Most Baptists claim that they do not care for the product, but when we are alone we smile at the commercials featuring “the most interesting man in the world.”  The advertisements depict a bearded, debonair gentleman in his 50s.  While vaguely Spanish music plays in the background the narrator describes “the most interesting man in the world.” 

• If he punched you in the face, you would have to fight off the strong urge to thank him.
• He once taught a German shepherd to bark in Spanish.
• His personality is so magnetic, he is unable to carry credit cards.
• He has been known to cure narcolepsy just by walking into a room.
• His organ donor card also lists his beard.
• He is “the most interesting man in the world.”

Each commercial ends with a signature sign-off: “Stay thirsty, my friends.” 

            I am guessing that you and I have exactly the same reaction—someone needs to make commercials about “the most interesting minister in the world.”

When the most interesting minister leads a silent prayer, birds stop singing. 

When the most interesting minister prays before the offering, the plates fill with credit cards, earrings and gold watches.

Other ministers have to lead the prayer of confession, because the most interesting minister has nothing to say.

During hymns, the congregation wishes the most interesting minister’s lapel mic was on.

            When the most interesting minister reads scripture, most assume she wrote it.
            When the most interesting minister has a baby dedication the baby always cries, when he hands the baby back to the mother.

When the most interesting minister leads the children’s sermon, everyone comes to the front.

When the most interesting minister steps into the baptistery, the water parts.

When the most interesting minister serves communion, it does not taste like grape juice.

When the most interesting minister preaches, cell phones refuse to ring.

The most interesting minister speaks fluent Hebrew and Greek, but never does so in the pulpit.

Nine months after the most interesting minister’s sermon on Song of Solomon, the nursery ran out of space.

When the most interesting minister preached on the Book of Revelation it made sense.

The most interesting minister preached on the war in Afghanistan, abortion, and gay marriage.  Everyone agreed with everything she said.

The most interesting minister quotes The Lighter Side.

The most interesting minister never preaches long enough.

Ministers from other churches join the most interesting minister’s church just to shake his hand.

After Sunday services, the most interesting minister autographs orders of worship—which have been known to show up on e-Bay.

When the organ is broken, the most interesting minister fixes it, without tools.

When the most interesting minister speaks at deacons’ meetings, deacons repent.

The most interesting minister does not go to committee meetings, they come to him.

The youth have a Sunday for her. 

When the most interesting minister served at the Wednesday night supper, the kitchen got a five star rating in the next day’s newspaper. 

When the most interesting minister led a Bible study on Genesis 3, apple sales plummeted.

            When the most interesting minister performs a wedding ceremony, no one looks at the bride.

            When the most interesting minister preaches at a funeral, people cry because the deceased did not get to hear it. 

The most interesting minister performs the Christmas pageant as a one person play. 

When the most interesting minister built a house for Habitat for Humanity, it was immediately renamed Habitat for Divinity.

Billy Graham comes to his crusades.

Joel Osteen copied the most interesting minister’s smile.

The most interesting minister knows your name, your birthday, and the year of your birth—which she never mentions.

The most interesting minister has been to Israel many times, and each time, peace breaks out.

I don’t always go to church, but when I do I prefer my minister.  Stay interesting, ministers.

The Most Interesting Minister in the World

by Brett Younger

            After two weeks in Israel, I feel qualified to offer the kind of advice you might expect only from tour guides with years of experience.

            Try to get to the Holy Land as a young person.  If you are as old as forty-nine, you may find the mountains exhausting and the heat draining.   Fill your pockets with one dollar bills and spend them freely on bottles of water. 

Be prepared to feel like some holy sites would be holier with fewer people.  (Most of us know the feeling of the church getting in the way of our worship.)

            Recognize that some historical sites are a bit sketchy.  A multitude of signs point sightseers to “David’s Tomb.”  The first thing the guide says is, “We are certain that this is not David’s tomb.”  I assume that they found that “Not David’s Tomb” did not draw many tourists.

Leave your skepticism at home.  The Church of the Nativity is probably not on the exact spot of Jesus’ birth.   That does not change the sacred truth that pilgrims have been coming to that spot for almost 1700 years to give thanks for Jesus’ coming.  Just get in line. 

