It’s my favourite carol…

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Shepherds still watch their sheep in the fields just outside of Bethlehem. The city boasts around 22,000 people today. It was far smaller and less significant centuries ago, when the Hebrew patriarch Jacob buried his beloved Rachel near there. Much later, Naomi and Ruth, two other well-known Bible women, also called the area home.

Ruth married a local crop farmer named Boaz. The couple became the great-grandparents of a bold young shepherd boy named David: harp player, giant slayer, future king of Israel, a nation long darkened by its own rebellion against God’s laws. During the mighty Davidic dynasty, tiny Bethlehem became a strategic fortified city.

But David’s line ran out. Israel’s erratic jags in and out of faith continued. The kingdom divided, and little Bethlehem faded into insignificance—except for the promises.

Early prophets had made statements about that little hiccup on the map, the town still known as the City of David. A great ruler would be born there, a member of David’s royal line. A shepherd to lead God’s people, in God’s strength, from stubborn rebellion to hope and peace.

“And the government will be on his shoulders,” the prophecy said. To a nation oppressed by its enemies, that last bit was especially welcome. (Times haven’t changed much, have they? Like Israel, humanity in general persists in believing that personal freedom, peace and happiness are bi-products of optimal circumstances. That once we placate the hunger, fix the system, replace the infrastructure, even out the inequity, haul home a bigger toy, pile the gifts higher…the world will be rosy again.)

Fast forward the centuries to the dot on the timeline where B.C. flips over to A.D. Like the rest of the nation of Israel, Bethlehem, a wisp of its former self, chafes to escape the grip of Roman authority. In obedience to a government census call, an unmarried, very pregnant teenager and her fiancé, a direct descendant of David, make their way into town. Their names? Mary and Joseph.

You know the rest of the story. Angels announced it to shepherds first: “Glad tidings! Great joy! Unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior…Christ the Lord!”

Wonderful Counselor. Mighty God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace. Prophecy fulfilled through the wails of an infant. And ever since, the Bethlehem child, the Good Shepherd, has demonstrated that God keeps his promises and that joy and peace flow not from fixed circumstances, but from fixed hearts.

Grief is an unruly visitor—and even more so, when it drops in near Christmas. Surrounded by the mirth of others, the knife of loss cuts on both sides. For a time, the death of a loved one shuts normal faculties down. Leaves only what’s necessary to survive the next moment: our own breath, though every puff feels like a new wound.

One snowy November, my oldest sister’s husband sent word to our scattered family: “If you want to see Sandra again, you should come,” he said.

From separate provinces, my sister and I, along with our elderly parents travelled to the province in the middle. Beside Sandra’s bed, holding Sandra’s hand, we said the necessary things, then we watched Sandra go home.

Our faith told us something glorious: she’d gone to live with Jesus, pain-free. Our frailty told us something shattering: she’d simply gone, and far too soon. The pain of her absence sliced us, and twinned with the complexities of regret, devastated us.  

Sorrow like that carves a gaping hollow in a body, making even simple things impossible. Picking up the phone. Driving a car. Answering easy questions. Remembering to eat and drink. Choosing what to wear. Making a choice, period.

Someone has said that God comes to us in the people who come to us. He came to our family through four earthly angels that year. Too close to Christmas, in a strange hospital far from home.

The angels, strangers all, arrived just after my sister died. They came simply to be with us. Their presence loaned us strength. They brought juice and coffee. Made necessary phone calls. Stayed with us until it didn’t hurt so much to breathe, until we could get up, limp on to do the necessary things.

In the dark hollows of your own crises, perhaps you’ve met earthly angels too. Maybe you’ve been one; a neighbour, a passer-by, a pastor, friend or family member, even a stranger. They come without beckoning, simply to be with the hurting. To do what must be done, even when what must be done is simply sitting together in one place.  

I’ve wondered, in the years since my sister’s death, if it took that for me to truly appreciate the deepest meaning of Christmas—that God is never absent in our darkest moments. That when emotional paralysis prevents a victorious grasping onto him, he has already grasped onto us.

