The Personal Nature of Holy Week

 HOLY WEEK IS PERSONAL.

This is Holy Week. Depending on your background and upbringing, this may mean different things to you. Perhaps you think of this week as a time of reflection, to remember the self-sacrifice of Jesus and to act accordingly. Perhaps you think of it in relationship to community – a shared celebration honoring new life, the return of flowers and plants and wildlife. Perhaps you only think of this as a time of year – when seeds are sown and tended in hope that there will one day be a harvest of reward.

No matter what you may believe about Holy Week, there is one thing that all the forces of darkness and evil that undeniably exist in this present world do not want you to realize. Evil doesn’t care if you celebrate the seasons. Evil doesn’t even care if you celebrate community. Evil will even let it go if you celebrate a good man with good ideas that changed the world.

What evil doesn’t want you to know is that Holy Week is PERSONAL.

Evil doesn’t want you to understand the fact that if you were the only person in existence, Holy Week still would have happened. Even if you were the one who took a “good man” and put him on a cross. Even if you were the one that pounded nails into his hands and feet and then stood back to watch as his life slowly and excruciatingly faded from his body.

In reality, you did.

Whether you want to acknowledge you are that bad or not, you did. I did. I stepped back in time and took a hammer and drove spikes into the kindest, most powerful, most humble man who ever walked the face of the earth. I screamed for his death. I spat in his face and pulled out his beard. I ripped open his back with an ugly tool of torture.

I drove the nails into his flesh. I watched him struggle for breath until he breathed no more.

So did you.

This seems a savage idea to share during a time of celebration. And if you’ve never considered it before, you probably won’t believe it at first. You had nothing to do with his death. You would never treat someone the way Jesus of Nazareth was treated by his own people and by the oppressing Roman Empire.

It doesn’t change the fact you did it.

That’s why I say that this week is personal. Go back to that alternate reality again, the one where you are the only human being ever created. The one Jesus came to and gave you your sight, your health. He provided the food you needed. He sheltered you and protected you and taught you how to live in such a way that would bring you blessing and peace.

And then you killed him in the cruelest way imaginable.

You think that’s not possible? Think again. You absolutely would have done it, just as they did. Nothing in you is different than what was in them.

But this personal story doesn’t stop there. You see, there was another side to the proverbial coin. Jesus came to you knowing you would kill him. Knowing you would take everything from him. He knew you would despise him and hate him for loving you. He knew EVERYTHING.

And he still came. Because he knew there was a greater plan at work. A plan for him to secure the power not only to heal you and provide for you and teach you and love you, but a plan for him to make you like him. To take your stony, dead, cruel heart and make it soft, and warm, and alive. To give you a heart like his.

He looked at your face, so dear to him despite the contempt written all over it. He saw what you could be if he took the blame for all your evil on himself. If he made himself the sacrifice, the payment for a debt you had incurred that you could never repay. And he loved you… YOU… so much that he was willing to take your scorn in order to save your eternity.

Holy Week is personal. It’s personal because he made it personal. He made a move you can’t deny or ignore, not if you want to settle the matter of your emptiness and futility. Not to mention your eternal existence. He wants you safe with him. He wants to give you ultimate peace that passes your understanding of the word “peace.” He wants to show you himself, reveal to you his wonder-working power to do what you cannot even fathom in your present state.

Have faith that he can change your heart. Have faith that his power – a power not only willing to go to the grave, but to come out of it again – that he can do THAT with your heart. He’s done it before. I’m here to testify! If you do not know what it means to have your heart come alive, you are missing the best thing that has ever been offered to you. It’s worth more than all the money you can earn, all the status and pleasure and comfort and safety you can scrape up for yourself. Infinitely more.

Come to Jesus. Let this Holy Week be your time to look at Jesus in a personal way. Not just to see the depth of your trespass against him, but to see what he did for you in return. He waits, for now. Come before your life or this age passes away and the invitation has expired.

“I tell you, now is the time of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation.” – 2 Corinthians 6:2

A Christmas Pause

If you hadn't noticed, it's Christmas. There isn't snow on the ground, but the wrapping of too many gifts and the baking of too many goodies and the hustle of shopping for last minute forgotten items tells me the season is really here. Busyness is trying to war with my worship today. I need to remember what this is all about. I need to focus on the entire reason this season is so special. The BEST gift. 

Without this gift, I'd be nothing, have nothing, possess no hope for the future. I'd be swallowed up and eaten alive by anxiety. I'd be no good at all to my family and friends. I'd have nothing to write about.