Be grateful for sites that are more likely.  The well in Nazareth has been the only well in town since long before the time of Jesus.  If Mary and Joseph went to a well it was the one I saw (though, admittedly, it did not have a big church on top of it). 

Most places where there is any chance a particular biblical story took place are marked with churches.  I did not see “The Church of the Head of John the Baptist on a Platter,” but I would not have been surprised.

            Write down the names of churches you see, in case you are ever starting a church and want something out of the ordinary.  Have you seen any of these in your town— The Church of the Adolescent Jesus, The Church of the Flagellation or The Church of Our Lady of the Spasm?

Float in the Dead Sea if you must, but do not expect to enjoy it.  It is basically a bath in poisoned baby oil.

You will quickly recognize that when the Bible says that Jesus went to the wilderness it was easy, because 99% of the country is wilderness.  Do not, however, ask your guide born in Israel if the person who first called this “the land flowing with milk and honey” was being sarcastic.  He will not be amused. 

Don’t expect camel rides or belly dancers, but take a camera anyway.  

Enjoy the exotic foods.  I started my trip looking forward to falafel, shawarma, and the fish’s head being left on.  By the end I was looking for McDonald’s.
            Make your way through the crowd, kneel and push a list of prayer concerns into a crack in the Wailing Wall.  It couldn’t hurt.   

Sit on the beach where the resurrected Jesus served the disciples the Lord’s breakfast.  Wish you could have been there, and then realize that you are.

Get baptized in the Jordan River—even though you have to walk through Disneyland to get there.  You still might feel a little of what Jesus felt.

Pray through the Beatitudes while sitting on the Mount of the Beatitudes.  Read about Jesus’ birth while you are at the Shepherds’ Field in Bethlehem, the stilling of the storm while on a boat on the Sea of Galilee, Zacchaeus while standing beneath the oldest sycamore tree in Jericho, and Peter’s denial while in the courtyard where it happened.  Walk the Via Dolorosa, the way of suffering, and marvel at Jesus’ courage.

The best stories are often about people traveling far from home to discover that what they most need was at home all the time.  A Catholic priest welcomed our group by saying that he hoped we were not there as religious tourists, but had come to “meet the Risen Christ.”  We could have responded that we believe that we can meet Christ every day—no matter where we are.  Sometimes the treasure we go looking for has been with us all along.

Your Guide to the Holy Land

by Brett Younger

             When I was growing up, I had no desire to go to the Holy Land—which is what we always called it at our church, never “Israel,” always “The Holy Land,” as if there were no flies there.  People came back with what might be considered tacky souvenirs—holy water drawn by the woman at the well, tiny crowns of thorns and Lily of the Valley perfume.  The excited travelers made us watch slides of them making funny faces while eating strange food, riding on a donkey that is “the direct descendant of the one Jesus rode into Jerusalem,” and pointing at the empty tomb as though they are angels in the Easter pageant.  They usually had no pictures of Jewish people or poor people, but they had multiple shots of Floridians baptizing one another.  When my fourth grade Sunday school teacher went she brought back yarmulkes for everyone.  (The previous summer we got mouse ears from Disneyworld.)

            Veterans of the Holy Land decorated their living rooms with commemorative mustard seeds, widow’s mites, and wooden donkeys.  They made Israel seem like a theme park—“Jesusland.”  I pictured the Holy Land like “Six Flags Over Palestine” with rides where you climb “Zacchaeus’ Tree,” ride out a “Storm on the Sea of Galilee” or herd demon-possessed pigs.  I assumed there were “Loaves and Fishes” restaurants and police officers dressed like Roman soldiers—sort of a biblical Branson.  Mark Twain said that the second coming was never going to happen because Jesus would not want to go back to Israel.  The neighbors must have invited the Twains over to see their slides.

            It is, nonetheless, time for me to go to Israel, because I have started to feel like the French teacher who has never been to Paris (and I have not marked anything off my bucket list since I went to a Jimmy Buffett concert).  I think I can be trusted not to give little shakers of Dead Sea salt as Christmas presents.  If I ride a camel I will not force someone to take a picture.  I realize I will have to be strong.  Clever salespeople with miniature wood nativity sets, praying hands and key chains made from the Cedars of Lebanon are waiting for people like me. 

