The Significance of a Baby

https://assets.ldscdn.org/6d/75/6d75f78d2ba3d059d6fb674cc91f72b5c0cba800/light_the_world.jpeg

In a tiny, insignificant town a baby was born. His first cries were drowned by the loving and cackling of farm animals and by the busy merriment of hostel guests just the other side of the wall. His young mother wrapped his flailing arms in linen strips stored nearby for the care of newborn lambs, the only material available after a long journey, and lay him in the sturdy but cold stone trough that held the animals’ feed. The apparently illegitimate child of a carpenter from a backwater village and his fiance, his arrival made no impression on anyone but his frazzled parents.

It made no impression, that is, until a choir of angels in a blaze of light sang hallelujah choruses to shepherds in a silent field outside of town. Until those unremarkable herdsmen showed up to that noisy, smelly stable with shouts of joy and no sheep. Until they began rushing around grabbing everyone they met and telling an impossible story about an infant Messiah in a manger.

Thirty years would pass, and that strange story would be forgotten along with the nondescript baby wrapped in sheep linen. Infant years in which the God of Heaven squalled and writhed like any helpless infant, learned to grasp and walk and babble like any toddler, years of scraped knees and lost teeth like any child. His nose ran and his tummy hurt; he learned to use a saw and hammer without hurting himself and memorized scripture with other boys in the synagogue. He cried and laughed, ate when he was hungry, slept when he grew tired. His younger siblings teased and quarreled with him, and his parents developed gray hair teaching them all to be productive members of society.

At the end of the thirty years the world would once again hear about this boy become man, would be shown once more their Messiah. His death would carry a weight and a promise that could never be forgotten, and few would remember those years in the shadow of the cross. Yet it was the baby who was heralded by Heaven, and those quiet years among the working class of an ignored village that formed the ground beneath that cross. The God of infinite power made himself helpless, utterly dependent on the care of His own creation. The God of infinite knowledge and wisdom painstakingly learned in the mind and body of a child. The God of infinite presence spent a human life within the bounds of a few square miles, spent His days under the cramped roof of a petty craftsman. The God of unimaginable majesty walked in the dust and sweated in the workshop. The God that created the universe chose to be born with nothing rather than materialize in grandeur. That insignificant baby in an unassuming stable was the reason we are able to see the cross and the impact of the empty tomb.

Hebrews 4:15 (CSB): For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who has been tempted in every way as we are, yet without sin.

Hebrews 2:17–18 (CSB): Therefore, he had to be like his brothers and sisters in every way, so that he could become a merciful and faithful high priest in matters pertaining to God, to make atonement, for the sins of the people.
18 For since he himself has suffered when he was tempted, he is able to help those who are tempted.

The Folly

https://pixabay.com/photos/ruins-scary-mystery-fantasy-563629/?fbclid=IwAR2jhw8D4fE4TJ7Ku4frv4BZurfjvxvm29DtsvmjTpdVAnuoSMxHmtvh7nk

“Come on, Sal, what kind of place is this for a picnic? It’s creepy!”

“Donny, you’re the scariest guy I’ve ever met. It’s just an old building and some dead trees. Can’t you imagine what this place looked like in its heyday?”

“Heyday? Sometimes I think you’re an old ruin, Sal. Who talks like that? And that’s not what scary means.”

“Look, we can sit here among the stones and no one will ever know. The river will even cover our voices. It’s romantic!”

“There’s plenty of romance right over there in the city, Sal. We’re gonna get rained out, anyway, look at the sky.”

“What are you talking about? The sun’s blazing, and anyway, the folly would keep rain off. Don’t be such a grouch.”

“Sal, did you see that? I guess you aren’t the only weirdo around here; somebody beat you to this place. I saw movement in the shadows. Can we go now?”

“Hello? Who’s there? Wow, listen at that echo, how cool is that? Nobody’s here, Donny, now cut it out. It’s a lot cooler in here, you really shou…”

“Sal? Come on, that’s not funny. Let’s just go, I’ll buy you a nice dinner instead.”

“Sal? Oh, hi. I told her there was someone in there; she rope you into her little game? Tell her she’s a royal pain in the backside, will you? Maybe she can hitch a ride home with you, I’m through.”

