Foxed Out

     I do not watch FOX news.  I don't even know if we have it in our basic cable package.  Reed and I try to limit our tv time to one hour per day.  I am not going to spend that hour watching the same news stories over and over or researching things to be worried about.  Many of the same people who ridicule the idea that without our environmental intervention the planet is doomed, are equally convinced that without our political intervention the country is doomed.  Too bad the God in control of the planet does not control our politics. Oh wait, he does.
     Each Christian should do what God has called them to and I greatly admire Christians willing to run for political office, knowing they will be subject to scrutiny and attack, ala Herman Cain. I also believe God calls Christians to support conservative candidates and legislation with their time and finances.  But I don't believe God calls any of us to criticism and despair. I want the overflow of my life to be about Christ, not politics, and I find that very hard to do when I fill my mind with media encouragement to look down on people who don't see things my way.  If even spiritual truth is a clashing cymbal without love, what must our trashing cynicism sound like to God?  If I find something on FOX that helps me fulfill Phil. 4:8, I will watch it, but frankly, the overflow of my news junkie Christian friends is seldom pure, lovely or of good report. I don't need help to be arrogant and critical.  I can do that all by myself.

Incomprehensible Incarnation

     I, who won't even stay at a cheap hotel, marvel at the thought of the incarnation.  One of the things most adults fear is dependency. We dread the helplessness of old age.  Babies don't resent being helpless, they don't know anything else, but Christ knew exactly what was in store for him and what he was leaving behind.  I am glad for our sakes that he was willing to do what was needed to accomplish redemption, but I wonder why, having achieved that goal, he didn't leave his human body behind.  He chose to identify with us forever, perhaps for our sake, probably for purposes known only to the godhead, certainly to fulfill all righteousness.
     And then there's me--unwilling to leave the comforts of my life long enough to go camping, or talk to that ragged person in the parking lot, or acknowledge my dependence by asking for prayer. The cheap hotel of my body is expensive to maintain, in desperate need of remodeling, the rooms are filled with junk, the tv shows mostly trash and yet the Holy Spirit is willing to move in long term until the complete renovation at an unscheduled future date.  If Christ was willing to put on human flesh for eternity and put up with me, what is truly incomprehensible is my willingness to put down my fellow man.  There is a lot more to sharing humanity than wearing skin.

Speaking of the Dead "il"

     Kim Jong Il, who won the dubious honor of being Parade Magazine's worst dictator several years in a row, is now dead and facing a godless eternity.  I would like to add the old testament epitaph "to no one's regret", but it appears some North Koreans are actually mourning him.  I have no idea why, but the phrase "better the devil you know" comes to mind.  Maybe even a despot grows on you after 17 years, maybe they think his son will be worse, or maybe they fear the country will collapse into anarchy.  One lesson I learned from studying the history of Israel is that the worst tyrant is better than anarchy.  When everyone is doing right in his own eyes, no one is. I do not know what is in store for North Korea but I know what is in store for Kim Jong Il--"the mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding fine".

Light in the Window

     My poetry class is finished so now I must post poems without the critiques that helped me polish some of the rough edges.  The following is one of several I hope to write about my maternal grandparents.  It is not just based on a true story, it is a true story.  The spiritual symbolism is so obvious I felt including it in the text would be like whacking the reader with a hammer.

     Light in the Window

When my grandparents married
in 1928,
they lived at the edge of the badlands
of eastern Montana.
Money was scarce
coal was plentiful,
so they traded loads
of coal
for goods in town.

Doors were unlocked
day and night.
There was nothing much
to steal anyway,
and neighbors were welcome
to what little they had.

In winter
locals lit an oil lamp
to place in the window
so anyone lost in the cold
could see the light
and find safety.
Keeping the light
to yourself
could cost a man
his life.

It was a different time
I think
as I lock the doors
and shut off the lights,
but the cold and lost
still wander
and the badlands
are dark as hell.