Will I be able to resist Nazareth candles, Bethlehem incense, and Jerusalem honey?  What if I am offered what looks like a good deal—I am not good at math so I will not be completely sure—on Christmas tree ornaments, parchment scrolls or Song of Solomon Anointing Oil?  What if I see some fine-looking myrrh and know a friend back home needs some?  What if I come across Holy land soil inserts so that I can “walk on Holy Ground”? 

My trip with the inimitable church historian Loyd Allen and eighteen pastors is more of a pilgrimage than a tour.  We will spend a week in a monastery in Galilee and a week in Jerusalem.  Each day we will share morning prayers and then travel to a holy site.  Each afternoon we will study a biblical story that took place at the spot we have just visited.  The stereotypical trip to Israel is to hurriedly “run where Jesus walked.”  Our hope is to reverently “sit where Jesus walked.”

            I trust that the picture of Jesus in my head will soon look more like a Middle Eastern Jew and less like the pictures in children’s books.  When I sing “born is the King of Israel” it may seem different.        

            I want to see the Garden of Gethsemane, the Jordan River and the Mount of Olives, but I may appreciate the common sights more than the crowded sites.  I look forward to praying where Jesus prayed, worshipping where Jesus worshipped, and listening where Jesus listened. 

            I am not planning to come home and kill conversations by starting every sentence with “When I was in the Holy Land . . . , ” but the more I think about it, I cannot make any promises.

To Sit Where Jesus Walked

by Brett Younger

When our friends at Smyth & Helwys asked us to write a book for their annual Bible study, Carol and I were delighted to say yes.  When they said this was a year to study a Gospel, we were even more pleased.  When they said it was Mark, we thought, “At least it is not Leviticus.”  As Gospels go, Mark is not many people’s first choice.

Matthew has the visit of the Magi, the Lord’s Prayer and the Sermon on the Mount.  Luke has the shepherds, the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son.  John has the wedding at Cana, the woman at the well, and the washing of the disciples’ feet.  We will not be writing about these stories, because Mark does not mention any of them.  If Mark went to a writer’s conference, the other writers would want to know what Mark’s editor was thinking.  Mark is not going to be the first Gospel featured on Oprah’s Book Club.

What Mark does have is lots of verses that will never be cross-stitched.

 “As you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them” (6:11).

“Some of his disciples were eating with defiled hands, that is, without washing them” (7:2).

“He had put saliva on his eyes” (8:22).

“How much longer must I put up with you?” (9:19).

 “In the resurrection whose wife will she be?  For the seven had married her” (12:23)

“He left the linen cloth and ran off naked” (14:52).

The next time you are visiting a Christian book store ask the clerk if they have any of these verses from Mark on a T-shirt. 

We have been thinking about a title.  My first suggestion was Mark: Your Fourth Favorite Gospel—which is true for many, but Carol feels like that is not a name that jumps off the shelf.  My second idea was Mark:  Shorter than the Others, which is also true and would appeal to those with short attention spans, but not the most positive spin either.  If we focused on the lack of a nativity scene, we could call the book Mark:  Skipping Christmas.  Another option was to concentrate on the story of Jesus sending swine off a cliff.  We could call it The Gospel of Mark: When Pigs Fly.  Carol quickly rejected all of these as well as one centering on the cursing of the fig tree, When Jesus Doesn’t Give a Fig.

Bach wrote, “The Passion according to St. Matthew” and “The Passion according to St. John,” but never got around to “The Passion of St. Mark.”  In the new Celebrating Grace hymnal’s “Index of Scriptural Bases of Hymns,” Matthew has forty-two listings, Luke has forty-one, and Mark has sixteen.  Mark does not lend itself to music.  This is not the gospel for people who stop to sing, but for people in a hurry to get where they need to go.  Mark uses the word “immediately” twenty-seven times.

Jesus covers a lot of ground.  He does not do much teaching—only four parables.  Things are frightening, and Jesus, like Mark, is in a hurry to do what has to be done.  Jesus keeps moving, scattering miracles.  The second Gospel includes lots of miracles, especially healing ones.