“The virgin will be with child, and will give birth to a Son, and they will call him Immanuel, which means “God with us.” Matthew 1:23

What we celebrate at Christmas is God’s answer to the most universal prayer of humanity: “God, be with me. God, stay with me.”

Through Jesus within us, and those who come to us in his compassionate spirit, God answers, “Beloved, I’m right here.”

If sorrow haunts you at Christmas, remember. But if loss has carved a chunk from someone you know, go.

***

Got a moment? Absorb this song, sung by Mandisa and Matthew West…

One of my favourite friends grew up down South, attending a church called “The Old Regular Baptist Church.”

I don’t know if I’d fit in at that church. I’m not old—yet. And I’m not sure what they mean by regular—though I eat a healthy serving of fibre every day. I’m not even a purebred Baptist.

But I’m regularly ordinary, if that’s what it means. And I’m plain, too. People who meet me after reading my books or articles have said things like, “You’re so…(and then they stop, as though they’ve already said too much, and are afraid that if they go any further, they’ll incriminate themselves—or embarrass me.) Then they gulp and finish. “You’re so…ordinary!”

Maybe it’s because I am so ordinary that the people I’m most comfortable with are also ordinary. Folks who mispronounce words every now and then. People who don’t have perfect memories. Women who roll out of bed on a Saturday morning and clean their own houses in their pyjamas. Friends who struggle like I do with eating and praying and loving; pride and greed and selfishness. People who remember they’re human, and don’t mind letting others know. 

I have acquaintances who are renowned speakers and authors. Gifted friends whose names are known around the world. You’d know some of them, if I dropped them. (I won’t because it’s best to keep fighting that pride thing.)

Know what I’ve learned about those people? They’re ordinary too; not too different from me at all. But totally willing for God to fill them to the top, stir them to the bottom, and pour them out in dry and thirsty places. In the doing of all that, they accomplish so much good that others believe them to be extra-ordinary.

Long ago another ordinary woman did that. A very young one. Christians call her the Virgin Mary, and what God poured out of her was called Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

If you’re ordinary too, stop imagining that God can’t use you. No cup alone—no matter how fine, can satisfy thirst—only what’s inside the cup can do that. So be ordinary, be filled with God’s Holy Spirit, and be used.

 ***

Take a moment for worship…one of my favourite Christmas songs, sung here by the composer of its lyrics, Mark Lowry

Some people think Holly is a fool.

Holly is a teacher. Holly is a devout Christ-follower. And Holly, knowingly, married a murderer.

In a drug-related incident in his youth, her husband stabbed his drug dealer. The case was clear-cut, and the subsequent life sentence came as no surprise. Chances are, Holly’s husband will spend the rest of his days behind bars.

Holly goes to visit him a lot.

Here’s the kicker: Holly didn’t meet her husband until well after he’d been sentenced. She was boarding at the home of his faith-filled parents. They kept talking about their son, who they loved very much, prayed for and visited often.

The former drug-user had become an artist. He sketched people in lines so meticulous they looked almost like photographs. He taught classes for prisoners. People described him as a gentle giant; a positive influence within the prison.

Curious, Holly went with them on a visit. The two became friends and married two years later. They are devoted to one another, despite the oft-negative reactions of others. And God seems to be using their story.

I first read about Holly and her husband on a website for Christian women*. Then I read the comments submitted by readers in response to the article. “Doesn’t seem wise to me,” wrote one woman. “What if you’re wrong? What if he reverts? Then what?” asked others.

Whether Holly’s artist husband is a con artist, a temporarily restricted felon, or a genuinely Christ-transformed individual, only God knows. (I admit to the same questions.) But no matter it ends, perhaps the best part of Holly’s story lies in another direction.

The often rarely-turned pages of the Old Testament contain a curious story about a man named Hosea. Hosea was a prophet. Hosea was a devout God-follower. And Hosea did as he was told.

Following God’s direction, he married a prostitute.

The choice was foolish from every possible angle, except God’s. But God used his and Gomer’s lives to remind people of his “in spite of” kind of love. A forever faithful love, for fickle people.

