-a-good-day-be-careful goodbye, wait until my mom clocked in and returned to the doors to wave me on my way, leave. I was usually home by 5:40 a.m.

Except for the day my mom was taking longer than usual to come to the doors. I turned the car off and closed my eyes until a bright light shined into the car. It was one of the city’s finest shining his flashlight into the car.

License, please?

Uh. My license? I just rolled out of bed to take my mom to work.

No license? Why are you here?

The conversation went back and forth. I kept glancing at the door, hoping to see my mother waving me on my way. No such luck. Then just as I envisioned my college career coming to a screeching halt, my mom was there at the doors, waving to me.

“Mom,” I shouted. “Tell the policeman who I am.”

Mom opened the door and called out, “What did you say, honey?”

Instantly, both the officer and I relaxed.

Now that my identity had been established, I learned that an alarm had been tripped in the church that sent the police to the scene, at the same time that my mother was calling her supervisor. Think how quickly all this could have been resolved with a simple text to two, but all it took for the police was my mother’s voice responding to my voice.

The gospel writers show us wind and raging waves responding to Jesus’ voice in Luke 8:23-25. They show an unclean spirit, who said his name was Legion, for he was many in Mark 5:1-13. Then there’s Lazarus who responded to Jesus’ loud voice, “Come out” in John 11. So, wind and waves, an unclean spirit, a dead man—all obeyed his voice.

And then there’s Jesus’ followers who question that voice. The disciples who sat in the boat in a calm sea, asked who this Jesus was that “he commands even winds and water and they obey him.” (v. 25). In Mark 5, the people in the region who saw the formerly demon-possessed man in his right mind, begged Jesus to leave the area. And Martha warned Jesus about the odor because her brother had been dead four days. They questioned the voice that wind, waves, demons and death obeyed.

I’m not sure that I  question Jesus’ voice as much as I like to drown it out with competing voices that promise something that poses as abundant life here and now, especially when the here and now is weighted with burdens and cares. When that happens, I need to hear Jesus' voice again, calling me by name, reassuring me that I am a sheep of his pasture. 

In Luke 23:46, Jesus calls out in a loud voice, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!"

There is no other voice. Jesus goes before me. He lays down his life. He promises me abundant life in him alone. His voice brings grace and truth and mercy, finishing the work only he could do. So I join the storm, the spirits and the dead man in hearing and knowing and obeying his voice that gives me strength and courage and grace to face this and every other day he gives.

Real Life Parable of the Sower by Wil Triggs

Thanks to everyone who served at our Cream of Wheaton display last weekend. Thanks, too, to 10ofthose, Crossway and Tyndale for keeping us supplied with Bibles and Bible story books that we gave away.
 
There is an image that stays with me from this last weekend—it’s of carefree kids spotting our display and running/skipping over to the games. Let’s play. Let’s have fun. It happened over and over.
 
Cream of Wheaton is a city-wide party that runs for four days in and around Memorial Park. Companies have displays at the park, most of them about some kind of life improvement—places like fitness clubs, remodeling contractors, home improvement companies like window/doors/bath specialists and a cancer care group, Peoples Resource Center (our neighbor for the weekend) and College Church.
 
And there’s John Garvin, a College Church member who has been looking forward to giving away oversized balloons by our display. His balloons draw kids especially over to our area, sometimes with parents and sometimes just on their own.
 
While the kids wait for their balloons, they play the games Kids' Harbor sent over with us—a giant Connect Four, a Ring Toss, Bozo Bucket style Beanbag Toss. Sometimes kids make multiple visits.
 
One girl came by. I’m guessing she was in third grade. She was happy with her balloon and then looked at our table. More than candy, she wanted the Ken Taylor Bible stories book. Her eyes lit up. A few minutes later, she came back, this time with her brother. He looked a little older, maybe fifth grade.
 
“Can I have a Bible, too?” he asked me. We offered him the same book as his sister. He looked at the other ones on our table. “Can I have a whole adult Bible, with the whole thing?”

"Of course," I said. He looked at a few different ones and chose a basic hardback Bible, kind of like our pew Bibles. “I want to read it to my dad every night.”
 
There was something in the way he said this that broke a little bit of my heart. He wanted to help his dad, so he wanted to read the Bible with him. Every night. I’m praying for this boy and his dad.
 
But this image took me back many years, not to a son, but to a dad. Not to America, but to Russia. Not to Memorial Park, but to a slightly ramshackle Soviet-built school turned into a makeshift summer camp. Classrooms were turned into sleeping quarters. The small gym was our meeting room and craft room. The kids were starting to arrive.
 