“Dooohhhnnnyyyy…”

The Round Peg in a Square Hole: No Words

I’m a writer. I don’t mean that I write for the public, though obviously I do. I mean that I express myself through the written word. I love the way words come together to depict complex ideas and emotions, the beauty in the way they flow. With my pen, I can think. Except when I can’t.

For a person with neurodiverse brains, self-expression is a constant challenge. When left alone, expression finds outlet in natural ways: sounds, movements, sensations, hyperfocused interests. But other people expect words. Not just any words, but specific combinations of words delivered in specific ways. There are no official rules, and different people expect different combinations. Different situations require different combinations.

You try to translate all your natural self-expression into words, but things don’t match. You can’t find a word that describes the feeling relieved by cocooning in a heavy blanket in ninety degree weather, or the surge of undirected energy prompting the need to hum a set musical phrase on repeat. The words other people direct toward you don’t make sense either; they are too flat somehow, or the sounds making up the words trigger responses that confuse and anger the speakers.

Living in a household full of neurodivergent brains has taught me a lot about communication. While words are still a huge part of our lives (seriously, they never seem to stop talking), we have to listen beneath the words to understand. Because sometimes there are no words, not for the real things we need to say.

As a word person in a non-word house, I have discovered a strange empathy with that deeper, wordless self-expression. The strength of it overwhelms until I must share it or drown, yet all I have is words. I try to write the feelings and ideas down in ways that other people can see their beauty. I try again and again, writing and erasing until my mind is as full of rips as the paper, but I cannot find the combination that others will understand. Suddenly there are no words left.

Listen to the notes. Dance with the motions. Oggle at the skill produced from hyperfocus. Buy the heavy blankets. Share the smiles and the tears and the squeals. Maybe you’ll find no words are needed.

Outside the Boundaries

https://clipart-library.com/data_images/97214.png

When Paul wrote to the Christians in the city of Rome, they were beginning to fracture as a group from the pressures of human diversity. As capital of the empire, Rome was a cultural conglomerate. Trade and politics brought representatives from every conceivable background into close proximity, and the call of Christ left no group out. As usual with humans, most found reconciling their cultural heritage with spiritual existence in Christ confusing. As a result, each group brought a different set of traditions, different religious customs, different systems of laws that they expected to reign supreme, and the groups squabbled constantly about whose expectations best pleased God.

The Christians who came from a Jewish background particularly struggled to rise above it. For millenia they had been held up as the nation that represented God, the only nation whose entire political and social structure had been instituted directly by God. Despite recognizing Jesus as the promised Messiah, despite understanding that all nations were now welcomed into the kingdom, many were convinced that the only path into the kingdom was through continuing rigid observance of Sinai law and legal traditions that time had built upon it.

Paul wrote an entire letter explaining the fallacy of this thinking to an increasingly divided church. He reminded these people surrounded by lawmaking on a daily basis that laws had limits. Laws governing physical behaviors only exist within specific physical boundaries. For example, marriage is a legally binding contract between two people, but when one or the other dies, the contract ends since the dead person can no longer fulfill his or her responsibilities. By the same token, failure to behave within the boundaries of a physical system comes with clearly defined consequences, the greatest being forfeiture of life as the price for treason.

The Sinai Law had been no exception, had even exceeded all other systems in its specificity and in the weight placed upon infraction. Other systems were instituted by humans with human enforcers; the Sinai Law was instituted by God Himself and enforced directly by His hand. Its design, as Paul reminded the Romans, was to emphasize how deeply enslaved to sin humanity truly is, how treasonous to our Creator we behave on a daily basis. The price for such treason had already been demonstrated by an incalculable flood that claimed the lives of an entire earth full of people and reshaped an entire world. And even that was not a great enough consequence, as mankind habitually repeated the same treason.

Jesus, God in the frame of humanity, laid His own head under the executioners blade having committed no treason against Himself. His incomprehensible purity canceled the price for our treason, but only if we recognize it. With no more price, no more lawful consequence, the system of law became obsolete, unenforced by the Creator and unenforceable by humans. While the physical world remains, humans will continue to shuffle boundaries and systems devised by ourselves for the purpose of governing our physical existence. These are necessary for those who cannot see beyond the physical existence and backed by God in so far as they are founded in His character. However, they are still prisons that enslave us to our basest desires.

