What a season!
On the last day of the season, both #1 Missouri and #2 West Virginia lost. But that's no great surprise, given the kind of season it's been.
When the BCS rankings come out later today and the BCS Championship game is determined, how will it play out?
It is a given that Ohio State, which was ranked #3 going into this weekend, will rise to #1. They are 11-1, won the Big Ten championship, and have had the privilege of sitting around for a few weeks while everyone ranked above them has continued playing and losing.
I think that the Big 10, the Pac-10, and the Big East need to go to a two-division setup with a conference championship game like the SEC, ACC, and Big 12. It seems unfair that teams are penalized for losing in conference championship games while teams in other conferences don't have that hurdle to jump. Of course, no one forced the other three conferences to go to a championship game.
Anyway, Ohio State will be #1. The question is, who will be #2 and play the Buckeyes for the BCS title?
Will it be Georgia? The Bulldogs were #4 in the BCS rankings going into this final week of the season. Will they rise to #2? As a completely biased Georgia fan, I certainly hope so. I think that the Dawgs would beat Ohio State. But then I think that any of the teams that could conceivably make the title game will likely beat Ohio State.
Still, those commentators who question whether Georgia should be there have a point and this is it: Georgia did not win their conference championship. In fact, the Dawgs did not even play in the championship game. Technically, they are co-champions with Tennessee of the SEC East, but, because they lost to UT, the Vols went to the championship game. Other teams have played in the BCS Championship who did not win their conference, but a case can be made that it should not happen. I doubt that Georgia will be #2 today.
I suspect that LSU will jump the Bulldogs. The Tigers lost two games this year, both in triple overtime. They are the SEC champions. It would be hard to argue with the Bayou Bengals playing Ohio State.
Other possibilities are ACC champions Virginia Tech, Big 12 champs Oklahoma, and PAC-10 winners USC, but it looks like getting to #2 is too big a jump for all of them.
So, I say look for an Ohio State vs. LSU BCS Championship Game with the Tigers winning by at least two touchdowns.
So where will my Bulldogs go? They will probably play in the Sugar Bowl against the University of Hawaii. But I hope they go to the Rose Bowl to play Southern Cal. That would probably be the most entertaining bowl game of them all.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
Let’s Keep Christmas
I love Christmas. A lot. I always have. And so I get concerned about the integrity of the holiday.
When I was a child, I remember some people getting all upset because some of the stores were putting the message “Merry Xmas” on their windows. People said that those small town merchants were taking Christ out of Christmas.
So I, like many children and too many adults will do, repeated what I had heard without verifying the facts. At school one day I was bemoaning the fact that people were taking Christ out of Christmas by writing “Merry Xmas.” A classmate of mine said, “You know, what you’re saying is really not right. In Greek, which is, you know, the language of the New Testament, ‘Christ’ is spelled ‘Xristos.’ So the ‘X’ in ‘Xmas’ is really just an abbreviation for the Greek spelling of Christ.”
Well, in the first place, at that point in my life I didn’t know that Greek was the language of the New Testament. But I minored in Greek in college and found out he was right. In the second place, I still think it’s more respectful to spell the name out fully as “Christmas.” Nevertheless, I took advantage of my newfound knowledge and regularly used “X” as an abbreviation for “Christ” in my seminary class note-taking. Those professors at Southern Seminary talked about Christ a lot during my years there (1979-1986) and my poor right hand needed all the breaks it could get!
I don’t hear much about “Xmas” these days but I sure hear a lot about the “War on Christmas.” That “war” is being waged, they say, by companies that don’t want their employees saying “Merry Christmas,” that use the term “Happy Holidays” in their advertising, or that apply their non-solicitation policies to the Salvation Army’s bell-ringers.
That same “war” is being waged, they say, by people who put pressure on government entities not to have religious symbols as part of their holiday decorations and by those government officials who give in to such pressure.
Let me pose these few reminders for your consideration.
First, let’s be careful not to develop an unbecoming persecution complex. The fact is that we are blessed with the great gift of a constitutionally guaranteed freedom to worship. We have the freedom to worship as we choose, to worship as often (or as seldom) as we choose, to attend any of the hundreds of thousands of houses of worship in our nation, and to talk about our faith with anyone who will listen. Let’s not characterize any perceived affronts as “persecution” or “war.” It’s an insult to people in other nations who really are being persecuted for their faith.
Second, rather than boycotting those stores where the clerks are required to say “Happy Holidays,” why not try this instead? When that clerk hands you your bag and says “Happy Holidays,” give her a big smile that matches that Christian love you have already displayed to her (because you are careful to show the love of Christ to all those you encounter while shopping, aren’t you?) and say, “Merry Christmas.” If she’s a Christian who wishes she could say “Merry Christmas” she may give you a wink or a smile or a pat on the hand; in any case you’ll lift her spirits. And if she’s not a Christian you’ll have born an effective Christian witness—if you say it with humble love rather than with superior disdain.
Third, give some serious thought to the question of the propriety of expecting corporations and governments to do our work of proclamation and witnessing for us. We followers of Christ are free to do all of the promotion of Christ that we want to do without anyone’s interference or help. But are we doing it?
That leads me to one more thought. I fear that we Christians long ago capitulated to our culture in the matter of Christmas. American culture has long since turned Christmas into a buy all you can (whether you can afford it or not), get all you can, eat and drink all you can frenzy of consumerism. It seems to me that most of us just go along thoughtlessly with that way of observing Christmas.
While some folks fret about the culture taking Christ out of Christmas, I fret about Christians taking Christmas out of Christmas. After all, the word “Christmas” is literally the “Mass of Christ.” The celebration is, for we who are Christians, all about the worship of Christ.