Vans from different churches were bringing their kids. A man drove up in a small car with his son. Everyone was talking about this first-ever camp. A church camp, unthinkable just a few years before. Growing up Soviet meant that he didn’t think he could believe in God, but he brought his son, maybe he could believe. So, he just drove to us with his son and a friend. “Can you take them for the week?” he pleaded. No one among the camp workers had every met him before. "Of course," our Russian camp believers replied. Cars continued to show up, one by one, “Can you let our boy or girl into your camp?”
 
The Russian camp staff vacated their classrooms and pitched tents outside to make room for the extra kids, doing everything to make room for as many children as possible.
 
Decades later, Lorraine in the Wheaton park says, “Everything on our table is free because the best gift ever—the gift of Jesus—is free.”
 
I think about these seeds in different soils around the world. One dad wants to help his son believe in God. One son wants to read the Bible with his dad every night. I know I’ll probably never know until heaven what happened to these fathers and children, 
 
God’s rich love reaches out in every direction, in ways we might not choose, to people we don’t know—unqualified, undeserving, like us. Times of joy, love, peace, war, richness, poverty—the Word flies through the air from the loving hand of the Sower, landing on soil, settling into hearts, taking root, and even though we may not know how soft the heart or fertile the soil, the Sower knows, cares and loves.
 
The Father gives us his Son so we can sow the good news in unexpected soils that grow a harvest of righteousness.

Oh, Scarred Heart Now Wounded by Lorraine Triggs

Any self-respecting resident of South Kenwood Avenue under the age of 12 wore his or her playground scars with pride. If you had scars from stitches, all the better, but if you had neither stitches nor scars, you could always painstakingly paint them on a knee or shin with the popular antiseptic Mercurochrome, its dark red ointment staining the skin.

I thought of this one Sunday when five-year-old Grace and I bonded over Band-Aids. She held up her right hand with a Band-Aid on her pointer finger, and I held up my left hand with a Band-Aid on my pointer finger. I don’t know how Grace hurt her finger. I added another scar to my hands when I was pruning lavender. I was being so careful not to cut into the woody stems that I chose to cut my finger instead. It’s a so-so South Kenwood-worthy scar since it didn't require stitches.

On that Monday, my oldest sister—whose age will remain undisclosed—and I bonded over deeper wounds than childhood scars. Soon this latest wound of hers will take a physical toll on her body, but not her heart. That remains steadfast, even though her and her husband’s hearts carry scars from adult children publicly disavowing Christianity, from disappointment of an abrupt end to a missionary career, and from family members who receive but never give.

The next day, Susan and I bonded over wounds that don’t ever seem to heal as year after year their pain is etched into our hearts and souls. And mine would threaten to bleed over save for Susan’s gentle words of grace and calm.

There is a temptation to dress our wounds so well that no one would ever know they were there. To be sure, some heart wounds can carry lessons in discernment and over-talking, but perhaps we need to unlearn lessons of self-reliance or misplaced confidence in position and power that give the illusion we are immune to heart wounds, that pain never infringes on our well-ordered lives.

In high school, my friends and I would sing “I Am a Rock” by Paul Simon with all the pathos and drama that only teenage girls could muster.

The closing lyrics of the song are:
I am a rock
I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries.
 
There are days we resemble Paul Simon’s rock, and when we do, we need to recall the rock David describes in Psalm 18:2 who is our fortress, deliverer, refuge, salvation and stronghold. 

We also need to see Jesus, a magnet for the wounded. Matthew describes great crowds coming to Jesus, “bringing with them the lame, the blind, the crippled, the mute, and many others, and they put them at his feet, and he healed them, so that the crowd wondered, when they saw the mute speaking, the crippled healthy, the lame walking, and the blind seeing. And they glorified the God of Israel.” (Matthew 15:30, 31)

We come to Jesus with our wounded and scarred hearts because he came for the sick and lost, not the healthy and those who have arrived. We come because his grace and lovingkindness keep us safe. We come singing the lyrics of another song, written long ago:

O sacred head now wounded
With grief and shame weighed down
Now scornfully surrounded
With thorns thine only crown
How pale Thou art with anguish
With sore abuse and scorn
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn

What thou, my Lord, hast suffered
Was all for sinners' gain
Oh mine was the transgression
But thine the deadly pain
Lo, here I fall, my Savior
'Tis I deserve thy place
Look on me with thy favor
Vouchsafe to me thy grace

What language shall I borrow
To thank thee, dearest Friend
For this, thy dying sorrow
Thy pity without end?
Oh, make me thine forever
And should I fainting be
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love to thee.