Holly’s and Hosea’s lives remind me of another story. The one Christians will begin celebrating this Sunday, the first week of Advent. A story of how God made good on his long-ago promise to send a Messiah to free people from sin and darkness, and offer them light and life.

Refuse. Recant. Rebel. Reconsider. God knew about all those responses ahead of time. Nevertheless, through his beloved Son, the message of Christmas that began in a cattle stall is an ongoing proposal: “I love you. Believe in me. Don’t perish. Have everlasting life.” Foolish? Perhaps.

But that’s what love does, sometimes.

***

*Read Holly’s moving story for yourself at http://www.kyria.com/topics/marriagefamily/marriage/spirituality/goodlife.html

Benjamin Bean attended a funeral with me a few weeks ago. During the eulogy and reflective readings he remained stone still, tucked into my side.

“Nana,” he whispered, suddenly, softly. Turning to me. “I’ll be sad at your funeral.”

The direction of his thoughts startles me often. “That’s okay,” I whispered back. “But you can be a little bit happy then too, because, remember, I’ll be living with Jesus in Heaven, more alive than ever. And when you get there too, we’ll be together again.”

“Nana. I know,” he said, all glum-like.

I gave him a squeeze. “Anyway, honey, you don’t have to worry about that for awhile. I still have a lot of living left to do.”

His stillness told me his thread of somber thought hadn’t yet spun out. I waited. Finally, out came this: “You’re right, Nana. But I have more living left to do than you.”

I had no more words. Because if things go as they ought, my grandbean is right, and we both know it. My dot on the timeline of this part of my life is far to the right of center. Two decades left, perhaps three?

I try to imagine the chances-are changes ahead, clear-eyed: I will grieve loved ones. My grandbeans will grow up and away and forget me. My body won’t do what I tell it to. I’ll need to downsize and move. My public words will stop, and my private ones may fail. My activities will slow and so will my brain. My circle of friends will diminish. I’ll have to obey my children. I’ll end up wearing diapers.

Put that way, old age appears grim. But another perspective lessens my apprehension. It comes not only from my certainty that God will accompany me to the final dot on my earthly timeline, but from the clear example of others in times past and present. People like our friend Anna Ingham, renowned educator and developer of the Blended Sight and Sound Method of Learning.

The Preacher and I attended Anna’s 100^th birthday tea recently. We arrived too late to see her jig to “Robin in the Rain,” the song she taught children for the better part of her marathon almost eight-decade career. But we arrived in time to hear and see tributes to a striking legacy of faith and life.

As it has for the rest of our elderly friends, the aging process has dealt Anna numerous challenges. She meets those with the same “Let’s make a game of it!” attitude that has endeared her to generations of students. She chooses to focus on the glad over the sad. To grab God’s hand instead of a fistful of complaints. And at her party, though she could barely see, she beamed.

You and I may indeed have fewer years of living ahead than behind. With God’s help, let’s choose to fill them with faith, hope, love and purpose.

But fellow Christ-followers, never forget: The best is yet to be.

Anna Gertrude Ingham, originator of the Blended Sound-Sight method of learning, was invested as a member in the Order of Canada in 1994, is a recipient of the 2005 Saskatchewan Centennial Medal, the Queen’s Golden Jubilee Medal in 2002 and the Canada 125 Medal in 1992.

On a recent trip to Ottawa, I wandered over to the Canadian National War Memorial on Parliament Hill. The monument was surrounded by flocks of curious onlookers standing eight or nine deep behind a blockade.

A member of Hill security stood on the adjacent road, arms folded, inspecting us. “Move, buddy,” someone complained, not quite loud enough for him to hear. “We can’t see.”

Suddenly a long red tide of uniformed guards swept past, so close I could have touched their tall black hats. They flowed as one across the road to the square in front of the tomb.

“What’s happening?”someone asked.

“The PM of Britain’s in town,” I heard, to my left. “He’s gonna lay a weath on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.” He said it nonchalantly, the way a farm kid would talk about a roosting hen.