In Jesus, I have everything. I have peace, anticipation of future promises, strength for today, joy in the simplicity of everything this life can be. 

I'm sharing a scene from my latest biblical fiction novel. I hope it gives you a moment to pause and consider in a new way the age-old message of Christmas. 

EXCERPT FROM MY BROTHER THE KING...

***

“Daughters, come near,” Yosef said weakly from his pallet on the floor. He had been thrashing back and forth all evening. The girls had been huddled in the corner together, watching his face grow white and his desperate breathing become a tell-tale rattle in his chest. They knew death, and they knew their father was close to it.

They came to him and kneeled beside him. Talia buried her head in Yosef’s tunic, crying.

“Save your tears for mourning, little Talia. I want to go to Sheol with the memories of your beautiful smiles.”

“Please don’t go, Abba,” Talia begged as she tried to stop her tears. Her sobs only grew deeper.

“Be silent so I can speak,” Abba said tenderly, lifting a trembling hand to Talia’s cheek. When she quieted, he spoke again. “When I am gone, little lambs, you must do something for me.”

“Anything, Abba,” Hannah leaned over him and squeezed his arm. “Just say the words.”

Yosef smiled at her and reached a hand to smooth back the hair from her face. “Little Hannah. Only eight years on this earth and you wish to be a grown woman. Don’t be in such a hurry. Womanhood will come all too soon.”

“Amen,” Hannah said without thinking. She took his other hand. “May you be there to see me as a woman.”

“I will not be there,” Yosef said decidedly. “I want my daughters to be strong. Help your Ama in her grief.”

They hesitated, exchanging glances, then nodded.

“Whatever happens, you must both follow Yeshue. Not only in matters relating to the family, for he will be the head of this house, but in all things. He is the M’sheekha, and you must follow him.”

Yosef’s voice became urgent, almost as a plea, as the spirit ebbed away behind his warm brown eyes. “I have told your brothers the same.”

“Yes, Abba,” they both said in unison.

“If only I had the time to tell you…” Yosef’s voice faded and Hannah thought he had died. A cold chill spread over her.

“I must speak to Yeshue,” he said suddenly, squeezing their hands with his little remaining strength. “Send in the one they call my son.”

They sprang up from his pallet, crying as they descended the ladder and ran to find Yeshue. Hannah found him in the courtyard, sitting against the wall, his head in his hands. She was not sure if he was praying, or crying, or both.

“Abba asks for you,” she said. He jumped at the sound of her voice, as if he’d been surprised by her voice. Very rarely did anyone surprise Yeshue. He must have been deep in thought.

He stood and motioned for her to come to him. He kissed her head. “Go to your sister, Hannah. She will need you to hold her while she grieves.”

Hannah nodded, a lump in her throat.

“You are a strong one. A brave girl.” He squeezed her shoulders before he went to Yosef.

Instead of going to Talia, Hannah followed Yeshue back into the house. She sat in the doorway and listened to their words. She had to strain her ears to hear Abba’s words over Ama’s sniffling.

“Son, my time has come,” Yosef said. 

Yeshue said nothing. After a moment, he nodded.

“I know we haven’t spoken of it in a long time, but I want to remind you of your birth. Make sure you understand.”

Hannah would have laughed if it had been any other circumstance. Yosef and Maryam had talked often of Yeshue’s birth. Sometimes Hannah wondered if they could speak of anything else.

“I understand, Abba.” Hannah heard Yeshue’s soft answer.

“Ah, let an old man speak his memories,” Yosef chuckled, which made him cough.

“If he must,” Yeshue sat down on the stool made by Yosef’s own hands. “I will be glad to listen.”

“You indulge me,” Yosef said, and Yeshue chuckled in response.

“Your mother was the most beautiful girl in town. Have I told you that? Long dark hair, shiny brown eyes full of innocence…”

“You describe every young woman I can think of, Abba,” Yeshue teased him mildly.

 Yosef reached a hand to lightly slap Yeshue’s arm. “You are employed here only as a listener.”

Yeshue nodded and bowed his head in deference.

“I was taken with her from the moment I arrived in town. You know I came from Bethlehem, but our family had come to Nazareth for the wedding of my cousin. We ended up staying for several weeks, and I wanted her for my wife, if her father could be convinced to let her marry an old bachelor.”

“An old bachelor at twenty-four. You wound me. I hadn’t realized at twenty-five I was useless and elderly.”

Yosef wheezed a short laugh. “Well, I seemed an old bachelor to Maryam. She was barely thirteen. But there was something about her. Wisdom beyond her years. She wasn’t flighty or silly as the other young women. She had a peace about her I found very attractive.”