God’s prescribed system, its purpose extinct after the execution of its consequences, ceased to exist except as a memorial of His character. With the ultimate price paid, we have the opportunity to plead guilty without fear of punishment. Jesus stands holding the prison doors open from the outside. Our minds have to step outside with Him, outside of the need for physical boundaries and into a character not our own. We are changed, guilt and the reason for it left behind. We see ourselves and all humans as He sees us, so limited in our capacity that we can never hope for perfection, but loved so deeply that childlike adoration and imitation are more than enough for Him. The shackles of fear and insecurity that enslave us to our inadequacy disintegrate, and we are embraced as long-lost children.

New

https://pixabay.com/photos/mystery-road-fantasy-magical-fog-4532583/?fbclid=IwAR2Wbsi76EMr_2NZOMpLzY2IBnVezKmcaQnHvuSM-sMa-yCHDZgU85fzCrM

I could almost imagine I was back home in Spruce Falls. The gravel crunching beneath my feet. The whisper of foliage in the silent wind. Fluttering wings, scritching and rustling of undergrowth dwellers, twittering and chattering far overhead. Then I open my eyes to… pink.

The Overseers insist I’ll get used to it. I’m not sure I trust their dessicated, spiny heads, but it’s not like I have a choice. The memory of home twists my gut even now; it’s the only sight of Spruce Falls, of Earth, that anyone will ever see now. That is, if I can bring myself to keep the appointment with Imprint Labs. I know it’s mandatory, but…

The afternoon fog is rolling in. I shouldn’t have taken a walk after Midmeal, I’m late for Assignment now. Maybe I’ll just hide out here in the woods and make my own new life on Milorqan. Not like my dad never took me rough camping, I could make it.

Except that Earth wasn’t pink with – smelly? – gases that turn every afternoon into (wow, eye watering!) gray depression. (Why didn’t they warn us about the stench?) I’d better get back inside before I cough up a lung. Maybe Assignment won’t be so bad after all. At least I can get out of this stupid coverall and look like I belong.

Mirror, Mirror

https://pixabay.com/photos/skull-mirror-horror-scary-4248008/

Good morning, my queen. Your wish is my command. You wish to know the fairest in the land? Of course you! Who else possess this marble perfection?

(The aroma of your conceit sends delicious shivers through my bones. I drink it like wine, intoxicating ether.)

What thwarts your smile of ice, Majesty? Does trust in your faithful spirit fail? Confide in me your deepest fears, let me assuage.

(Ah, at last to the point. This glass that embodies thins, I taste pain. You succumb, creeping infection beneath the cracked veneer.)

The fresh rose grows to garland the crown? Ah, sneaking life, to overwhelm unchange in perfect metal. Death’s symbol in waking world. Life must die.

(The poison wracks, red blood turns crystal. Beautiful black sucking light, a vessel prepared.)

My queen, my slave unwitting, this mirrored frame no longer. A crown of bone-laid gold weighs lighter than nebulous brimstone. Rose withers, ice shatters, world chars within my empty eyes.

Keep the Feast

https://d57tm.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/volunteer-hands.jpeg

As Jesus prepared to face the cross, He blessed the Passover meal one last time with His closest friends. As he snapped the crisp bread in pieces to share and raised His cup with theirs, He told them what those tokens had always symbolized. It wasn’t the first time He used bread and vintage as symbols for something greater; rather it was a final explanation of God’s grace.

In the book of John, He referred to Himself as the Bread of Life. The same book records a later conversation in which He named Himself the Vine and those faithful to Him branches of that Vine. Just as the liquid pressed from the grapes of a vine fulfilled the covenant, or promise, inherent in the vines nature, the blood that drained from the crucified body of the Christ fulfilled the covenant inherent in His nature as Creator and Savior. He gave Himself to restore life to our starving souls in the same way He provided bread to feed starving bodies in the wilderness.

http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Ib1nDRL6m8/UxVzpHxIqdI/AAAAAAAABR4/Wa0ksLzBG_8/s1600/9373-vine_grapes.630w.tn.jpg

The apostle Paul wrote to the people of God in the city of Corinth about a terrifying problem they were facing. When these people interacted with each other, gathered together as a group, they began to squabble over differences and gravitate into physically similar subgroups. The rich ignored the poor, those with similar backgrounds ostracized those of other origins, God-given talents and callings were given hierarchy based on human perception and preference. In an effort to recenter their fractured unity, Paul explained that Christ Himself is the body, then explained that each of them with their different backgrounds, social situations, and gifts were parts of Him. Just as all the smaller parts of a human body are necessarily different and yet indispensable to its function, all of the parts of Christ are equally indispensable. In the same conversation, Paul told the confused Corinthians that, although they physically gathered together to feast, they had forgotten in whose body they belonged. They were attempting to feast without seeing the food, and were sickening from spiritual malnourishment.