Now, don’t hear me wrong. I think that family gatherings, gift giving, and shared meals are, when done within reason and with a bias toward simplicity, entirely appropriate ways of celebrating the birth of Christ. But, if we are Christians, shouldn’t worship of the child who was the Word of God incarnate be the focus of our celebrations? And shouldn’t that worship extend into the way we bear witness to him with our lives? And shouldn’t we bear witness to him with lives that reflect the life of the one who was born in a stable, who came to lift up the lowly and bring down the lofty, who grew up to be a man who had no place to lay his head, who trusted radically in his Father, and whose life and death were all about giving, sharing, and loving? Shouldn’t we bear witness to him in those ways at Christmas time and all the time? Isn’t that how we should keep Christmas?
Maybe we should propose a truce with our culture. They can have the holiday. We’ll keep Christmas!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
The Advent Calendar (A Story)
It had been handed down to her by her mother to whom it had been handed down by her mother. The story was that her doughboy grandfather had picked it up cheap at a shop in France just after World War I ended. Somehow it had made it home undamaged, all the way to Chattanooga. It had in fact arrived there before he did, which had almost given his mother a heart attack, because she took it to mean that his stuff was coming home but he wasn’t but they gave her some smelling salts and read the Psalms to her and by the time he got home the next day she was fine. In fact, that day she acted quite normally for a woman whose only son had just come home after spending the better part of a year dodging German artillery and poison gas except that he caught her crying at the sink as she washed the dirty dishes from the homecoming meal and he came up behind her and squeezed her and she gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth and turned around and kissed him on the cheek and said, “What’s in that box that came yesterday?” “Let me show you,” he had said.
He had opened the box on the kitchen table and together they had carefully unwrapped each piece. The figures were varnished wood carvings that were intricate in detail. There were angels, shepherds, wise men, camels, donkeys, and sheep. As his mother had continued to unwrap the pieces he had picked up one of the shepherds. The shepherd figure held a crook that had somehow been carved from a very small stick. He was kneeling and the folds in his robe had wrinkles within them. His hair had waves in it. What really stood out, though, was his face. Had anyone pressed him to describe the expression on the shepherd’s face he would have had a hard time doing so. It seemed to reflect a combination of wonder, fear, reverence, faith, and maybe even shock. He could hardly take his eyes off that face.
He was shaken from his spell by his mother’s voice. “While you’ve been staring at that fellow,” she was saying, “I’ve finished unwrapping the pieces.” She was shaking the baby in his face as she spoke.
“OK,” he said, “but didn’t you see this?” He removed the tissue paper from the box where his mother had been dropping it. From the bottom of the box he pulled a large flat piece of wood. It measured about three feet by three feet. It had a stand built into the back so that it could be propped on a tabletop so he propped it on the tabletop and then stepped back to observe it. Intricate carvings of trumpets and angels formed a border; at the very center of the top was a star. The square of wood was divided into other smaller squares by strips of raised wood. He quickly counted. There were twenty-five squares. At the top of each square was a tiny metal loop. He picked up one of the sheep and, using the small hook on its back, hung it on the first square. The sheep and he stared at each other for a moment.
“It’s pretty,” his mother said. “What it is?”
“The fellow who sold it to me said it was an Advent Calendar.”
“How nice,” she said. “What’s an Advent Calendar?”
“It’s a thing you use to count down the days until Christmas. That’s what you do during Advent; you count down the days until Christmas. It’s a church thing.”
“I never heard of such a thing at our church,” she said.
He thought about the raucous worship services that they held at the Beulah Holiness Church. “No, I guess you haven’t,” he said, “but this Presbyterian fellow in my unit explained it all to me.”
“Well,” his mother said, “I don’t know if I hold much truck with such things.”
Nevertheless, the hand-carved Advent calendar that her grandfather had sent back from some little village in France a few weeks after Armistice Day had become a valued part of the family’s Christmas tradition. For over eighty years now parents and children had stood reverently around the Advent calendar while adults and teenagers had read Bible verses and children had hung the figures of the shepherds, the wise men, and the animals on the calendar. Three days before Christmas Joseph was placed on the calendar. Two days before Mary took her place. The climax came on Christmas Eve when the baby Jesus was placed in the small manger that was build into the bottom of the twenty-fifth square. The artisan who had carved the calendar and the figures had apparently thought it inappropriate to put a hook on Jesus.
A couple of years after getting home from Europe her grandfather had gotten married and a couple of years after that he and his wife had produced their first child. The first question their daughter ever asked about anything she asked one year after about twelve days of hanging figures on the Advent calendar: “When’s Jesus coming?” She had asked it that year—it must have been around 1926—for the next twelve nights until she asked it on Christmas Eve, and her father had answered and watched her little freckled face light up like a lamp as he said it, “Tonight’s the night that Jesus comes.” It had become a part of the family liturgy that year and had remained so ever since—the youngest child in the family who was able to talk would say each night, “When’s Jesus coming?” until on Christmas Eve the oldest member of the family who could still talk would answer, “Tonight’s the night that Jesus comes.” And all the family would say “Amen.”