“As you should have.” Yeshue looked at his mother across Yosef’s pallet and nodded.

“I decided not to ask for her, though. Surely she deserved better than a poor carpenter.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“In the end I didn’t need to. Her father’s olive crop was destroyed by flies and they had no money to pay the tax. He would have had to sell her to save the little ones, so I paid the bride price. He asked me to wait a year before I took her to my home because she was so young, and I agreed.

“Not two months after this, Maryam was visited by the angel.”

“Gabriel,” Yeshue said with a nod. Almost like he spoke of an old friend.

“Imagine my shock when she came to me with wild stories of angels and heavenly messages. I pulled her aside to hear what nonsense she had dreamed up. When she told me she was going to have a baby, my blood ran cold.”

Hannah sneaked into the animal shelter underneath the floor. She watched them through a small hole in the floor of the upper story. She knew her parents would make her leave if they knew she was listening to such a conversation. But she was intensely curious about the part of the story no one would speak about when she was around. Her brother Y’hud played nearby, banging on a pot with all his strength. She glared at him, and he gave her a toothy smile.

“You did well to hear her out,” Yeshue said.

“I was like one possessed,” Yosef continued, his voice softer and weaker. “I wanted to rage and find the man who had defiled her. I would give him justice. But she went on about how the baby would be born of the Spirit of Alaha. He would be the M’sheekha.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Yeshue, surely you know every woman who has come to be with child in the last four hundred years has claimed to be carrying the M’sheekha.”

Yeshue smiled. “Ah, but it is true.”

“Well, I marched her right back to her father’s home and left her there, too angry to say a word. Then I paced the rest of the day, trying to decide what to do.”

“You did well not to have her publicly shamed.”

“I did not want to run ahead of Adonai.” Yosef closed his eyes, his words slurring as he tried to gather strength to finish the tale. Yeshue put his hand on the older man’s arm, and the gesture gave Yosef strength to continue.

“I was going to put her away from me without anyone knowing. I wanted her life to be spared, at least. I thought maybe the father was a Roman soldier that had cornered her and taken advantage of her innocence. Maybe she’d come up with the angel story to cover the horror of what had happened.”

“You were a man of integrity, thinking the best of her.”

Yosef shook his head. “A good man would have stood by her and believed her story. Alaha had to send an angel to me before I would accept it.”

“You did, though. You didn’t question after that.”

“No, I didn’t. How could I question the word of Adonai?”

Yosef was quiet for a long time. When Hannah thought maybe he had died, he suddenly spoke again. “I am going to die.”

Hannah expected Yeshue to disagree—to urge Yosef to fight the illness and stay with them. After all, he had eight children and other relatives to care for. What would their family be without him?

“I know.” Hannah heard the catch in Yeshue’s voice and imagined the tears swimming in his eyes.

“You will be head of this house.”

“I understand.”

“Do you have any questions? Do you know what to do for the girls when they come of age? Do you understand how to balance family and the business, and still have time for your studies?”

“I think so,” Yeshue said simply. 

Yosef nodded, visibly relaxing in the quiet confidence of his eldest son. “Don’t misunderstand me. I know you are here for a higher purpose than looking after the poor family of a tekton. You must be about your Father’s business, as you have reminded me.”

The words didn’t make sense to Hannah.

“I will do what I have come to do,” Yeshue promised.

“No man has ever left his family in better care. That I should be so blessed…”

Her father’s voice trailed off, and moments later, she heard the wails of her mother begin. Yeshue gathered his mother in his arms and wept with her.

***

This has been an excerpt from my novel "My Brother the King." I pray it allows your heart space to think and worship this Christmas on the wonder of everything our Savior was - even a simple son and a brother.

MY BROTHER THE KING

MY BROTHER THE KING

Their time is marked by oppression, their home by conflict. Within a humble Nazareth dwelling, four siblings share a secret. Their people pray for a freedom fighter who will shake off their bondage - the great M'sheekha. But he's already here, and he's not who anyone expected. 

Take a journey into the stories of the brothers and sisters of Jesus. Ponder the experience of growing up in the same house as God. Follow him on the road of ministry. Stand back and see him give his life - a ransom for many. 

Even the ones who didn't believe.


Nearly fifteen years ago, I knew I wanted to tell the story of Jesus through a fresh perspective. I didn't realize the long road ahead, and the many tries and failures over the years to get it right.