A cavalcade of black cars beetled its way down from Parliament Hill, crossed Wellington and proceeded to the tomb of the young soldier whose name only God knows. Craning my neck around our vigilant guard, I could barely make out Prime Ministers Harper and Cameron as they stepped from their cars onto the pavement.

The dignitaries did a leisurely walk-past of the phalanx of troops. While a bugler played the Last Post, they stood shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed. Honouring the young man and those he represented who’d given their lives for the likes of us.

Only after the final note died, did Mr. Cameron walk forward to lay his wreath. The Parliament Hill cannon thundered and smoked twenty-one times. Cameras clicked, and then it was over.  

When the Prime Ministers made their way back to their cars (the press in hot pursuit), the red tide flowed out, the black crawled back up the Hill, and we ordinary citizens scuttled away like so many crabs. Back to normal. For some, back to forgetting.

Back home a few weeks later, I attended a concert by Canadian tenor John McDermott. The beloved “singist” (as he jokingly refers to himself) is renowned not only for his voice, but for his powerful advocacy of veterans across North America. He talked a bit about remembering; sang about it too. Moved many—myself included—to tears.

But it was his remembrance of another death that stirred me most. Lifting his now white head, he sang with deep sincerity these words by Stuart Townend:

I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection.

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom.

Remembrance Day is past. For most of the crowds that gathered at tombs and cenotaphs, forgetting days are here again. But if there’s one tomb we should not walk away from, forgetting, it’s the empty one that once held heaven’s soldier, who gave his life for the likes of us.

***

You can hear John McDermott’s sing “How Deep the Father’s Love for Us”  on his album ‘Great is Thy Faithfulness’ available for purchase at his website:  http://johnmcdermott.com/?m=2  

Hear Stuart Townend talk about the process of writing ”How Deep…” at

( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdVQNyQmdM4&feature=related)

“Nana, am I five now?” my third grandbean, aged a mighty three, asked the other day. “Cuz when I get to five, I can SPEED!”

 Slow down, child. Just a minute ago, a half-century ago, I was five too.

 In 1961 the average hourly wage was $1.15. The average annual full-time salary, about six and a half thousand dollars. But $18,800 would buy a new house, and $2,275 a brand new car. Gas cost 31 cents a gallon, and you could mail a local first class letter for 4 cents.

 In 1961, the world contained just 4 billion people. Canada’s population sat at 18,238,247.  In the U.S., John F. Kennedy was inaugurated as President, and the same year marked the birth of future president Barak Obama—just in time to have his bottom pampered by the first disposable diapers in the world.

 To the south, President Fidel Castro declared Cuba a Communist State. In Germany, Berlin constructed a wall.

 But in 1961, entire Western families still sat together on tweed couches, watching Billy Graham’s Hour of Decision (or Dick Van Dyke) on 12” black and white televisions (perhaps munching toast that came from a 21 cent loaf, drinking milk poured from a $1.05 gallon jug.)

 Those same families likely shared a church pew on Sundays, and bowed their heads to pray before they ate.

 Times have changed some. Do I want my grandbean to speed, to five or fifty-five? On the contrary. I shudder to think what the next half-century holds for the simple faith already growing inside her.

 Here’s why: A great and spreading ache has overtaken us. The Biblical message that God loves the world, and sent his Son as the answer for our deepest needs is under attack as never before.

 In many countries worldwide, determined efforts to undermine the Christian faith—even eliminate it—have escalated. Inside many Western Christian churches, doctrine is dancing to the piper of social acceptability.

 In other parts of the world, speaking up for those things that are trademark to Christianity: respect for life, right living, love for one’s neighbour, kindness to the weakest members of society, forgiveness of one’s enemies, intolerance for injustice and inequality, and defence of the Word of God, is tantamount to a death sentence.

 There’s more: according to the organization, Voice of the Martyrs*, in the countries of North Korea, Burma, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and over sixty other countries, one Christian is martyred every five minutes. It is routine in those countries for Christians to suffer torture, harassment, rape, imprisonment, slavery, kidnapping and death.