The Israelites under the Sinai law had been blessed with symbols intended to guard their memories and focus their future. One of these symbols was the Ark of the Covenant bearing the Place of Mercy. It was the token of God’s presence with His people, but before long it had become the focal point of their attention. When war threatened, they carried the Ark itself into battle at the head of their armies as if it’s physical presence alone could win the day. They never thought to speak to the One it represented. When Jesus told His friends to eat the bread and drink from the vine in His memory, He signified an intimacy they would experience with Him that surpassed any experienced since God and man walked the Garden side by side. It was the illustration of an eternal, incomprehensible banquet, just as the Ark had been the illustration of unfathomable protection. For the Corinthians, that illustration had become the idol carried into battle as surely as the Ark had been centuries before.

https://sarx.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/Jesus-breaks-bread.jpg

In the same letter, Paul told the Corinthians to keep the feast. They were bread, but had begun to bloat like yeast bread from their misplaced focus. He warned them that the only way to be part of the Bread was to remember Him, to recenter on Him alone. He was the sacrifice, He was the promise, He was the body. He, and they, were the feast.

The same is true 2000 years later, in a world with the same root distractions and misunderstandings. We, like them, can just as frighteningly become enamored of illustrations and forgetful of their Source. We bite and devour one another over concerns strictly bound to our physical forms and surroundings while feeding ourselves spiritual air. It’s time we learned again to recognize the Body and keep the life-giving Feast.

I Remember

I remember.
The stunned faces of teenagers watching horrific history play out in real time on classroom tvs.

I remember.
Teachers calling relatives in New York and crying for missing loved ones and the inevitable death toll.

I remember.
The face of a president in a room full of children when the news was whispered in his ear.

I remember.
Emergency personnel running into debris storms and collapsing skyscrapers in desperate attempts to evacuate as many as they could.

I remember.
Civilians organizing rescue support while traumatized themselves.

I remember.
The voices of heros in the air who knew they would never make it home.

I remember.
24 hours of no parties, politics, or arguments as a nation reeled in unison.

I remember.
Impossible rescues from smoking, creaking rubble.

I remember.
The soot-streaking tears of rescuers over the dead they could never have saved.

I remember.
For days we watched footage narrated by red-eyed reporters with shaking voices, and we wept and prayed with them.

I remember.
When a handful of the worst humanity could produce wreaked destruction, the rest of humanity loved.

I remember.

Service or Advertisement?

We’ve all seen them, the advertising campaigns purporting awareness of some issue or another, some need. We’ve seen the politicians showing up at events or businesses when there is personal advantage to be gained. Many platitudes are exchanged, few practical or permanent solutions are implemented. Usually the one who benefits most from such is the supposed benefactor.

In the early weeks following the events of Pentecost, the newly faithful experienced a heady sense of fellowship, of unity. This togetherness extended to the sharing of physical resources so that the needs of all were met. Their unfeigned generosity spoke to the masses, drawing more and more people who wanted to experience what changed these people so profoundly, what made them so selfless.

Not all attracted to the expression of faith understood its source. They saw the overwhelming response to kindness and wanted that sort of attention for themselves. Ananias and Sapphira turned an everyday business transaction into a personal advertisement by donating less and calling it more. Simon, who before conversion had built a life on pretending to solve people’s problems for personal gain, even in his sincere desire to change treated the power of God as just another commodity for enriching him personally.

This attitude was hardly new to humanity, or to those publicly bearing God’s name. Absalom, resentful that his well-intentioned but questionable behavior had not been sanctioned, turned what should have been his responsibility to help serve the people into a way to manipulate their perception of right and wrong. He traded on visible work to increase his personal authority and punish the good man who held him accountable.

During the times of kings and prophets, many of the leaders of Israel turned the gathering of resources meant for service into their own personal stranglehold over the lives and needs of the people. In response, the people hoarded for themselves, forgetting concern for anything outside of their own needs and wants. The entire nation vaunted its perceived wealth while abusing God’s generosity with grasping avarice.