We come because by his wounds we are healed.

A Morning Prayer

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

Majestic God, who extends mercy,
We acknowledge your Son, the Lord Jesus Christ,
as our only Savior, the Preeminent One.
He is the Creator of the earth
and all that lies therein.
He is the governor of the universe,
Judge of the living and the dead,
Head of the church,
Savior of sinners.

Sovereign Lord, your greatness is unsearchable.
Your goodness is infinite.
Your compassion unfailing.
Your mercies, ever new.
You are altogether lovely—superior in all things.
You are our only refuge,
our only foundation,
our only hope,
our only confidence.

Grant us, in our brokenness and fear,
to gather courage from the fact that you hold all things together.
Open our eyes to see the fullness of your excellence.
Remove the lopsided and distorted images of Jesus
that weaken our worship
and hinder our obedience
and prevent our growth.
We try to shoehorn our desires and wishes into circumstances and attitudes
that are ill-fitting to those who claim your sovereignty.
We are afraid to let go of that which we mistakenly think we control for fear
everything will fall apart—
when in reality, you, the supreme One, hold all things together.

Help us to grow in the knowledge and conviction of your preeminence,
letting you take reign—
in our home,
in our business,
in our plans,
in all our relationships.

We pray, O Lord, that as we confess our sins,
your wonderful forgiveness will wash over us,
cleansing from all righteousness.

Thank you, Lord Jesus.
Amen.

Rhoda at the Door By Wil Triggs

Prayer takes a long time. We pray for some things for many years—I think of prayers for family members who fight a debilitating disease or prayers for a person we love who has something for which there is no cure or effective treatment. Even when medical science cannot cure a loved one, the Good Shepherd walks with every one of his sheep no matter the path, and for this we pray, faithfully, regularly, sometimes faint-heartedly. We pray and it takes a long time.

In the prayer for the persecuted church group, we pray for the names of people so long that they become familiar to us even though we have never met. Leah Sharibu. Ken Elliot. Sara Atif. Zafar Bhatti. Yan Hwa. Imprisoned or kidnapped. We have a long list.
 
Prayer takes a short time. Just a few seconds while stopping at the traffic light. Maybe as you drift off to sleep, you only get half a sentence of thought in before the sandman takes over. Or we pray about something that’s happening today, in the next hour, at this very moment. We say the prayer and then it’s done. These are the sort that come to mind when we read the imperative to “pray without ceasing.”
 
I've been thinking about the long and short nature of prayer because of  a Christian couple in Iran who had been sentenced to 11 years in prison. We have been praying for them by first name. Homayoun and Sara. They had been convicted of “founding or leading an organization that aims to disrupt national security” and “membership in organizations that aim to disrupt national security.” They were meeting with other Christians in a home, like a small group. Maybe neighbors heard them singing or praying.

About a month ago, we heard that they were going to have a retrial around Easter. So we have been praying about their retrial. And this week we heard the news that the judge had dismissed all charges.

The judge freed them, saying, “The reports by the officers of the Ministry of Intelligence about organization of home-groups to promote Christianity, membership, and participation in home-groups, are not considered as acts against the country’s security, and the law has not recognized them as criminal activity.” Gathering together with people of the same faith is not a criminal act, but a natural part of faith. This from a judge in Iran.

I confess it was difficult to believe, but the news of this release brings joy.

Imagine being imprisoned for having a small group meeting in your home, being a counselor at Dickson Valley or Honey Rock camps, hosting a Backyard Bible Club. The message of Jesus’ love molds us so even when we face grief-induced responses to children or grandchildren making choices or facing illnesses that we never thought possible, we somehow pray for the strength and wisdom to respond as Jesus would, as he would have us respond. But some families do not respond in such a way. Faced with the news of a spouse or a child or a parent coming to Christ, in some places, instead of rejoicing, there is shaming, shunning, even violence and sometimes even murder. When Jesus comes into some places, he is met with hatred and violence.
 
But nothing stops Jesus. Not police or military or secularists or even our own sin. Jesus looked into the cup. He looked at the elixir of all the sin of everyone, the folly and shame and hatred. He prayed for another way.
 
Jesus also prayed for the Father's will be done, so he drank the cup, he drank it all. I can barely stomach my own sin, though sometimes I think I manage to manage it. There are plenty of sins I don’t even realize I’m committing, until the Spirit brings them to mind. Oh brother, again? Jesus doesn’t say that. I think that, but he doesn’t. He drinks the cup. My freedom is one hundred percent on him. He did so in prayer, in the garden, while his devoted followers nodded off to sleep.
 