What my vague original idea became was the story of four Jewish siblings, Ya'achov, Y'hud, Talia and Hannah, sons and daughters of Joseph and Mary of Nazareth. They are as common and poor as the lowest of their time and place, with one exception. Their brother is the promised king.

What would have Jesus's childhood home looked like? Would it be peaceful because Jesus lived there? Perfect? Idyllic?

The more I thought about it, the more research I did into that society, the more certain I was that it couldn't have been that way. Jesus wasn't there to do what his people expected. Jesus wasn't about following the rules. Jesus was radical. And to a lowly Jewish household and community, he stood out too much. The Bible clearly explains that he had enemies ... even in his own family.

So these many years later, I am ready to share their story. I hope it will inspire you to go back to Scripture with your heart engaged, ready to see Jesus for who he was and is. Not so much the wise, compassionate teacher sitting out on the hill, but the revolutionary, bleeding divine blood up the hill of Calvary to buy the freedom of an entire universe.

Let's not think of him as any less than what he really is, even if it scares us, even if it isn't comfortable. Let's meet him at that hill and see what he is able to do in us as a result.

Let us not live in unbelief any longer.

MY BROTHER THE KING is available in print or electronically for your phone, kindle or computer. Please don't forget to leave your review on Amazon. It doesn't have to be long, but the more reviews there are, the easier it will be for potential readers to find it. Find it HERE.

Good Friday?

On this morning, only a couple thousand of years ago, a man waited below the house of the high priest in Jerusalem.

A prisoner. Surely many prisoners had been housed in that dungeon, dreading the moment they were handed over to Rome for execution. Some may have deserved their fate, some may have been victims of a corrupt system governed more by rule-following and prestige than by their law they claimed to love so dearly.

But this prisoner was different. He was truly innocent, not only in matters of the law, but in all matters. He was the perfect Creator of the universe, captive only to his love for his people and to his promises made from the beginning of time.

But why do we call this day Good Friday? The day our Lord was betrayed by friendship’s kiss cannot be good. The morning after a night of slandering, the morning dawn brought cruelty in the form of beatings, mocking, and a sentence of death can't be good. Those who had followed him and praised his teaching and even watched him raise the dead to life … now scorned him. Disowned him. Left him alone without a single soul willing to stand up for him and risk the same fate. How can it be good that he suffered, and that he suffered alone?

His disciples couldn’t even stay awake to pray with him the night before such an evil, terrible day. 

So why in the world would we call this day “good”? What could be good in such tragedy and betrayal? How could we celebrate a day that found humanity at its worst, violently attacking and killing the very being that gave them the breath of life and formed their bodies within their mothers’ wombs?

We call it good because it is our only hope. We call it good because there is no other way, not by sacrifice or self-discipline or scientific exploration or by the pursuit of world peace … THERE IS NO OTHER WAY we could be saved from our sinful souls.

It is a good Friday when I know that cross, meant for shame and torture and death, is a glorious trophy to exchange one day for a crown I don’t deserve. I can call his suffering and death good because he endured every single moment until it was finished … for me. Because he loved me. In my sin and ugliness and weakness and failure, he loved me.

And we can call it good because it wasn’t just one person he loved, but every one of us. His sacrifice was accomplished ONCE FOR ALL. Anyone who will turn from their sin and look to his cross for forgiveness and new life may come and receive freely the abundant gift of eternal life. No questions asked. No qualifications or conditions. The price has been paid. Cursed humanity has been ransomed.

Only come. Receive. Have faith.

And Friday is good only because of one enduring, eternal truth. Friday is good because Sunday is coming. Death didn’t keep him. The grave was forced to give him up. Friday is good because it was the only way we would know that our Savior is strong enough to take on the enemy we could never, ever conquer on our own.

Jesus is alive.

Blessed are the Peacemakers

I guess this is one of those "open letters." This one goes out to my beloved brothers and sisters in Christ. You know who you are.

I'm glad we're in this together. I'm a believer in our Christian community. I see the way we're letting go of things that were holding us back. I hear the way we're talking to one another and having each other's back in hard times. I see how loyalty, courage and worship are becoming more of a way of life for us. We're being honest with one another. We're opening up. We're growing. I just have one caution. Just one word of advice.

We don't have to argue about everything.

I've been watching the body, both in social media and in the press as well as in person. I see a trend that I'd love to speak up and say something about. I want to remind you all who we're trying to be like.

Jesus.

Jesus didn't argue with people. Jesus didn't give the standard, expected response. When his enemies tried to trap him with questions, he didn't respond either way they expected, which meant he always won his arguments.