She was remembering all of that family history on this Christmas Eve, the one in 2007, as she put the dirty dishes from her family’s Christmas Eve supper of chili and cornbread into the dishwasher. In an apparent fit of Christmas-inspired generosity both of her teenaged children had offered to help clean the kitchen but she had said “No.” And so her family—her teenagers, her husband, her mother, and the little one of the family, the unexpected caboose who had just turned four in October—waited patiently in the living room, chatting quietly as the white lights on the tree flickered and the ornaments produced their great joy by doing no more than hanging there, which is how most things that bring great joy go about doing it. The little one had been the star of the Advent calendar show this year. For twenty-four nights now she had dutifully and sweetly asked the question as that night’s figure was being hung on the calendar: “When’s Jesus coming?” Everyone had smiled and sighed and oohed and awed. She would say it again tonight but this time her grandmother would answer, “Tonight’s the night when Jesus comes” as she placed the baby Jesus in the manger and then all the family would say “Amen” and then they’d see what was in their stockings.
As she placed some spoons in the dishwasher’s silverware holder her mind went back over it one more time. She had thought about it over and over since it had happened at lunchtime. She had thought about it as she did some last minute shopping that afternoon. She had thought about it as she tried to hustle her family out the door so they wouldn’t be late for church. She had especially thought about it during the Christmas Eve worship service when one of the readers had read a Scripture that contained a phrase that she was sure she had never heard at the Christmas Eve service before: “Christ in you, the hope of glory.” And now she was thinking about it again.
She and some other ladies from her civic club had volunteered to serve lunch at the homeless shelter, something they did several times a year but always made sure to do on Christmas Eve. The words “I enjoy it” always sounded strange to her when she said them in response to someone’s query about why she did it but on some level it was true. So she had been enjoying herself that day at lunchtime as she had scooped the dressing out of the pans and dumped it on the plates for those men, women, and children who obviously needed it so much. She was looking up to say “You’re welcome” to one of the many she served who said “Thank you” when she saw them. A man and a woman—they looked to be around seventy—were going around the room. They obviously went together although they were going around separately. Each held a big red cloth bag.
She kept watching them as she served the dressing. She watched them talking to the people at the tables like they were long-lost family members. She watched the lady sit for a while at this table and then for a while at that one. She watched the man bounce toddlers on his knee while their parents ate. She watched the lady wipe more than one runny nose. She watched as one mentally ill woman who always frightened her when she came through the food line shoved the lady away and then she watched as the lady bowed her head in an obvious quick prayer even as she tried to keep from falling. She watched them as they pulled gifts, all carefully wrapped, out of their bags and gave one to every person in the room. She dipped dressing and watched the man and woman do what they were doing.
Then she watched them leave. After they left she asked the social worker who ran the shelter who they were.
“They’re legends, that’s who they are,” he replied.
“No,” she had pressed him, “I mean what are their names?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “They’ve been doing that here for years. They do it all over town in places like this. And, before you ask, yes, we’ve asked their names. They just smile and say ‘Merry Christmas’ and go on their way.”
She put the last dish in the dishwasher and walked into the living room. As she entered everyone got up and gathered around the table that held the Advent calendar. Her mother already held the baby Jesus in her hand. Her teenaged daughter read the Christmas story from Matthew and then her son read the one from Luke. Her husband said a prayer. And then it was time for the big moment, the moment that had been repeated according to the script for three generations, the moment when her little girl would, in voice sweet and innocent, utter the words “When’s Jesus coming?” and when her mother would place the baby Jesus in his manger and triumphantly proclaim, “Tonight’s the night when Jesus comes.”
Her little girl spoke: “When’s Jesus coming?”
And that’s when she said it. She couldn’t help it. It just came out. It just came out because it was the truth. Before the scripted, traditional response could be offered by her dear mother, who had earned the right to say it by living so long and so well, the words jumped out of her mouth.
“I think he came this afternoon.”
And every jaw gathered around the Advent calendar dropped.
He had opened the box on the kitchen table and together they had carefully unwrapped each piece. The figures were varnished wood carvings that were intricate in detail. There were angels, shepherds, wise men, camels, donkeys, and sheep. As his mother had continued to unwrap the pieces he had picked up one of the shepherds. The shepherd figure held a crook that had somehow been carved from a very small stick. He was kneeling and the folds in his robe had wrinkles within them. His hair had waves in it. What really stood out, though, was his face. Had anyone pressed him to describe the expression on the shepherd’s face he would have had a hard time doing so. It seemed to reflect a combination of wonder, fear, reverence, faith, and maybe even shock. He could hardly take his eyes off that face.
He was shaken from his spell by his mother’s voice. “While you’ve been staring at that fellow,” she was saying, “I’ve finished unwrapping the pieces.” She was shaking the baby in his face as she spoke.
“OK,” he said, “but didn’t you see this?” He removed the tissue paper from the box where his mother had been dropping it. From the bottom of the box he pulled a large flat piece of wood. It measured about three feet by three feet. It had a stand built into the back so that it could be propped on a tabletop so he propped it on the tabletop and then stepped back to observe it. Intricate carvings of trumpets and angels formed a border; at the very center of the top was a star. The square of wood was divided into other smaller squares by strips of raised wood. He quickly counted. There were twenty-five squares. At the top of each square was a tiny metal loop. He picked up one of the sheep and, using the small hook on its back, hung it on the first square. The sheep and he stared at each other for a moment.
“It’s pretty,” his mother said. “What it is?”
“The fellow who sold it to me said it was an Advent Calendar.”
“How nice,” she said. “What’s an Advent Calendar?”
“It’s a thing you use to count down the days until Christmas. That’s what you do during Advent; you count down the days until Christmas. It’s a church thing.”
“I never heard of such a thing at our church,” she said.
He thought about the raucous worship services that they held at the Beulah Holiness Church. “No, I guess you haven’t,” he said, “but this Presbyterian fellow in my unit explained it all to me.”
“Well,” his mother said, “I don’t know if I hold much truck with such things.”