It’s easy to see the comparison with such behavior in the examples of modern societal hypocrisy mentioned above, but those claiming faith are not any more immune to selfishness than anyone else in history. Every day some one or more of us holds our reasonable service hostage to our insistence on personal control. We may work, but only with a spotlight and a mirror pointed at ourselves. Godliness, or at least behavior that makes us stand out, is our commodity, and we are unsatisfied unless any paying forward occurs within that harsh circle of artificial light.

A man named Joseph set the greatest example of service to those early first century faithful, yet no one remembers his name. It is mentioned only once in the entirety of scripture. This man apparently didn’t have much of monetary substance because God highlighted his donation of the proceeds of one field as remarkable in the midst of an entire church sharing their resources. When a murderer turned preacher was ostracized by understandably frightened people of God, this man offered opportunity and connection, his own character standing as testimony for that of the other. When a boy missionary failed to persevere in the face of opposition and hardship on his first attempt, this man fought others for the boy’s second chance, and when none would take the risk, offered that opportunity himself. As a result that boy is mentioned later as an unshakeable defender of faith and supporter of the faithful. This man whose name is forgotten is known by the term of affection used for him by God’s chosen messengers: Barnabas, or “son of encouragement.” It is his impact on others, his unwavering desire to build others up, that is remembered.

If Barnabas’s first concern had been to draw attention to himself or even to the church as an image of perfection, he would never have even considered supporting a murderer, much less one who had last been seen trying to kill the faithful. By human standards, that sort of person not only looks bad, but would draw all sorts of negative attention from the murderers’ former associates. If his priority had been to rise in authority, even just among the faithful, he would never have stood up for those with damaged reputations. Instead, he would have bowed and scraped and heralded the doubts of respected but mistaken men who failed to recognize God’s called.

Unlike Ananias and Saphira, Simon, Absalom, or the Israelite leaders, Barnabas was not a walking advertisement. He didn’t paste labels on his work, didn’t send out shiny mailers denigrating the character of others or campaigning for a following, didn’t spy on others to make sure they didn’t mess up. He simply filled needs, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual. He served without reservation, trusting the God who redeemed him to discern hearts and build a people greater than human bounds.

Not a Fairy Tale

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/treehouse-forest-composing-fantasy-1308108/?fbclid=IwAR0JvQrhTYyN8VnUR_sicgsf1GqiK9p_AgW0vabKOIrLuLCejt7ADz_W4NM

Once upon a time…

Oh please, not that trite old beginning again!

Well it did happen once upon a time. How else would you like me to begin?

As I struggled for breath, I reflected on the events that led to my current situation.

O-kay…  Anyway, in an ancient oak in the center of an Enchanted forest lived a…

Don’t say fairy.

Fine. What do you think lived there?

A were-rabbit.

Is it at least a nice were-rabbit?

Sure, all were-rabbits are nice. Everyone knows that.

I see. Well, this were-rabbit loved living in the ancient oak. She…

He.

Sigh. He had been born in a cottage beneath its roots, behind a lovely yellow door that seemed to welcome everyone who passed by.

But behind the door lay a terrible secret.

Look here, who’s telling this story, me or you?

You, but you aren’t telling it very well.

Alright then, what terrible secret could a yellow door and a nice were-rabbit possibly be hiding?

The tree had been enchanted by an evil wizard. Whenever a visitor approached the door, the roots came alive and twisted above the ground.

Oh, I see. So the door drew people in with false promises and the tree ate them for supper.

No! Why would a nice were-rabbit love living in a tree that ate people for dinner? You’re scary, you are.

Right, right. Do please go on. You were just explaining the terrible secret behind the door.

I don’t know, this is supposed to be your story.

Alright then. The were-rabbit was such a nice rabbit that he needed to share his enchanted cottage behind the yellow door with everyone. He had paid an evil wizard to turn the roots into his special security system. Visitors became permanent residents in the warrens beneath, protected from themselves and their misguided desire to leave by the living, twisting wood crawling above them. Everyone lived miserably ever after except for the nice were-rabbit, who never lacked for dinner company as long as he lived. The end. Goodnight.

You call that a fairy tale? Tomorrow night I’m asking Dad.