It's a difficult time to be a Christian. I get that as much as anyone. The Bible is growing in unpopularity with societies and nominal Christians who care more about tolerance and political agendas than the Word of God. The darkness is strong. Sometimes it's hard to reflect the light. Sometimes we get put on the spot and we panic. But I'd love for us all to have a plan for when this happens.

These thoughts occurred to me today when I saw in my Facebook feed that everyone was talking about the Gaines. Chip and Joanna, who love fixing up houses and showing families how to see the gems in the most questionable places, who have never made it a secret that they are devoted followers of Christ, have come under fire simply for the teachings of their preacher, which happen to be the very teachings of our Creator and the author of our existence. Without saying a word, without veering for a moment from their quiet, simple testimony of faith, Satan is trying his best to upend their example in our culture.

It's a trend. Whenever believers are put on a pedestal and become a hot topic, Satan will inevitably send someone in to discredit them, and if there is nothing to discredit, he will put them on the spot and make them choose between the accepted ways of our society or the truths of God's Word. This isn't a new strategy for the king of this world. In the Roman Empire, Christians could be put on the spot to worship the Roman gods and deny Christ or lose their lives. It's really no different, except that believers haven't had to choose between their lives and their faith in this country.

I don't know how or if the Gaines will respond. But my hope is that they won't choose the expected. I hope they don't panic and go back on their faith as some have, and have weakened the illumination their spotlight could have accomplished in a dark world. I hope they won't become argumentative and divisive, standing up for their rights and calling all Christians to be militant in the face of persecution. I hope they'll follow fast after Christ and love.

Love fellow sinners. Meet them where they are in the saddest, hardest, loneliest places and be the friend that doesn't quit just because everyone's watching or society disapproves or the church turns up their nose.

In fact, I pray we'll all learn to love like Jesus. I pray we'll take to heart the warnings about not letting sinful attitudes, philosophies and actions invade our thinking and cause us to turn away from the truth, but I pray just as hard that we'll stay out of arguments that don't accomplish anything except to make us look just like everyone else who wants their own way. Let's be the lovers Christ was. Let's be the kind of Christians that walk to the cross in humility just because it's best for that soul who doesn't even know he or she is lost. Let's give a cup of cold water to an enemy who has fallen and doesn't have the strength to get back up. Let's be the friend to the one who is trying so hard to have it all together and make their beliefs work, and let's not trample on those who are already so lost.

We can believe what God said about sin. We can believe it with all our heart and still go out into this crazy world and find sinners to love into eternity. We don't have to show up on their doorstep, present a spiel and go on our way as the doors slam in our face. It doesn't have to be that way.

Does your neighbor know you are safe? Does your friend at work know they can trust you? Do your family members believe they can count on you when they are in need, even if their own decisions cause their heartaches? Can you sit by the bedside of a dying friend and hold their hand and give them grace even if they have sinned in ways that make you uncomfortable? Will you be willing to go out into the streets and give food and water to people who have lost their homes and who have no idea where to turn for the most basic needs of life?

Jesus did it for you. Jesus met you where you were. Jesus came to every one of us laying in our own filth and pulled us out at his own painful, terrible expense. It's our job to love like that. It's not our job to be indignant because unbelievers sin. We did the same things as unbelievers. SUCH WERE SOME OF US, as Paul reminded us in 1 Corinthians 6:11. None of us have any ability to resist what God has called sin without his intervention in our lives. Jesus is the answer. And we're the ones that know it. We're the ones who have experienced the tidal wave of his love and have been changed completely from the people we used to be.

I recently heard a quote that went something like this: Don't judge people for the point you jump into their story. Believe the best. Hope for their future. Show them by your example and the love of Christ working through you that there is a light at the end of their tunnel.

Spread peace. Be a refuge. Do the unexpected, and watch God use it for his kingdom. After all, isn't that why we're here?

Who is wise and understanding among you? Let them show it by their good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom. But if you harbor bitter envy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not boast about it or deny the truth. Such “wisdom” does not come down from heaven but is earthly, unspiritual, demonic. For where you have envy and selfish ambition, there you find disorder and every evil practice.

But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. Peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness.

James 3

On Being a New Creation

 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come.The old has gone, the new is here!2 Corinthians 5:17

If you haven't spent a lot of time with a butterfly, you may have the impression that becoming one is a simple, automatic thing. Awkward little caterpillar is transformed, he pops out of his chrysalis and flies away on a happy little breeze surrounded by sunshine and flowers.

Not so much.