Nevertheless, the hand-carved Advent calendar that her grandfather had sent back from some little village in France a few weeks after Armistice Day had become a valued part of the family’s Christmas tradition. For over eighty years now parents and children had stood reverently around the Advent calendar while adults and teenagers had read Bible verses and children had hung the figures of the shepherds, the wise men, and the animals on the calendar. Three days before Christmas Joseph was placed on the calendar. Two days before Mary took her place. The climax came on Christmas Eve when the baby Jesus was placed in the small manger that was build into the bottom of the twenty-fifth square. The artisan who had carved the calendar and the figures had apparently thought it inappropriate to put a hook on Jesus.
A couple of years after getting home from Europe her grandfather had gotten married and a couple of years after that he and his wife had produced their first child. The first question their daughter ever asked about anything she asked one year after about twelve days of hanging figures on the Advent calendar: “When’s Jesus coming?” She had asked it that year—it must have been around 1926—for the next twelve nights until she asked it on Christmas Eve, and her father had answered and watched her little freckled face light up like a lamp as he said it, “Tonight’s the night that Jesus comes.” It had become a part of the family liturgy that year and had remained so ever since—the youngest child in the family who was able to talk would say each night, “When’s Jesus coming?” until on Christmas Eve the oldest member of the family who could still talk would answer, “Tonight’s the night that Jesus comes.” And all the family would say “Amen.”
She was remembering all of that family history on this Christmas Eve, the one in 2007, as she put the dirty dishes from her family’s Christmas Eve supper of chili and cornbread into the dishwasher. In an apparent fit of Christmas-inspired generosity both of her teenaged children had offered to help clean the kitchen but she had said “No.” And so her family—her teenagers, her husband, her mother, and the little one of the family, the unexpected caboose who had just turned four in October—waited patiently in the living room, chatting quietly as the white lights on the tree flickered and the ornaments produced their great joy by doing no more than hanging there, which is how most things that bring great joy go about doing it. The little one had been the star of the Advent calendar show this year. For twenty-four nights now she had dutifully and sweetly asked the question as that night’s figure was being hung on the calendar: “When’s Jesus coming?” Everyone had smiled and sighed and oohed and awed. She would say it again tonight but this time her grandmother would answer, “Tonight’s the night when Jesus comes” as she placed the baby Jesus in the manger and then all the family would say “Amen” and then they’d see what was in their stockings.
As she placed some spoons in the dishwasher’s silverware holder her mind went back over it one more time. She had thought about it over and over since it had happened at lunchtime. She had thought about it as she did some last minute shopping that afternoon. She had thought about it as she tried to hustle her family out the door so they wouldn’t be late for church. She had especially thought about it during the Christmas Eve worship service when one of the readers had read a Scripture that contained a phrase that she was sure she had never heard at the Christmas Eve service before: “Christ in you, the hope of glory.” And now she was thinking about it again.
She and some other ladies from her civic club had volunteered to serve lunch at the homeless shelter, something they did several times a year but always made sure to do on Christmas Eve. The words “I enjoy it” always sounded strange to her when she said them in response to someone’s query about why she did it but on some level it was true. So she had been enjoying herself that day at lunchtime as she had scooped the dressing out of the pans and dumped it on the plates for those men, women, and children who obviously needed it so much. She was looking up to say “You’re welcome” to one of the many she served who said “Thank you” when she saw them. A man and a woman—they looked to be around seventy—were going around the room. They obviously went together although they were going around separately. Each held a big red cloth bag.
She kept watching them as she served the dressing. She watched them talking to the people at the tables like they were long-lost family members. She watched the lady sit for a while at this table and then for a while at that one. She watched the man bounce toddlers on his knee while their parents ate. She watched the lady wipe more than one runny nose. She watched as one mentally ill woman who always frightened her when she came through the food line shoved the lady away and then she watched as the lady bowed her head in an obvious quick prayer even as she tried to keep from falling. She watched them as they pulled gifts, all carefully wrapped, out of their bags and gave one to every person in the room. She dipped dressing and watched the man and woman do what they were doing.
Then she watched them leave. After they left she asked the social worker who ran the shelter who they were.
“They’re legends, that’s who they are,” he replied.
“No,” she had pressed him, “I mean what are their names?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “They’ve been doing that here for years. They do it all over town in places like this. And, before you ask, yes, we’ve asked their names. They just smile and say ‘Merry Christmas’ and go on their way.”
She put the last dish in the dishwasher and walked into the living room. As she entered everyone got up and gathered around the table that held the Advent calendar. Her mother already held the baby Jesus in her hand. Her teenaged daughter read the Christmas story from Matthew and then her son read the one from Luke. Her husband said a prayer. And then it was time for the big moment, the moment that had been repeated according to the script for three generations, the moment when her little girl would, in voice sweet and innocent, utter the words “When’s Jesus coming?” and when her mother would place the baby Jesus in his manger and triumphantly proclaim, “Tonight’s the night when Jesus comes.”
Her little girl spoke: “When’s Jesus coming?”
And that’s when she said it. She couldn’t help it. It just came out. It just came out because it was the truth. Before the scripted, traditional response could be offered by her dear mother, who had earned the right to say it by living so long and so well, the words jumped out of her mouth.
“I think he came this afternoon.”
And every jaw gathered around the Advent calendar dropped.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
I Believe in Santa Claus
I am a forty-nine year old Baptist minister who has been married for almost thirty years and who has two grown children--and I believe in Santa Claus.
