The congregation I serve as pastor, is a church plant of the Evangelical Free Church of America. Yes, we are as advertised, evangelicals, though these days with gluten-free, sugar-free, and caffeine-free products, a person might surmise we are not.
The day after Christmas, what my kin call Boxing Day, a kinsman posted on Facebook pictures of various Christmas cards reading, “JOY to the world!” and “Peace on Earth,” then gave this advice for the new year, “We must find joy where we can since peace eludes us.” At first blush, this advice seems insightful given the bleak state of our world; news outlets are awash with reports of crime and war. Peace on earth seems nonexistent and joy a rare commodity. The reason these proclamations of joy and peace seem such non sequiturs is that they have been reduced to mere holiday slogans severed from their source.
My attitude toward New Years Eve has been a mixed bag. As a kid, it was the one day of the year that I was allowed to stay up late, but I never could stay awake. In college, New Years Eve always promised a raucous party, one that I would never be able to remember the next day. When I joined a band, New Years Eve became the night I made “big” money doing something I loved.
It is December, and our neighborhoods have exploded with strings of sparkling lights spilling off roofs and hugging hedges. The colder, crisper nights, like the pathetic fallacy of a Shakespearean play, have lent a modicum of credibility to the artificial icicles dripping off the eaves. Chubby inflatable snowmen, Santas, and cartoon characters sway gently in the chilly breeze in improvised choreography to some unheard night song. Nativity scenes softly lit offer a quiet counterpoint to the eclectic spectacle, reminding those who dare to ponder that there is a Christ whose quiet incarnation in Bethlehem brought hope to the world.
Over four of the five weeks of December, many churches will, in some fashion, observe the season of Advent. By most liturgical calendars, Advent began the last Sunday in November, but the church I pastor, like some other churches, has opted to begin its observance on the first Sunday of December and ending on Sunday morning, December 24.
My closet has been the longtime home of two shirts. Like the best of friends, they literally have had my back through thick and thin offering their familiar and comfortable embrace. Cotton. Soft. A comfy fit. They are my favorite shirts.
I have an idol…well, not really an idol, but a TV character whom I jokingly claim to be my hero. His name is Onslow, and he is the brother-in-law of Hyacinth Bucket, much to her chagrin. The TV show is “Keeping Up Appearances,” a Brit-com in which Hyacinth, a matronly woman with working-class roots, desperately tries to prove to everyone that she is upper class. “It’s Boo-kay!” she corrects with exasperation whenever anyone correctly pronounces her last name as “Bucket.” Her henpecked husband, Richard, resignedly goes along with her elaborate attempts to put on airs. Unfortunately, her relatives keep showing up.
Despite the Christmas decorations in department stores, it is Thanksgiving Day, the day which, in theory, we give thanks. The question that sits before us like the proverbial, giant turkey in the room into which no one dares slice, is: “To whom are we giving thanks?” If you gather on this holiday with family and friends to enjoy an abundant table laden with the traditional fare and someone asks that question, how would you answer?
My wife and I are not “beach people.” We could be living in Nebraska for the few times we have been to the beach in the last five years. It takes having out of town company to get us there. Our attitude was the same when we lived in Naples, Fl, for twelve years, and before that when we lived in Jupiter, Fl. In fact, we have lived in Florida for most of our adult lives. The question going through your mind right now is, “Why?” Two words – God’s call.
It has happened again despite our best efforts to stave off such travesties. We purchased bags of candy anticipating a steady stream of costumed neighborhood kids and only a handful of them showed up. Now we are “stuck with” a large bowl of some of my favorite candy. Oh, the horror!