My 6-year-old son loves bugs. He found a crop of black swallowtail caterpillars on the parsley in the garden and brought them all inside to raise. I was all for raising 2 or 3, but he found 9, so we've been doing this for a while. The only thing you really have to do is give the caterpillars fresh parsley to munch on, provide a few sticks for them to crawl on ... and clean up poop.

Caterpillars poop. A LOT.

After cleaning up an inordinate amount of bug feces, we were finally rewarded with a tank full of sleeping caterpillars undergoing transformation. We kept them moist and watched. And waited. For days.

Isn't it just like God to create something like the butterfly? What person would come up with the idea of morphing a slowpoke crawly creature into a winged beauty that defies gravity and flies off into the sky? When you really think about it, the butterfly is a miracle. We can't recreate it. We can't hope to understand what happens while that caterpillar sleeps. God makes something completely new out of a totally different creature.

But is this change automatic? Does the caterpillar know he's different? From watching butterflies fall out of their chrysalis, I can tell you most assuredly they have no clue. They flop and fall and freak out as they drag slime everywhere. They panic and try to crawl like a caterpillar only to have the huge growths on their back keep them from getting anywhere. They fall off the stick over and over again until finally they decide it's better just to be still and they find a place to hang out. That's when things begin to change.

Why the science lesson? As I watched this little guy today, I couldn't help but think about us. When we humble ourselves before God and admit we need Jesus, that we're nothing on our own and we are in dire need of a transformation, things change. But it isn't an automatic, everything is happy and wonderful change. Usually, it's a fairly awkward and somewhat slow change. We aren't going to be everything God intends for us the moment our faith is born.

I think of it more like a line. We have a starting point, when our faith is new, and an ending point, when our faith is realized and we are home with Jesus in glory. All along this line between the two, we are changing. We're getting closer to that final result, but we're not ever "done" if we are still breathing.

All this to say, we're all works in progress. Judging other Christians or ourselves based on a standard of perfection will always reveal problems. The questions to ask are "Am I growing?" "Do I have more of a love for Jesus than I did a year ago or ten years ago?" "Has my maturity level in spiritual things gotten better, even if slowly, over time?"

God isn't finished with us yet, fellow flopping butterfly. Someday we will fly. Let's be open to him doing his work in us, and let's be loving as we help others around us who may have just fallen out of the chrysalis. 

Let's be all about the process of becoming new creations, because some happy day, we will be finished.

If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand. –Mark 3:25 (NIV)

“We should take this nation back.”

“America was founded by Christians for Christians, and we have rights we won’t be denied.”

“I am not the problem. I refuse to take the blame for things my ancestors did.”

“Our nation cannot be divided against itself any longer. Which means everyone should be forced to live by biblical principles again. We cannot lose our heaven on earth.”

We’ve all heard at least one of these themes recently. The problem is—this isn’t what Jesus was saying in Mark 3:25. He was proving he wasn’t Satan, because Satan couldn’t drive himself out. That doesn’t really stake our Christian claim to the United States. Even more so, America was never heaven.

AMERICA WAS NEVER HEAVEN.

“A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this government cannot endure, permanently, half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved — I do not expect the house to fall — but I do expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing or all the other. Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the further spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in the course of ultimate extinction; or its advocates will push it forward, till it shall become lawful in all the States, old as well as new — North as well as South.” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincoln%27s_House_Divided_Speech. See footnotes for further study.)

Abraham Lincoln used Jesus’ words correctly. As a diagnosis of a problem, leading to the solution. But one thing he didn’t promise was that legislation could change hearts or heal wounds. He didn’t say that the war would be the end of the matter, even though the outcome abolished slavery. We still haven’t reached the end of the matter.

If further proof of lack of Christian claim to America is needed, let us look to the past. The first people who arrived here were not perfect, squeaky-clean, Bible believing, law-abiding citizens who lived comfortable, happy lives on America’s quiet, idyllic shore. They were travel-weary, nutrition-deprived rebels who came here hoping to escape their troubles. There is reason to believe they didn’t get along well. My own ancestor on the Mayflower, Christopher Martin, was not well-liked. He also died in that first year, along with half of the others.

Follow this rough start with a distrust and inability to cohabit this land with the natives. Continue along in history and relive the unrest preceding the Revolutionary War as we tried to shake ourselves from the overbearing reach of a monarchy across the ocean. And just as that conflict is settled and we are finally on our own, our nation turns inward to try to purge itself of the evils of slavery, and thousands more die gruesome deaths in the wake.