I believe in Santa Claus because of what the Bible teaches. The Bible says, “Honor your father and mother.” My father always told me, even when I was a teenager and he was in his fifties, that he believed in Santa Claus and that I should, too. “Without Santa Claus,” he said, “we would lose the spirit of Christmas.” I am bound to follow the teachings of the Bible. Therefore, I continue to honor my father and believe in Santa Claus.
Visiting Santa Claus was one of the most exciting and anxiety-producing aspects of my childhood Christmas experience. I would plan ahead, polishing and perfecting my list. It had to be just right. You shouldn’t ask for too much and appear greedy, I figured; that might land you on the naughty list. But you also shouldn’t leave anything off that you really wanted. If you did, you might not get it! And if I didn’t get the exact G.I. Joe accessories that I needed, then what kind of Christmas would that be?
I have so many memories of visiting Santa Claus.
In my hometown of Barnesville, Georgia, Wisebram’s Department Store was Santa Headquarters. Our Santa was a down-to-earth accessible Santa. There would be none of that fancy Santa throne stuff for him. No, he just sat himself down in the shoe department, right there on one of the seats where we sat to try on our shoes. Well, I didn’t sit there because I wore prescription shoes and had to go to Griffin to get them, but he sat where most Barnesvillians sat.
I confess that I had my first doubts about Santa right there in the Wisebram’s Shoe Department. One year, as I was sitting on his knee, I noticed that a staple was stuck in his beard. I puzzled over that until my puzzler was sore (credit: Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas). I was concerned that maybe, just maybe, that beard had been stored in a box somewhere and there it had acquired that staple. I puzzled my way out of it, though. Who could say from where the staple came? The mystery was only enhanced! Besides, doubt is necessary as a complement to real faith.
Some years my parents and I would go to the Greenbrier Mall in Atlanta to do some Christmas shopping. In the 1960s that mall was the most magical place I had ever seen. Every department store there had a Santa Claus! That did not trouble me, for my father had long ago explained to me that Santa had to have many stand-ins while he was working at the North Pole.
One particular year I was in a quandary. I wanted a toy electric guitar. There were two models of it and I could not make up my mind which one I wanted. When I thought I had my mind made up, I went to one of the Santas and told him. He said that sounded fine to him. But then I got to thinking that I would really rather have the other model. So I went to the Santa in one of the other stores and told him that I had changed my mind. He looked at me a little funny but said that it sounded all right to him. Then I changed my mind again but I got concerned that I might confuse Santa so much that I would get a harp rather than a guitar so I decided to just leave it up to him.
Once during my childhood I entered an agnostic phase in my attitude toward Santa. I felt that there was plenty of evidence that there was no Santa but I was not willing to say for sure. I mean, what if there was, you know? This much I knew, though: the stand-in for Santa Claus that came to our church was Dock Knight, who was married to my mother’s cousin and who I had been raised to call “Uncle Dock.” I was convinced of it. And I told my father that I was convinced of it, over and over and over. That year, as Santa was prowling around the sanctuary, my father said to me, “Look back there.” There in the back of the church, standing with his arms folded across his chest, was Uncle Dock. Someone might as well have scattered magic Christmas dust all over my brain. Hope was rekindled! I had found a reason to believe again.
Such memories!
One of my friends was told by his mother from the very beginnings of his Christmas consciousness that there was no Santa Claus. I noticed that he always got just as much good stuff as I did. But I also noticed that he never had much joy about the Christmas experience.
I still have joy. There are much more important reasons that I have Christmas joy, of course, than that Santa Claus is coming to town.
But he is coming.
I may be a forty-nine year old Baptist preacher who has been married for almost thirty years and who has two grown children, but I’m all tingly just thinking about it. I wouldn’t trade that feeling for all the rationality and maturity in the world.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The Christmas Play
In the church of my childhood one of the major events that took place during the weeks leading up to Christmas was the Christmas Play.
I have no idea how the casting was done. Somehow, parts would be assigned and rehearsals would begin. The cast and crew would work for weeks and weeks in preparation for the single performance that would take place on a Sunday night a couple of weeks before Christmas.
The plays were horrible.
They were also wonderful.
If you want to get a feel for what they were like, watch the movie Waiting for Guffman, which revolves around a community theatre production. Compared to the Christmas plays at Midway Baptist Church, the play in the movie was Tony-worthy.
To be fair, that play was a musical. We did drama at Midway.
I don’t remember the plots. I do remember some of the scenes.
I remember my overall-clad father, standing at an open window outside of which a red light glowed, declaring “That’s a big fire (he pronounced it ‘far’) over there (he pronounced it ‘thar.’)” I suspect that he had pronounced it straight during the rehearsals. Daddy was a ham.
I remember two brothers, portrayed by Randy Berry and Danny Bates, getting into a fight over a toy—I think it was a toy train—under a Christmas tree.
I remember my one and only appearance in one of the plays. The play was set in a department store. I was in line at a cash register. I wanted to buy a gift for my sick mother. With my quarter I planned to purchase a gray rose. Who ever saw a gray rose? The nice clerk told me that for the same quarter I could purchase a pretty red one. It was stark, moving drama. Preacher Bill rolled in laughter during the entire scene.
I remember the obligatory nativity scene near the end of each play. It was usually a dream sequence, I think. Somehow, though, they got the Christmas Story into whatever Christmas story they were telling.
Like I said, the plays were horrible. It would be kind to call our actors amateurs.
But like I also said, they were wonderful. They were wonderful because those were our church members, our friends, our brothers and sisters in Christ, up there on that stage making fools of themselves, whether they knew it or not, all for the sake of our entertainment and especially for the sake of telling the story of Christmas.