 That organization has designated this Sunday, November 13, as this year’s International Day of Prayer for the Persecuted Church. They would like to remind Christians in the West to pray. If one suffers, we all suffer, they say.

Pray this Sunday, for Christ’s Body West and Christ’s Body East. And for the sake of my grandbeans, and yours, and all the children of God–don’t stop.

 Find out more at http://www.dayofprayer.org/  and http://www.persecution.net/

In the flurry of my newly-four-year-old grandbean’s birthday party, while I washed Romaine lettuce under the tap–preparing a salad to accompany my daughter’s lasagna–the child came to me. Grabbed my hand and said, fiercely intent, “Nana, tell me the story of Jonah.”

“Later, love. I’m helping Mama make a salad. I’ll tell it to you later, okay?”

But there was no time for stories during the party. The next day my phone rang. When I picked it up, a little voice, without so much as a “Hello,” whispered, “Nana, would you read me a Bible story, please?”

All my grandbeans have the memories of elephants. A few decades past their ages, I do not. I’d already forgotten the request from the day before.

“Which one, would you like?” I asked, knowing the answer before it came—the one our night-time Bible storybook opens to automatically. 

“Jonah. You said you’d read it to me yesterday.” Well. Okay then. From memory, I dove into the requested Bible story, the one about a reluctant prophet named Jonah. God sent him with a message for the people of the city of Ninevah: back off sinning, or burn up sinning. Jonah, who didn’t much like the Ninevahites, and would have just as soon seen them burn, boarded a boat going in the opposite direction.

(I love the way the Bible so honestly records the flaws of those to whom he gives big jobs. Since I’ve done a bit of fleeing from God’s pointing finger, myself, it makes me feel less lonely.)

Things got worse rapidly. When a violent storm threatened to capsize the boat, the Bible says, Jonah recognized it as God’s discipline for his disobedience. When he instructed his shipmates to throw him overboard they obliged.

In the water, a greeting committee waited—one very large fish. Jonah found lodging in its belly for three days before the creature headed for shore and heaved him up on the beach. (Just thinking of the stench makes me want to heave too.)

At the other end of the phone, my grandchild stayed quiet until the fish appeared. Then a blurt exploded in my ear, a breathless run-on question. “The big whale came to save Jonah, DIDN’T HE, NANA? To save Jonah from drowning!”

 I stopped, startled, remembering my own thoughts as a child hearing the same story. To me the big fish represented God’s discipline on a prophet who headed west when God told him to go east. It took me decades to comprehend the picture of God my grandbean had caught in four short years; to understand that sometimes the things we fear will devour  us are actually sent by God to protect us from a far greater destruction.

 Got a whale heading your way? Remember this: God is good. God is merciful. And God is the God of second chances.

***

The story of Jonah has never been told the way the amazing little Bible storyteller named Mary Margaret tells it.

Since creation, two corresponding questions have risen, set, and risen again. Like the sun and moon, they loom large on the horizon of human thought. “Who is God?” and “Who am I?”

The Bible records that God created man(kind) in his own image. History shows that man immediately began creating God in his, and that along the way, he killed the God-man, Jesus Christ.

  After peering at the God of the Bible through his academic telescope, author Richard Dawkins answers the first question this way: God is a work of fiction.

“The God of the Old Testament,” he says, “is arguably the most unpleasant character in all fiction; jealous and proud of it; a petty, unjust, unforgiving control-freak; a vindictive, bloodthirsty ethnic cleanser; misogynistic, homophobic, racist, infanticidal, genocidal, filicidal, pestilential, megalomaniacal, sadomasochistic, capriciously malevolent bully.”

   Well, isn’t that a lovely bunch of coconuts? Dawkins, whom the media sometimes refers to as the “world’s most influential atheist,” authored the recent book “The God Delusion,” from which that quote is taken.

   Mr. Dawkins, it seems to me, has his telescope upside down. “The Heavens are telling the glory of God,” I read this morning in Psalm 18 (an Old Testament reference, by the way). Those words confirmed what I saw in the crimson sunset last evening.