Americans are hearty. They bounce back. They live hard and pursue their passions. I’m not saying I’m not proud to be an American, and that I don’t believe the freedom we take for granted wasn’t worth the cost. But at the end of the day, it is an imperfect, man-made, fragile bubble of protection—this freedom we thought to be infinite. Man-made freedom always falls apart eventually.

Why is this? Why can we not continue indefinitely in our pursuit of our comforts and passions? Why can’t we have it all? Why can’t we expect our lives to be the ideal we desire? Quite simply, because we are people. And people are broken. They will not be fixed by legislation or laws or a firm talking-to. They can only be fixed by Jesus.

THEY CAN ONLY BE FIXED BY JESUS.

But what does that mean? Doesn’t it mean we should just expect everyone in America to act like Jesus? To get over their prejudices and conflicts and let go of the past and force them to be as righteous and perfect as Christ?

When did we start believe we could force people to be like Jesus, when we ourselves don’t even act like him much of the time? If living with HIS SPIRIT IN ME doesn’t make me perfect, how could I expect it to make perfect someone who doesn’t know him?

I say these things in the wake of a week full of tragedy. A week that reveals our nation has not completely healed of its wounds. It only takes an incident, be it accident or willful harm, to reveal the infection has not been driven out. Sometimes it’s easy to think the battle is over. Of course I don’t believe there is any difference between my soul and the soul of my dark-skinned friend. Of course I don’t still harbor those feelings of superiority my ancestors thought were normal, that made them think they could own another human being, that made them treat other people like animals.

But does it matter whether I think it or not? Are not my dark-skinned friends who face pressures and dangers I will never understand, allowed their feelings, their fears, their own processing of what has been done to their people in the past? Should I not, as Christ’s ambassador, love them without conditions? Should I not meet them wherever they are, in whatever emotional place they find themselves, and prove to them their fears are unfounded and their guarded stance is not necessary? Why am I so proud to believe I do not owe them anything? Considering the debt I owe my Savior, I should find it easy to humble myself low enough to repay the debt to those whose families and lineages have been damaged by mine.

It is not an uncomplicated, easy answer. It is not an answer that will not cost me anything. It is not an answer that leaves me without responsibility. And so it is unpopular. It is uncommon. But if those who claim to be inhabited by the very Spirit of Christ were truly interested in seeing God at work, they would be about his business. And the very nature of the business of Christ is ULTIMATE HUMILITY, UNBRIDLED SACRIFICE and UNCONDITIONAL LOVE.

Dear Christian, remember this as you post things on your social media, as you interact with your friends and family, as you go to your Savior to seek his face and know his heart. Remember that this one life we are given has solid purpose that will matter for eternity, and live for the heart of Christ. Let us no longer pursue our own interests and comforts and stay within our net of safety. Let us not be spoiled princes and princesses out of place and time. Let us live with abandon through this breath, this blink of an eye, this short life we have been given—for the things that will matter forever.

A Vision of a Silent Night

By now, I’m sure I took a wrong turn somewhere.

I try to remember where I was coming from, and where I was going. My past is a foggy memory, and my life seems removed. Irrelevant.

So I travel this path, dark and dusty and rocky. My moccasin slippers seem ill-equipped for the stones and the hills. I see dim lights ahead—some sort of small town? I wouldn’t be able to see anything if it weren’t for the sky. I’ve never seen such a brilliant sky at night, not even out in the middle of nowhere where all the stars that usually hide reveal their presence.

There’s one star that’s particularly bright. If I’m not crazy, it seems to be pointing downward—as an arrow? This is a strange night and a strange place. A prickly sensation passes over me. I would suspect a dream, but it’s so real. I feel a chill in the night air. I smell something smoky, like the remains of a bonfire at a campground. I turn and view a logical world, as far as my eyes can see. This isn’t the nonsensical meanderings of a sleeping brain carrying out the day’s thought garbage. I can hear the bleating of sheep on a nearby hill. The leaves of the trees rustle with whispers when the wind gently pushes their branches.

Beyond that, it is a silent night.

What else can I do? I follow the star. It appears to be pointing at the little village anyway. I reach the outskirts of the small town and wonder where I might find a place to wait out the night until I can figure out how to get home. Somehow, I have stepped into a story. I have been brought here to remember.

“Perhaps a journey every soul must take,” I whisper.

I see movement in a small cave with a rickety shed built over the entrance. I feel a holy pull and I step forward, my heart racing and my soul sensitive with passion, because by now I’ve recognized the significance of where I am. I can’t get to the stable fast enough.

Are you here? My spirit calls to him, my eyes flood with tears and the hair rises on my arms as a chill passes over me. Are you really here?