Dissing Stress

     The Christmas season is winding up, although judging by retailers it has been winding up since the day after Halloween. My December women's magazines are filled with an oxymoronic combination of how to make the perfect Christmas and how to handle the stress of Christmas. I am remarkably ahead of schedule this year; the gifts are bought, wrapped and delivered, Christmas cards mailed, tree is up, house decorated. I am glad to have those tasks completed, but any stress I felt about getting them done would be self imposed.  I think a lot of the stress of Christmas comes from unrealistic expectations we place on ourselves.  American life is busy, but our stress is the stress of abundance.
     Stress is not having your daughter's ballet recital and son's school program on the same night, stress is having two children and only enough food for one, or being unable to send your children to school because their small income is needed to support the family.  Stress is not looking for a parking place at the mall, it is having no transportation to take a sick spouse to the doctor.  Stress is not giving the perfect gift, it is living in unremitting poverty.
     In American culture stress is blamed for most health and emotional problems, and there is certainly validity to the harm that comes to both body and mind from never having, or taking, opportunity to rest and renew.
But Americans are stressed because we are blessed--with opportunities and choices unimaginable in most parts of the world.  I do not claim to be exempt from busyness, God usually uses busy people, but if Jesus made time to be quiet and alone, I certainly can.  I can think of better things to give myself for Christmas than self inflicted stress.

Stop Reading Now

    If you believe that King James English is inspired regardless of the content, stop reading now.  This post is not making fun of the Bible, I love and respect the Bible, it is simply a story written in antiquated language.

     Now the coming of the oven was on this wise.  One the eve of the Sabbath, the mistress of the house saw that the supper was not brown and savory as in past times. When she stretched out her hand, she felt no burning heat coming from the Negev of the oven.  She called for her husband who rent it asunder to take the broken piece unto the repairer of ovens. "This part is still whole," the laborer proclaimed.  "Good," the mistress said in her heart,"I shall seek a new oven".
     The mistress wandered the wilderness of Lowe's seeking assistance, because she knew not of ovens with less than three score years.  Bill, a seller of ovens for many years, shewed unto her one whose burning heat came from winds hidden within it.  The mistress longed for the oven and told it unto her husband.  "Buy it in haste." he said, for it was of lesser price than many of its kind.  "It will be delivered unto thee in one week," sayeth the seller of ovens.  But this displeased the mistress for she had much food to prepare for the coming Feast of the Nativity.  So her husband proceeded with haste to Lowe's to bring the oven back with his own conveyance.  When the mistress returned from the singing of carols at the Christian school, lo, the oven was in her house, and she was filled with joy.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

     I haven't blogged for a while.  I would like to say it is because I have been so busy getting ready for Christmas.  It is true that I am remarkably ahead of schedule this year, my gifts are bought, wrapped and delivered, the house is decorated, cards are mailed, but that is not why I haven't written--it is the Ghost.  For those of us who grew up in homes with addictions, abuse or, in my case, mental illness, our Christmas tradition was for the problem to get worse.  I call it the Ghost of Christmas Past.  For me it is not actual memories of bad things that happened at Christmas, it is the presence of feelings from the past.  Holidays are a focal point for memories.  We usually remember things that happened on holidays more than at other times through the year.  Holidays are a time when expectations run high, making the reality seem that much more disappointing. The Ghost doesn't ruin my Christmas, it just casts a shadow over an otherwise happy time.
     The bad news is the Ghost still comes, the good news is it comes later every year.  What used to come in September as a feeling that something threatening was just behind me, is now a mild sadness that began in December.  Someday the Ghost may stop appearing at all.  My best expression of this is the following poem.


     To All the Ghosts of Christmas Past

To all the ghosts of Christmas Past
whose vivid memories yearly cast
   their shadows on my joy,

As winter nears, I feel your touch
reach through the years, gray tendrils clutch
   and drag me to the past.

I close my mind to the memories
but, like disembodied spirits, these
   feelings still remain.

Despite the many happy years
of Christmas with my children near,
   the haunting goes on yet.

I wonder if I'll ever be
old enough to be set free
   and send the ghosts away,

to stand unshadowed near the tree
and feel the peace God meant to be
   part of Christmas Day.                                                            Dec. 2009