Laws and walls do not contain the Spirit. When people are hurt, in jail, kidnapped, confined to a body or a mind that doesn’t work the way it should, the Spirit finds them and is with them. Prayer fits in here, somehow. Jesus is with them, and through prayer, maybe we are, too. We don’t need to understand how, only that we can be a part of God’s work through prayer.
 
We pray as we love—through a darkened glass. Even our prayers need God’s help to get through. The Bible tells us of Jesus going off by himself to pray. Sometimes we pray on the fly. Driving to work, before we go into a meeting, at the beginning or end of something, before our meals, when we go to bed and when we wake. It’s okay if it’s sometimes a struggle. The Spirit helps us.
 
Prayer is the gospel in jars of clay, human flesh doing what human flesh cannot do. The surpassing knowledge goes beyond our wildest dreams. Rhoda’s cameo appearance in Acts 12 reminds us of this.
 
The chapter begins with Peter in prison, and the “earnest prayer for him was made to God by the church.” (verse 5) A knocking at the door intruded on the prayer meeting, so Rhoda did what a servant does—she went to answer the knock, but she didn’t open the door. Instead, she ran to tell the others that Peter was standing at the gate—and they thought she was nuts.

And now, as I am about to send this, news of Ken Elliot, a missionary in his seventh year of captivity, released and reunited with his family. Some of us thought he must be dead by now, but we kept on.
 
Like Rhoda, eventually, with much joy, we tell others what God has done and we open the door and let Peter in. With the news of Homayoun and Sara and Ken, I say to you, “They are free.” And like our brothers and sisters at that prayer meeting, we are amazed.

Amazed at a God who hears and answers our prayers, a God who fills those jars of clay with the fragrant offering of his Son, that spills out in love and kindness and generosity to a hurting world that longs for the sweet sound of amazing grace.
 
When he realized this, he went to the house of Mary, the mother of John whose other name was Mark, where many were gathered together and were praying. And when he knocked at the door of the gateway, a servant girl named Rhoda came to answer. Recognizing Peter's voice, in her joy she did not open the gate but ran in and reported that Peter was standing at the gate. They said to her, ‘You are out of your mind.’ But she kept insisting that it was so, and they kept saying, ‘It is his angel!’ But Peter continued knocking, and when they opened, they saw him and were amazed. Acts 12:12-16

Sailing and Not Singing With Jonah By Wil Triggs

With the spring children’s choir concert happening this Sunday night, now might be a good time to share a memory of my brush with children’s church choirs as a child.

I was raised in a home that was more or less “Chreaster.” That is to say that we went to church on Christmas and Easter and considered ourselves to be Christians. We did not think of ourselves a Chreasters. We were Christians. Things had happened that drew my parents away from regular church-going. I’ve never learned what happened. All I knew for sure was that we were both Christian and Baptist, but we didn't make a habit of going to church.

There was a time when, it had to be Kindergarten or younger, that my mom or one of my adult siblings tried to help me get to church more often than the two biggest holidays of the year. The children’s choirs at College Church call for a school-year-long commitment. Kids memorize hymns and practice weekly. When we have musicals, children audition. It’s a big deal. Nothing could be more different from the College Church children’s program than the one I was part of as a child. To even say that I was part of it seems a stretch.

For a short time, I went to church, junior church and Sunday school. The memories are vague, but I did find myself suddenly cast at the last minute in their children’s musical. I was one of the men in the boat in the story of Jonah. I think they had practice on Wednesday or Thursday, but I was doing good just to get to the church on Sunday. Looking back, I wonder, had some other boy gotten sick at the last minute and they needed someone—anyone—to fill his spot? Or did they feel sorry for me because of the economic level of my family? I mean, how did I get on the stage in front of the church with no preparation or training. I have no recollection of singing at all. 

The only thing I remember is that I was the last kid on the boat. It was a badly constructed cardboard boat, and the stern where I stood kept coming detached from the rest of the vessel. I think the duct tape failed or maybe it wasn’t duct tape because it did fail. Would they have tried Scotch tape? 

I tried to reattach it with no success. We have to maneuver the boat from one end of the platform to the other. Fortunately, we stopped in the middle. There must have been lines between Jonah and the captain. And we must have sung a song—though I can’t imagine what the unbelieving sailors on boat would be singing. But all I was trying to do was keep the stern attached to the rest of the boat, and it kept falling apart in full view of everyone. It fell off. I picked it up. It. fell off. I picked it up. It was especially tricky when we were trying to move the boat across the stage.

I need to tell you that there was laughter coming from the audience and I don’t think it was about Jonah asking us to throw him off the boat. The broken stern was an easy out to get him off the boat.