They were wonderful exactly because of their amateurish character. In these days of slick production values and hyper-critical “make sure it’s quality stuff” church audiences, it’s refreshing to remember the sincerity and maybe even integrity of those cheesy performances.
But the main reason they were wonderful is in the point that was made: the Christmas Story is our story. The epiphany in those plays had to do with the fact that the Christ who came at Christmas comes into our run of the mill lives in our run of the mill world and changes things—he changes us. Yes, he came to the manger and was visited by shepherds; yes, angels announced his coming; yes, something marvelous and miraculous happened all those years ago.
Just as much of a miracle, though, is that it still happens now.
And that’s what those awfully terrific and terrifically awful Christmas plays taught me.
I have no idea how the casting was done. Somehow, parts would be assigned and rehearsals would begin. The cast and crew would work for weeks and weeks in preparation for the single performance that would take place on a Sunday night a couple of weeks before Christmas.
The plays were horrible.
They were also wonderful.
If you want to get a feel for what they were like, watch the movie Waiting for Guffman, which revolves around a community theatre production. Compared to the Christmas plays at Midway Baptist Church, the play in the movie was Tony-worthy.
To be fair, that play was a musical. We did drama at Midway.
I don’t remember the plots. I do remember some of the scenes.
I remember my overall-clad father, standing at an open window outside of which a red light glowed, declaring “That’s a big fire (he pronounced it ‘far’) over there (he pronounced it ‘thar.’)” I suspect that he had pronounced it straight during the rehearsals. Daddy was a ham.
I remember two brothers, portrayed by Randy Berry and Danny Bates, getting into a fight over a toy—I think it was a toy train—under a Christmas tree.
I remember my one and only appearance in one of the plays. The play was set in a department store. I was in line at a cash register. I wanted to buy a gift for my sick mother. With my quarter I planned to purchase a gray rose. Who ever saw a gray rose? The nice clerk told me that for the same quarter I could purchase a pretty red one. It was stark, moving drama. Preacher Bill rolled in laughter during the entire scene.
I remember the obligatory nativity scene near the end of each play. It was usually a dream sequence, I think. Somehow, though, they got the Christmas Story into whatever Christmas story they were telling.
Like I said, the plays were horrible. It would be kind to call our actors amateurs.
But like I also said, they were wonderful. They were wonderful because those were our church members, our friends, our brothers and sisters in Christ, up there on that stage making fools of themselves, whether they knew it or not, all for the sake of our entertainment and especially for the sake of telling the story of Christmas.
They were wonderful exactly because of their amateurish character. In these days of slick production values and hyper-critical “make sure it’s quality stuff” church audiences, it’s refreshing to remember the sincerity and maybe even integrity of those cheesy performances.
But the main reason they were wonderful is in the point that was made: the Christmas Story is our story. The epiphany in those plays had to do with the fact that the Christ who came at Christmas comes into our run of the mill lives in our run of the mill world and changes things—he changes us. Yes, he came to the manger and was visited by shepherds; yes, angels announced his coming; yes, something marvelous and miraculous happened all those years ago.
Just as much of a miracle, though, is that it still happens now.
And that’s what those awfully terrific and terrifically awful Christmas plays taught me.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Little Big Words: Love
(A sermon based on 1 John 3:11-24)
We’ve been talking about some of the “little big words” in our life with Christ. These are little words that have big meanings and big implications. So far we have talked about the little big words grace and faith. Today we turn to love.
I suspect that love may be the biggest of all our little big words. It lies at the heart of who God is. It lies at the heart of what Jesus did. And it lies at the heart of what it means to be a Christian.
What are some the truths that our passage teaches us about the love that a Christian has and displays?
First, love is basic to the gospel message. John wrote, “For this is the message you have heard from the beginning, that we should love one another” (v. 11). Things that are said from the beginning are very important things. What John has uppermost in mind is the beginning of the preaching of the good news of Jesus Christ. “From the time that Jesus came into the world and from the moment that he began to teach and preach,” John is saying, “the teaching that Christians are to love one another has been basic.”
We can make this idea more particular. Surely we would all have to say that from the time that we first became aware of the good news of Jesus we have heard the necessity of love taught and preached. If you don’t remember hearing that, then you might to wonder about the kind of Christianity that was being promoted—or you might need to wonder how good your memory is! From the beginning of our Christian lives we have heard love preached.
Or we can make this idea more general. We can say that the primacy of love has been part of the fabric of God’s world ever since he created it. Indeed, righteousness and love have always gone hand-in-hand. So Cain, John said, killed Abel because Cain was of the evil one and his deeds were evil. The lack of love is symptomatic of an evil heart being influenced by the evil one; the presence of love is symptomatic of a righteous heart influenced by the Righteous One.
In all of these ways, love is basic to the gospel message. The introductory course in the Christian faith is Love 101.
Second, love is a sign that we have been born again. “We know,” John said, that we have passed from death to life because we love one another. Whoever does not love abides in death” (v. 14). There’s a song that says, “They’ll know we are Christians by our love.” Well, we can change the pronoun and still sing the truth: “We’ll know we are Christians by our love.” Love is life. To be born again is to be born into God’s love and God’s life; it is to be set free to live and love as God intended.
Sometimes Christians who are sensitive to their failings or who tend to over-intellectualize things get to having doubts about their salvation. The first category of Christians will try hard to be better and to do better so that they can know they’re saved. Those in the second category develop headaches trying to think their way through to assurance. We’re better off accepting what John says: “We know that we have passed from death to life because we love one another.” When Christ’s love is poured into our hearts, when we really get grace and mercy and love, then we can’t help but grow in our love for one another.