Mark is not about explaining details.  His purpose is to make it clear who Jesus is.  Mark says it right in the first sentence.  Jesus is the Son of God, come to change all of creation, come to change us.  Mark—which is moving up on our list of favorite Gospels—wants us to be in a hurry, too, to follow Christ and share the good news.

A Speech You Won’t Hear at the Georgia Baptist Convention

The Georgia Baptist Convention is at it again.  In November they plan to disfellowship (is that even a word?) Druid Hills Baptist Church in Atlanta for the crime of calling a female co-pastor.  It does not matter that Rev. Mimi Walker is a committed minister who preaches the Gospel with passion and integrity.  After being excommunicated, the GBC will refuse to accept funds from the ninety-six-year-old congregation, but, interestingly, they will not return the money the church has given to the GBC since Mimi and her husband Graham began serving in 2008.  I have been thinking about the expulsion of my good friends and their good church and have been trying to imagine how the argument could become any more foolish.  Here’s a speech that will not be given at the Georgia Baptist Convention, but you are welcome to borrow it if you want to try.

“Mr. President, distinguished messengers and other Bible-believing Georgians, I rejoice that Georgia Baptists are spreading the gospel from Rome to Valdosta, Columbus to Savannah, Atlanta to Augusta, Athens to Americus, in Ellijay, Enigma, Fargo, Cairo, Egypt, Damascus, Sparta, Glory, Hephzibah, Hiawassee, and Daisy.  The gospel is being shared with old and young, rich and poor, conservative and more conservative, native Georgian and foreign interloper.

“I stand to commend this august body for taking seriously the admonition in 1 Timothy 2:11-12, and I read, as all Christians should, from the King James Version, ‘Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection.  But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.’  We follow this infallible commandment joyfully, but this chapter has fifteen verses and each one of them is equally inspired and inerrant.  This leads to my distress that we’re not taking the whole Bible seriously enough. 

“Immediately following, in verses 13 and 14, we read, ‘For Adam was first formed, then Eve.  And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression.’  (This is, of course, obvious.  Verse 15 is the one heretics overlook.)  ‘Notwithstanding she shall be saved in childbearing, if they continue in faith and charity and holiness with sobriety.’ 

“You may be saying, ‘What about Lottie Moon?  Lottie didn’t have children.’  (Mother Teresa didn’t have children either, but she was a Catholic, enough said.)  I know there are liberals who would like for God to make an exception for Lottie (also Dolly Parton), but the Bible says it.  I believe it.  That settles it.

“My greater concern is the passage a few sentences earlier—1 Timothy 2:9, ‘women should adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.’  

“We’re all for ‘modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety’ and I am no fan of ‘broided hair,’ but the ‘gold or pearls’ part may be problematic at some otherwise acceptable Georgia Baptist churches.  

“It may be hard for you to imagine upstanding Christian women not wearing wedding rings, but that’s what it says.  1Timothy also clearly prohibits True Love Waits purity rings.  We need to warn and punish those who sinfully wear gold cross earrings.

“One group that has been given far too long to repent is Girls in Action.  When a G.A. reaches the level of Queen Regent with Scepter, why can’t she be honored without the wicked use of gold?  What are we teaching tomorrow’s WMU?

“I’ve heard about a church where the pastor gives those who are baptized a gold necklace with the Christian fish symbol.  Those corrupt churches will be more comfortable in the Episcopal Church. 

“You may have some anxiety for the people who work in James Avery’s ‘Christian jewelry’ division, but they are an abomination.  Perhaps they could switch to printing 1 Timothy 2:9 on plastic bracelets.

            “I know that some will think it harsh when we kick out all of the churches where women wear gold, but if we’re going to be honest and consistent, we have no choice.”

Our tickets for the Hawks-Warriors game were only—and I write this sarcastically—$30, so we were up high and at the end of the court.  I was excited when we picked up the tickets because they said “Row 13.”  I still have not figured out how there were 75 rows between the court and “Row 13.”