 But here’s more, also gleaned from the Old Testament, in Isaiah, chapters 25 and 26: God is: “zealous for his people, the doer of marvelous things, perfect faithfulness, a refuge for the poor and needy, a shelter from the storm, a shade from the heat, the perfect peace-giver, maker of salvation, the Rock eternal, the way-smoother, the establisher of peace, the nation enlarger, the glory-gainer, border extender, the preparer of delicious food.”

   God doesn’t need the likes of me to defend him, and he’s likely laughing at Mr. Dawkins’ list. According to the Old Testament, his justice also brings down pride and cleverness. He has power to discipline nations and peoples; to remove the disgrace of those he loves, to swallow up death forever, and to wipe away all tears. 

   A high percentage of Westerners declare a belief in God, but given that the litmus test of any belief lies in a willingness to act on it, I suspect the true delusion regarding God lies in another area—atheism by default.*

   Like Dawkin’s outspoken atheism, default atheism has affected our world a long time. 20^th century author Russian Fedor Dostoevsky once made a sober observation about the West. He believed we were in trouble—not because of the God we worship, but because of the God we ignore.

“The West has lost Christ and that is why it is dying; that is the only reason.” Dostoevsky, and many other genuine followers of God before and since, knew the truth: If you wish to kill God—you will also kill mankind. Because without God, there is no life, and no freedom. 

   Whichever position you take—consider it carefully.  

*By the term “default atheism” some atheists mean that people are born without belief and that a belief in God is a mere result of societal indoctrination. That’s not what I’m referring to here. But I am (perhaps over)stating the fact that making it a practice to ignore God and his requirements for living (regardless of lip-service) is the equivalent (and as eternally soul-destructive) to declaring he doesn’t exist.

Gourmet food. French-accented waiters. Alabaster columns, domed ceilings, and ghosts of nobility and dignitaries. But when I’ve forgotten much else about that elegant business dinner, I’ll remember the man sitting to my right.

“What are you having?” he asked, studying his menu. The buffet,” I said. (It seemed a safer bet than the culinary jargon between the leather covers.)

“Good choice.”

I learned things about my table-mate as the meal progressed. Owner—for over three decades—of a beloved shore-line restaurant. Chairman of this and president of that. CEO of a vital national organization. That he doesn’t do desserts or vegetables, and that on his phone he had a photo of himself shaking hands with President Obama.

He only told me all that because I poked. Mostly, we discussed simpler things. Family and marriage (a half-century for his own, thirty-five for mine). Pets (his three-pound Yorkie, my three-ounce parrot). The precariousness of life and his goal of packing each day full of worthwhile moments. The importance of serving others (as he dished his tomatoes my way) and the joy of fishing. The latter two, I’ve learned, have earned him a broad reputation.

Our hotels both lay within walking distance. After dinner we left the restaurant together. “It’s raining,” he said of the mist outside. “Perhaps we should catch a cab.” But a bus came by just then. We hopped on. He noticed I was laughing. Asked why.

“I find it funny,” I said, “that a man who just finished showing me photos of himself holding a small crocodile, snagged by his own barb, fears a few raindrops.”

“It’s my suit,” he confessed. “I didn’t bring another one for tomorrow.”

“Just hang it up in your closet when you get back to your room,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said.

At my hotel, my companion bid me a cheerful good-night and carried on. But here’s what I’ll remember most about him: Over dinner, he handed me his business card. “If I can ever help you in any way,” he said. “Feel free to call.” Amazingly, I believe he meant it—and that his determination to serve others is one secret to his highly productive life.

One day I’ll sit down to another banquet, and in an atmosphere far more rarefied, I’ll meet more unforgettable people. We’ll all be there for the same reason I attended that business dinner: by the good graces of our Host alone. We’ll share Heaven’s table not because of who we are or what we’ve done for him, but simply because of what he’s done for us. Not only did he live to serve—he died to save.

His invitation, extended with open arms at Calvary’s cross, reads something like this: Come hungry. Come dirty and thirsty. Come undeserving. But come through me. I am the Way. And call anytime. Signed: Jesus Christ.

Hope to meet you there.