We’re still a week away from the first Sunday of Advent and we’re still a month away from Christmas. Still, a Christmas story from classic literature offers a good illustration. In the Dr. Seuss book How the Grinch Stole Christmas, the Grinch was a mean, miserly character who lived on a mountain outside Whoville. The Grinch tried to steal the Whos’ Christmas by stealing their presents and decorations and food on Christmas Eve. The next morning he expected to hear their wails of sorrow. Instead, he heard them singing songs of Christmas joy.
And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?" "It came without ribbons! It came without tags!" "It came without packages, boxes or bags!" And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! "Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store." "Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"
And what happened then...? Well...in Who-ville they say That the Grinch's small heart Grew three sizes that day!
When Jesus comes into your heart, it grows. It doesn’t grow three sizes. It grows and grows and grows. And that’s how you know you’re a Christian.
Do you remember the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” Try this one: “Christian, Christian, if you’re quite contrary, then how has your heart grown?”
Third, love is a matter of the heart. John said that we should not be like Cain who killed Abel. He went on to say, “All who hate a brother or sister are murderers, and you know that murderers do not have eternal life abiding in them” (v. 15). This goes to the state of our hearts. Recall the words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount:
You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, “You shall not murder”; and “whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.” But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, “You fool,” you will be liable to the hell of fire. (Matthew 5:21-22)
In other words, real righteousness does not consist in just avoiding harmful acts; real righteousness consists in having a heart so changed by the grace of God that you want to do good to people and not to do harm to them. I may never strike you and I may never say a hurtful thing to you—but what is the stance of my heart toward you? If I wish harm on you or if I think of you as less than human or if I see you as an object to be abused or exploited, then my heart is not a heart filled with love.
Love means more than not doing harmful things. It means having an attitude of grace and mercy toward people that sees them as fully human and deserving of God’s love.
Fourth, love is a matter of action. Here is the flip side of what I was just talking about. I just said that the avoidance of harmful acts does not constitute love; the heart must be changed so that our motives and our attitudes toward others are positive and helpful. Real love, though, will issue in positive actions on behalf of others. John said,
We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. (vv. 16-18)
Here is the essence of God’s love: Jesus laid down his life for us. That is how God showed his love for us. If we are saved by that love and if that love has been poured into our hearts, then we will lay down our lives for one another.
Chances are slim that we will have to literally do what Jesus did and give up our lives for one another. Therefore, it’s all too easy to say that we would do so. The real test is in our actions. Do we have hearts that are so filled with the self-giving, self-emptying love of Jesus Christ that it overflows in practical acts of kindness to our brothers and sisters? There is simply no way in heaven or on earth to reconcile the love of Christ with greedy and selfish actions. Loving hearts and loving actions show that the love of Christ is in our hearts.
Only the grace of God can put the love of God in your heart. Is it there? Such love shows itself in love acts on behalf of others. Are they there?
We’ve been talking about some of the “little big words” in our life with Christ. These are little words that have big meanings and big implications. So far we have talked about the little big words grace and faith. Today we turn to love.
I suspect that love may be the biggest of all our little big words. It lies at the heart of who God is. It lies at the heart of what Jesus did. And it lies at the heart of what it means to be a Christian.
What are some the truths that our passage teaches us about the love that a Christian has and displays?
First, love is basic to the gospel message. John wrote, “For this is the message you have heard from the beginning, that we should love one another” (v. 11). Things that are said from the beginning are very important things. What John has uppermost in mind is the beginning of the preaching of the good news of Jesus Christ. “From the time that Jesus came into the world and from the moment that he began to teach and preach,” John is saying, “the teaching that Christians are to love one another has been basic.”
We can make this idea more particular. Surely we would all have to say that from the time that we first became aware of the good news of Jesus we have heard the necessity of love taught and preached. If you don’t remember hearing that, then you might to wonder about the kind of Christianity that was being promoted—or you might need to wonder how good your memory is! From the beginning of our Christian lives we have heard love preached.
Or we can make this idea more general. We can say that the primacy of love has been part of the fabric of God’s world ever since he created it. Indeed, righteousness and love have always gone hand-in-hand. So Cain, John said, killed Abel because Cain was of the evil one and his deeds were evil. The lack of love is symptomatic of an evil heart being influenced by the evil one; the presence of love is symptomatic of a righteous heart influenced by the Righteous One.
In all of these ways, love is basic to the gospel message. The introductory course in the Christian faith is Love 101.
Second, love is a sign that we have been born again. “We know,” John said, that we have passed from death to life because we love one another. Whoever does not love abides in death” (v. 14). There’s a song that says, “They’ll know we are Christians by our love.” Well, we can change the pronoun and still sing the truth: “We’ll know we are Christians by our love.” Love is life. To be born again is to be born into God’s love and God’s life; it is to be set free to live and love as God intended.
Sometimes Christians who are sensitive to their failings or who tend to over-intellectualize things get to having doubts about their salvation. The first category of Christians will try hard to be better and to do better so that they can know they’re saved. Those in the second category develop headaches trying to think their way through to assurance. We’re better off accepting what John says: “We know that we have passed from death to life because we love one another.” When Christ’s love is poured into our hearts, when we really get grace and mercy and love, then we can’t help but grow in our love for one another.
We’re still a week away from the first Sunday of Advent and we’re still a month away from Christmas. Still, a Christmas story from classic literature offers a good illustration. In the Dr. Seuss book How the Grinch Stole Christmas, the Grinch was a mean, miserly character who lived on a mountain outside Whoville. The Grinch tried to steal the Whos’ Christmas by stealing their presents and decorations and food on Christmas Eve. The next morning he expected to hear their wails of sorrow. Instead, he heard them singing songs of Christmas joy.