 At halftime, the ushers gave the young people seated in front of me long white balloons—the kind people used to make balloon animals with–only now they are called “thunderstix.”  The justification for the indefensible cruelty of giving the young people in front of me long white balloons was the questionable belief that waving these would distract the opposing team into poor shooting.  I suppose the bizarre assumption was that a Golden State player would go to the free throw line and just as he was about to shoot think, “Those skinny white balloons are really neat.  I’ve got to get one of those.”  Thinking this would cause him to miss the free throw.  This seems unlikely.

Wouldn’t it be better for fans to hold up signs that say, “Did you leave your oven on?” “Did you forget your mother’s birthday?” or “If free throws are free, then why are you making several million dollars for missing them?”  These signs seem at least as distracting as balloons. 

As far as I could tell I was the only person bothered by the ubiquitous inflatables.  I kept thinking, “I paid $30 to watch a basketball game through a forest of long, white balloons.  These balloons are not keeping the Golden State Warriors from seeing the goal.  They are keeping me from seeing the Golden State Warriors.”

            Realizing that balloons do not add to my enjoyment of basketball helped me recognize that there are other things that I do not need with my basketball game. 

I do not need a dozen nineteen-year-old girls—the A-Town Dancers—in skimpy outfits shaking their backsides during timeouts.

I do not need nine-year-old girls (who I am sure think being an A-Town Dancer would be way cooler than being a professor) shaking what will one day be their backsides on the Jumbotron.

I do not need Harry the Hawk, who looks inexplicably like a rooster, shaking his backside, as he or she frequently did.

I do not need to watch guys older than me shoot basketballs at big buckets to win groceries.  If they need groceries, they should not spend $30 to go to a game.

I do not need to hear who can scream the loudest to win a pizza.

I do not need Frisbees flying through the arena or T-shirts shot from cannons at unsuspecting members of the crowd.

I do not need Queen’s “We Will Rock You” at a volume to make my head ache or twinkling disco balls that make my head swim.    

I really do not need the short white guys in sequined jump suits who use trampolines so that they can dunk during timeouts like the tall black guys who do not need trampolines do during the game.

Dr. Naismith would not recognize his game.  It was enough to make Bobby Knight throw a chair.  People who love basketball—the game itself—deserve better.  If we are not careful, we fail to see what we came to see.

I realize that confessing my dislike for skinny white balloons, skinny energetic dance teams, and shiny jump suits makes me sound like a grumpy old man, but I think it has more to do with my inability to focus in the midst of a cacophony of glitter and rocket-propelled clothing.  Some of us do better when we watch one thing at a time.  We need to pay attention to catch what most deserves our attention.

            This is a lifelong struggle.  We have to learn to push aside the balloons, Frisbees, and dancing girls who are always trying to capture our interest in order to focus on what really matters.  If we don’t, then we will miss the game. 

Missing the Game

By Brett Younger

A quick word of Peculiar Preacher news . . .

I recently began serving as the Interim Pastor at First Baptist Dalton.  Below, you will find a short article concerning Interim Pastors.   You can find podcasts of my sermons at FBC Dalton’s website as well as learn more about the great congregation.

Visit: http://www.firstbaptistdalton.com/sermons.asp

I was a pastor for twenty-two years, then (while working weekdays as a professor) a guest preacher for a year and a half, and now—thanks to the gracious people at First Baptist Church, Dalton—I am an interim pastor.  My friends have suggested that I am working my way up the ecclesiastical ladder.  I am learning that the differences in these three jobs are subtle, but significant.

For instance, pastors have file cabinets filled with years of sermons.  Interims have a set of sermons for each season of the church year.  Guest preachers have a file marked “Sermon.”

Pastors work hard to plan the worship service.  Interims try to fit what the staff has planned.  Guest preachers try to remember to e-mail their sermon title.

Pastors rotate their Sunday best.  Interims have a couple of choices.  Guest preachers go to the cleaners every four churches.

Pastors fill in when Sunday school teachers call in sick.  Interims go to Sunday school assemblies to get a donut.  Guest preachers get to church halfway through Sunday school. 

Pastors have their own parking spot.  Interims try to avoid parking in someone else’s spot.  Guest preachers park across the street.

Pastors know all the children’s names.  Interims know the staff’s children.  Guest preachers wish the children would be quiet during the sermon.