I almost forget there are others present who do not see this night as a memory. I stop in respect and allow the young man and the girl in the corner to see me before I interrupt.

“Good evening,” I say in a reverent voice, for my eyes have found beauty. To one not paying attention, he might look like any other newborn, with red, wrinkled skin and a head of dark hair. His blinking brown eyes view his world for the first time.

But he is the loveliest sight to me, and before I realize what I am doing, I’ve dropped to my knees. My head is bowed. It is the only response that feels appropriate.

They seem to understand. The man smiles tentatively and beckons me closer. The girl—I suppose I never realized how young she really was until I see the light in her eyes, barely more than a child. Younger than me by decades. She is uncertain and awkward in her movements as she holds the baby. I feel a wave of empathy and sit next to her, touching her shoulder. It is thin and small.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You’re going to do a great job, Mary.”

For some reason, she understands my words, and I understand hers, though she answers in a different tongue. I praise the Keeper of this vision for allowing me to know her heart.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice high and quiet. “He is a beautiful child, no?”

“The most beautiful I have ever seen, and I have four of my own,” I say with a smile. I have a motherly reaction to the naivety I recognize in her features. I ask after her condition, glad to see things have been cared for and she is holding the baby against her chest and under her coarse cloak where he will be able to stay warm.

“The midwife came and saw to things,” Joseph explains. He moves away, reclining in the straw, exhausted. His eyes close and in seconds he is softly snoring.

“It has been a long night.” Mary looks at her husband with sympathy. “He has taken care of me. He is a good man.”

“A good man makes all the difference,” I say with understanding, before my eyes return to the baby’s face.

I am unable to speak and overcome with awe. I can only watch him for what seems like hours. Finally I make myself break the silence because I have to speak the question. A question that is nearly cliché in the holiday season, but here, it cuts through my heart with meaning.

“Do you know, Mary? Do you know who this is?”

She turns wide brown eyes on me. She nods. “This is the Messiah.”

She whispers it; as if she’s afraid I will reprimand her for being foolish. Little does she know.

“Do you know what this little Messiah is going to do for us?” I dare to reach out a finger and touch the little fist that has broken from its wrapping and gives an unsteady wave. The tiny fingers wrap around mine and hold fast. He grabs hold of my soul at the same time, and I almost can’t breathe with the love that comes over me—but not my love for him. His love for me.

“He’s going to save us.” Mary’s voice holds an element of fear. She must truly have an idea of the true nature of the saving, though her people believe the Messiah will be a political conqueror who releases them from their bondage. I search her somber eyes and think she knows more than she is confident enough to say. But what mother would want to say it? She has just experienced the powerful nature of love that gripped her body, mind and being. It is the gift of God—the protective blessing of a mother’s love.

But Mary’s mother-love won’t be able to protect forever. I suspect she knows that.

I reach for her shoulders, intent that she hear my words. How many times had I longed for a chance to return in time and speak to her? “Mary, I’m so thankful for you, and that you are willing to do this. To spend your all on this little one, knowing he belongs to the whole world, and to all of time and eternity. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be you right now, knowing the price of our sin, knowing God is hiding somewhere in that bit of baby flesh. God is going to get you through this. He’s going to give you exactly as much grace as you need to do this. And we’ll all be thanking you thousands of years after you’ve done it.”

She lifts eyes brimming with tears. I sense she understands. She gives a quick nod. We sit in silence after that. Shepherds come and go, and Joseph wakes to check on them. Eventually dawn begins a tug of war with the light of the star, and inevitably the sun wins the battle.

When day comes, Joseph packs their belongings and prepares to move his family out of the stable. Their day will be routine, dull and irritating. They will wait in lines to register and pay taxes to a king who doesn’t care about them. They will find a place to stay. In a few days they will walk into the temple and have their son dedicated. In the meantime there will be meals to fix and fires to build and animals to care for. They will talk about money, about travel plans, about friends and family they have left back home. They will make decisions about what to do to care for the little Messiah who has been sent, for whatever divine reason, into their humble, struggling family.

But Mary will know the whole time. She will see that dark spot on the horizon, and she will be altered because of it. How could she not? I see her ultimate sacrifice, and though it will pale in comparison to the suffering destined to come upon him, hers will not be small or trite.

“Thank you,” I say one more time before they walk away. I go back the way I came, toward the place where vision meets dream, and dream meets waking, safe and sound in my own comfortable bed.

I remember the last glance I stole of my Savior. I know they say newborns don’t smile.

But that one did.