And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?" "It came without ribbons! It came without tags!" "It came without packages, boxes or bags!" And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! "Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store." "Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"
And what happened then...? Well...in Who-ville they say That the Grinch's small heart Grew three sizes that day!
When Jesus comes into your heart, it grows. It doesn’t grow three sizes. It grows and grows and grows. And that’s how you know you’re a Christian.
Do you remember the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” Try this one: “Christian, Christian, if you’re quite contrary, then how has your heart grown?”
Third, love is a matter of the heart. John said that we should not be like Cain who killed Abel. He went on to say, “All who hate a brother or sister are murderers, and you know that murderers do not have eternal life abiding in them” (v. 15). This goes to the state of our hearts. Recall the words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount:
You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, “You shall not murder”; and “whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.” But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, “You fool,” you will be liable to the hell of fire. (Matthew 5:21-22)
In other words, real righteousness does not consist in just avoiding harmful acts; real righteousness consists in having a heart so changed by the grace of God that you want to do good to people and not to do harm to them. I may never strike you and I may never say a hurtful thing to you—but what is the stance of my heart toward you? If I wish harm on you or if I think of you as less than human or if I see you as an object to be abused or exploited, then my heart is not a heart filled with love.
Love means more than not doing harmful things. It means having an attitude of grace and mercy toward people that sees them as fully human and deserving of God’s love.
Fourth, love is a matter of action. Here is the flip side of what I was just talking about. I just said that the avoidance of harmful acts does not constitute love; the heart must be changed so that our motives and our attitudes toward others are positive and helpful. Real love, though, will issue in positive actions on behalf of others. John said,
We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. (vv. 16-18)
Here is the essence of God’s love: Jesus laid down his life for us. That is how God showed his love for us. If we are saved by that love and if that love has been poured into our hearts, then we will lay down our lives for one another.
Chances are slim that we will have to literally do what Jesus did and give up our lives for one another. Therefore, it’s all too easy to say that we would do so. The real test is in our actions. Do we have hearts that are so filled with the self-giving, self-emptying love of Jesus Christ that it overflows in practical acts of kindness to our brothers and sisters? There is simply no way in heaven or on earth to reconcile the love of Christ with greedy and selfish actions. Loving hearts and loving actions show that the love of Christ is in our hearts.
Only the grace of God can put the love of God in your heart. Is it there? Such love shows itself in love acts on behalf of others. Are they there?
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Georgia 31, Georgia Tech 17
Georgia defeated in-state arch rival Georgia Tech for the seventh consecutive year. In fact, the Bulldogs have not lost to the Yellow Jackets since Mark Richt became head coach in Athens.
It was a hard-fought game, as this one always is, and GT made it close until well into the second half. Georgia clearly had superior talent and much greater depth than the Jackets and they finally pulled away. Georgia also had luck on their side as three fumbles in their own end zone that could have been recovered by Tech for touchdowns instead turned into touchbacks.
It was good to see Thomas Brown lead the way. The oft-injured senior running back rushed seventeen times for 139 yards. Another senior who missed all of last season with an injury and who is finishing out this season with an injured knee, Sean Bailey, caught three passes for 85 yards. Junior Mohammed Massaquoi caught six passes for 74 yards and a touchdown. Quarterback Matthew Stafford threw for one touchdown and had a thirty one yard run for another.
Georgia’s defense intercepted two passes and recovered a fumble.
Because of Tennessee’s heart-stopping 52-50 win in four overtimes over Kentucky, Georgia will not play in the SEC Championship Game against LSU. Arkansas’ thrilling 50-48 triple overtime win over #1 LSU insures that no SEC team will play in the BCS National Championship game, which is a shame, since the SEC is, in my opinion and in the opinion of many folks who know a lot more it than I, the strongest conference in the NCAA. But, the way that the SEC teams beat up on one another week in and week out is what makes is so strong.
It appears that UGA is a lock for an at-large BCS bowl bid, although in this crazy year we shouldn’t count our chickens before they hatch. Where will the Dawgs land? Well, it won’t be the Sugar Bowl since the SEC champion will get an automatic berth there. Therefore, Georgia could be heading to the Rose, Fiesta, or Orange Bowls. If they go to the Rose, they will play the PAC 10 champion, probably USC. That could only happen if Ohio State plays in the BCS Championship game and does not go to the Rose Bowl. If Georgia goes to the Fiesta Bowl, they would play the Big 12 champion, which would ordinarily be the winner of the Big 12 Championship Game between Oklahoma and Missouri. But if Missouri wins that game they will likely play in the BCS Championship Game; then I would guess that the Big 12 representative in the Fiesta would be Kansas. If the Bulldogs go to Miami, they would play the ACC champion, which will be the winner of the Boston College vs. Virginia Tech game.
Personally, I’d love to see Georgia play USC in the Rose Bowl. That would be a matchup between what are arguably two of the hottest teams in college football here at the end of the season. And, UGA has not played in the “Granddaddy of Them All” since 1943. They’ve never played in the Fiesta Bowl and last appeared in the Orange Bowl in 1960.
It’s been a great season for the Bulldogs. Next season looks good, too, as the Dawgs will return nine starters on defense, Stafford will be a junior, Knowshon Moreno a sophomore, the three freshman starters on the offensive line will be back with a year’s experience under their belts, some seventeen redshirt freshmen will make their debut, including highly touted running back Caleb King—but I’m getting ahead of myself.
We’ll have to do a lot of worrying about the Braves before any of that matters!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)