One man told me afterward that I “stole the show.” He said it like it was supposed to make me feel good. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded slightly criminal. 

I don’t think I was too damaged by this, but I didn't learn the whole story of Jonah until much later. Now as an adult interested in stagecraft, I wonder, how did they do the whale scene? I’ll bet they ended with the people repenting and skipped the whole ending with the dead plant.

Looking back at this experience makes me grateful for the care that our adult volunteers take in teaching children music and the Bible passages on which the music is based. If you go to the choir concert, know that the volunteers don’t really want to get much attention. It’s all about the kids, not them. 

And as a child who didn’t get much training from the well-meaning people who cast me as the last sailor on the boat, I’d like to thank the choir volunteers who work so hard year after year to teach the kids gospel truth through music.

Life sometimes brings us poorly constructed props that fall apart. We can make them over or get better tape. We can build our prop boat over if there's time. Sometimes we ourselves might be the poorly constructed parts. I’ve seen churches in other places of the world who have to stop their building projects because they’ve run out of money, and they’re trying to hold their ministry together like I was trying to hold the boat together with my little boy hands. Somehow God still uses broken things to bring new life to the lost, hope to the hopeless, good news to the undeserving. His work, not ours. His glory alone. That’s the stealer of the show. When we think it’s all about one thing, Jesus turns it all upside down. And here we are—forgiven Ninevities on the road to heaven. 

Enjoy the music.

Birthday Party Time By Lorraine Triggs

One of the most memorable birthday parties we threw for our son was when he turned six. It involved 10 yard waste bags and the monkey brains (aka Osage oranges) that had fallen from the Osage orange tree on the parkway. We lined up the bags and announced a contest to see who could fill up his bag with the most monkey brains. The clear winner: my husband who could now give the lawn its final mow of the season. 

Imagine my chagrin, when I read this headline of a recent New York Times story: “It’s a Toddler’s Party. How About a $75,000 Budget?” 

My chagrin increased as the article described six-year-old William’s birthday party. One hundred people (oh, just think of all those monkey brains and yard waste bags) RSVP’d for the party, which was held at a Los Angeles park on a March afternoon. By 12:30 p.m., the fire station-themed event was in full swing when the actual firetruck and firefighters arrived. Energetic attendees donned fire-hose backpacks and gleefully coasted down slides into a large custom ball pit, detailed with flames and the slogan, "Let’s Get Fired Up!”

“Preparation for the event had begun three months before when planners began working with the birthday boy’s mother and 14 vendors to hammer out details.” The article said.

The party included a 20-foot-wide wooden backdrop, more than 40 feet of balloon garlands, a food truck and canvas umbrellas shading a long wooden table. Oh, FYI, this party was scaled back from last year’s. The parties don't just celebrate a child's birthday, but they also provide fodder for parents' social media, with people trying to one-up each other on how big their child's party could get.

An LA party planner noted that kids’ parties for the “uber-wealthy” can cost as much as $75,000 but reassures that other parents who hire planners only spend between $10,000 and $40,000.  

Well, that’s a relief.

All of this sure beats a stable for a birthday venue—or does it? 

Philippians 2:6-7 describes the preparation that went into that stable birthday: “who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of servant, being born in the likeness of man.” 

What was our birthday boy thinking—not grasping what was rightfully his? People didn't even notice, only animals, shepherds and, oh yeah, a sky filled with angels.

I wonder if those LA moms would have let even one balloon slip from their grasp as they posted the birthday party of their dreams on Instagram. How they excitedly post images and videos for the praise of other wealthy people. And it’s not just moms out there in La La Land who grasp and clutch at treasures and the oohs and aahs of others admiring the lengths they'll go to throw parties for the ones they love.

We obviously aren't planning a $75,000 party anytime soon (sorry), but I can get a bit selective about my guest list. I feel hurt or slighted by an offhand remark or I'm shocked that a person would do that to me. Well, delete those names off my guest list. Some days I grasp my right for self-care. I need to do this for me so I can’t come to your party. Thanks, but no thanks. I want to be right, get in the last word, the last post, the best Instagram, the witty comment. These things are as far as they can be from our Savior or the way he has for us.

In contrast, Scriptures tell us what Jesus was thinking when he came down, down, down to earth, and “being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on the cross."

Dying to forgive is a far cry from dying for people to see the firetrucks and chefs and firehouse backpacks. And inviting the lost and misfit to the party makes it far more wonderful than any curated guest list party planners in Beverly Hills handle, or the more meager ones I clutch in my Midwest hands.