Pastors try to make improvements between the 8:30 and the 11:00 service.  Interims show off the names they have learned.  Guest preachers look for coffee.

Pastors know who not to hug.  Interims hug everyone who looks like they might want to be hugged.  Guest preachers shake hands. 

Pastors pay when they go out to eat.  Interims never pick up a check.  Guest preachers order off the dollar menu at the drive-thru.

Pastors try to keep things moving in the right direction during deacons’ meetings.  Interims sit in the back.  Guest preachers watch television. 

Pastors go to the hospital each Monday.  Interims go to the hospital when a deacon is ill.  Guest preachers do not know where the hospital is.

Pastors worry about the church’s budget.  Interims tell the church to worry about the church budget.  Guest preachers forget that churches have budgets.

Pastors go on mission trips to underprivileged areas.  Interims praise church members who go on mission trips to underprivileged areas.  Guest preachers go to Florida. 

Pastors find that Holy Week is the busiest time of the year.  Interims feel like they are pastors again at Easter.  Guest preachers don’t have an Easter sermon. 

Pastors’ families feel like everyone is watching.  Interims introduce their families at Easter.  Guest preachers call their spouse on the way home. 

            Pastors think they have to fix mistakes the last pastor made.  Interims try to fix problems before the next pastor arrives.  Guest preachers make jokes about the pastor being at the beach.

            Pastors have messy offices.  Interims have several books on the shelf.  Guest preachers have the aforementioned file marked “Sermon.”

            When I was growing up, evangelists offered invitations to “full-time Christian service.”  It sounded right. “Part-time Christian service” does not seem like much of a commitment.  Now I am not so sure.  Maybe there is something to be said for “part-time Christian service.” Being an interim seems like fun.

Pastors, interims and guest preachers have different jobs, but they all have the joy and responsibility of standing before God’s people and saying, “I’ve been listening for God’s word and this is what I think I heard God say.” 

            On most Saturday mornings I go to Mountain Park Park (Note to the editor—that’s not a typo.  It really is the name of the park.  Mountain Park is the name of the city). (Second note to the editor—maybe you should leave the previous note in the column.  It might be funny.)  (Third note—do you think you should leave in the second note, too?)

            My park is set up for old people and small children.  The track winds around tennis courts where everyone plays doubles, a playground with tiny slides and swings, and a pond with old ducks.  The mile-long path has wooden markers each tenth of a mile offering encouragement to runners every couple of minutes.

            “Run” may not be the exactly the right word to describe what usually goes on at my park.  “Jog” would be closer.  “Trot,” “lope” and “saunter” fit.  We go slow.  We time our miles by the position of the sun.

            My crowd wears knee braces, warm up pants and “Carter/Mondale” T-shirts.  We include lots of moms with strollers.  (I have only seen one mother smoking while out getting her baby some fresh air.) 

            Our children have given us iPods so we don’t talk much, but we recognize one another and (even as we listen to the Tony Bennett our children downloaded for us) nod in a friendly manner.   We admire one another, because we know it takes more than a New Year’s resolution to keep people like us showing up.

            I’ve named one of the regulars “Rocky.”  He wears an orange University of Tennessee visor.  He must be in his eighties.  The way he runs makes me think at least one hip and one knee are recent additions.  He moves slowly, but he is often at it when I arrive and still at it when I leave.   

            “Mabel” waited too long to start substituting the side salad for the fries.  I’m guessing she is there on doctor’s orders.  It is easy to imagine her a few years after her kids left home suddenly surprised that she is wearing XXL.  She brings a white poodle—“Killer”—who keeps her moving though not always in the right direction. 

When I got to the park one recent Saturday, I immediately knew something was terribly wrong.  Young people in $200 Nikes were dashing around at a startling pace.  The high school cross country team had invaded our family friendly track.  A thundering herd of sixteen-year-olds with 2% body fat (even though they still eat double cheeseburgers) were running five minute miles like they owned the place.  They were frightening our ducks.

What had always been a leisurely stroll now felt like running with the bulls of Pamplona.  Parents cheered their sons wildly.  Coaches lined the way with stop watches and megaphones.  If the enthusiastic crowd even noticed slow-moving people like Mabel and me, it must have been with condescension. 

            At first I felt bitter about being run off the road, but after the whippersnappers left I calmed down and began to wonder whether the wrong people are getting the applause. 

            Who are the real runners?  It takes more for my gang to be there than the 100-pounders with teenage knees.  Mabel sweats, labors, and struggles, but she keeps coming.  Most people Rocky’s age have given up, but he still shows up.  Maybe the tenth graders darting around the track will still be at it forty years from now, but isn’t the applause premature?

The runners we should admire the most may not be the young fast ones, but the grandparents who drag themselves out of bed when they are feeling sore all over. 

            The real heroes and heroines may not get the loudest ovations.  The quickest, smartest and best-looking should not get all of the praise.  The best Sunday school teacher may not be the one with the biggest class, but the gracious friend who has been caring for the same good people for decades.  The best pastor may not be the one with the biggest church, but the minister who faithfully serves a congregation that struggles to survive.  God’s finest are the ones—young and old, large and small—who are not running for applause. 

            We spend December planning and preparing.  We drive into the parking lot that used to be a highway in hopes of making it to the zoo that used to be the mall.  We listen to Manheim Steamroller on the radio and look at plastic figures kneeling on floodlit lawns.  We set out the familiar crèche and hang sentimental ornaments on the tree.  A few brave souls try to recreate the smell we remember coming from mother’s kitchen. 

If we are not paying attention, Christmas starts to feel like something with which to deal:  “We’ll get everything done and then we can enjoy the holidays.”

            We do not talk about our secret hope that we will feel like children again with all the innocence and excitement that comes with it.  We want to hear bells.  We want it to snow.  We want everything to be wonderful.  We try to make Christmas happen. 

            Our earnest, misguided attempts to force Christmas to come do not work.  Some of you will be ready for your children to go back to school about December 23.  Some have visitors on the way you secretly wish were not coming.  We have moments when we are tempted to skip the whole thing.  Who needs the extra work?  Why are we the ones doing all the work?  Why is Scrooge so misunderstood?  Where can we get one of those buttons that says, “Humbug”?

             The obvious truth is that Christmas is a gift that we do not give, but can only be given.  By the time Christmas Day gets here it seems like a racecar that has run out of gas.  Christmas begins to feel like just another day.  It is twenty-four hours.  Phones ring.  Sick people are still sick.  Lonely people are still lonely.  We end up sitting on the hillside tending our sheep, as though it was an ordinary day.   

            Our mistake is thinking we are in charge.  If we let go of the idea that we are in control, then we can be surprised again.  God will astonish us with moments of grace. 

A moment when you open a peculiar gift.  You feel like you should pretend it is what you want, but you cannot imagine how the giver could ever picture you wearing antlers that light up.

A moment when a child gives you a handmade Christmas card with a big gold star on the front and, for reasons you cannot explain, your eyes mist up.

            A moment when you think of someone who was with you last year, but is not this year.  But along with the sadness you have gotten used to feeling at their absence, you are surprised to also feel gratitude for the time that you had with them.

            A moment when we can almost hear the songs of angels, and cannot figure out why it would happen to us.  How did God decide to love us? 

            We cannot make Christmas meaningful, because we are not in charge.  The best we can do is take the spotlight off the extras and look for the star.  We are to hope it is so, to be open to the possibility that God is present.  It sounds contradictory to wait for a surprise, but that’s how Christmas happens.  We give up our expectations of what we think should happen and open our hearts to God’s surprising joy.  We push aside our cynicism and let God help us believe again.  We listen to the songs God is always singing. 

We join the chorus singing the carols, not because everyone else is singing, but because something stirs within us.  We give and receive gifts, not because it is expected, but for the joy of it.  We look carefully at the manger and feel what the shepherds felt seeing earth lifted to heaven and heaven stooping to earth.  We remember that God still comes in babies who are easily ignored, hungry people we seldom feed, and lonely people we hardly hear.

            Christmas happens when we least expect it, when we receive the gift of Christ as a spirit and a hope, born in our hearts.

“Getting to Christmas”

The Lighter Side

Brett Younger