Marble is dark, silent, and cold. My roots tenuous anchor hold.
Sing the song of the stars with me. Can you not hear our harmony?
Come with me, in the shadows dance. Stardust and bud, a sweet romance.
How shall I venture there alone? I fear the lure of earth and stone.
I cannot fly to you, my dear. Let tenderness assuage your fear.
My brethren, through the portals wind. Our nebulae in lanterns bind.
My sisters, petals open wide. This night am I to be a bride.
Once when Jesus was teaching in the temple courtyard he watched people coming to leave their tithes in the treasury boxes. Apparently that had become something of a show, with large amounts being brought. I imagine that, considering Pharisaical policing of detail, a great deal of arguing and haggling over correct calculations occurred around the temple gates where the boxes stood. While all that display was going on, a beggar woman entered the courtyard. A widow with no family to care for her, she belonged to the ranks of the needy for whom those treasury funds were supposed to provide. She quietly moved to the boxes and dropped in two mites, tiny copper coins that equalled a fraction of today’s penny. When Jesus praised her faith as an example to his followers, He pointed out that those tiny coins were all she owned yet she offered them for others.
This morning my eight year old son dug into his wallet for money to give. He brought out a handful of wadded cash, including a ten dollar bill that I knew was a treasured possession. I asked him if he was sure, if he knew what was in his hand and really wanted to give it. His response was immediate. “Oh yes, I want to put my ten dollar bill in!” When the basket was passed, that ten and a few ones besides went in accompanied by a delighted grin. The almost empty wallet went back in his pocket and occasioned no further thought from its owner.
Like the widow, my little son depends entirely on others for his needs. The money in his wallet is carefully hoarded from birthday gifts or “pay” for helping family members. Opportunities to increase that little stash are few and far between, but that never even entered his mind. In his mind, the money placed in that basket is a gift to God, and he wanted God to have all of it.
Both the widow and my son understood that something much greater than their mite covered their needs. They knew that God’s love holds far more power than a handful of cash or any physical wealth. In the simplicity of that trust, no room existed for questions or calculations. All that they thought of was what they could offer in love. What they truly offered was not two tiny coins or a ten dollar bill, and their gift filled more than a single moment. They offered a faithful heart and filled eternity with it.
She trailed her fingers along the wooden bannister, stepping carefully to avoid tripping over the litter of decay. The air smelled faintly musty, but the open front door lit up the foyer with clear sunlight. She turned and grinned at her companions.
Chuck groaned. “I know that look,” he told the real estate agent with a dramatic droop. “Honey, did you have to pick the dump?”
“Don’t call it a dump!” she pleaded, laughing. “Look at the lines; it’s a beautiful old house!” She gestured to the agent standing just inside the door. “Tell him how special it is.”
“A historical gem, really,” the woman agreed in a tone just a little too bright. “A bit closed off for modern tastes, of course, but a few walls could easily be removed.” She stepped gingerly over scattered glass from a broken window, forgetting to hide a grimace.
Honey followed her, peering into the dim interior of the front room. “Look, Chuck, there’s a fireplace! Oh, let’s go upstairs; I bet every room has one!”
He sighed but let her take his hand and pull him up the creaking steps. “Central heating was invented for a reason, Honey. Do you intend to have a fire in the baby’s room? And it’s gonna take a fortune to fix everything wrong with this place!”
She squealed with delight from two steps above him. “Look at the wood floors, babe! Can’t you just see them all polished up?”
He looked back at the agent once again waiting at the front door. “Are you sure there are no ghosts in this old place?” he asked with a rye grin.
She clicked her pen and opened a notebook, standing a little straighter than she already was. “Shall we start the paperwork now?”
Jesus told a story of two brothers. The older brother fulfilled society’s expectations of a dutiful son. He worked alongside his father, maintaining and supervising the family estate. He never broke the rules, never disappointed his father, never neglected his responsibilities.
The younger brother was the family wild card. He chafed at responsibility and expectations, and when he reached manhood he demanded that his father hand over whatever his part of the inheritance would be worth so that he could go out on his own. He was sure he could find a better life for himself than drudging away under his father’s thumb. When his father, instead of rebuking his restlessness, gave him what he wanted, the young man traveled as far from home as he could get. With no one he had ever known to see or comment on his lifestyle, he indulged every desire and filled his life with every pleasure he could imagine.
On the surface the brothers look like polar opposites: one the responsible, respected son; the other rebellious, thoughtless, and selfish. But the story doesn’t end there, and the young men are both full of surprises. The younger brother woke up one day to find all of his money gone; he had done nothing to replenish his resources, had been entirely focused on his “good life” until he could no longer pay for his pleasures. Then, as drought set in and work was scarce, he took the most demeaning job in his society in the hard realization that he had wasted his truly good life. He had squandered every blessing ever given him, including that of a father who only wanted the best for him.
The older brother came home from working one day to find the house in a fever of celebration; the rebellious son had returned in humility and had been received with joy. The son who had been outwardly responsible and respectable immediately revealed his true heart, a knot of well-hidden resentment and rebellion. All the while he did what was expected, he hated responsibility, wished for the pleasure his brother pursued, and resented what he perceived as lack of appreciation from his father.
Both brothers shared the misunderstanding that their inheritance was a physical thing: money, possessions, etc. Neither understood their father’s love and provision for them as being his true estate. Both threw away, squandered, the relationship that was their father’s truest legacy.
Jesus told this story to Jewish leaders who complained that He welcomed sinful people into his presence. Those sinful people were the brother who had thrown everything away for his own pleasure, and who had been humbled and drawn back to the father’s embrace. The leaders were the “responsible” son who secretly harbored a rebellious heart. Neither those who had wasted their lives in rebellious lifestyles or those who prided themselves on outward righteousness had appreciated the love of God. They viewed God’s “estate” as an oppressive system of rules and demands; the only difference was whether they rebelled openly or secretly.
Jesus came to show us His true estate. He came to demonstrate the open arms of the father and the joy of belonging with Him. He came to show the difference in being a son and being a slave. Those who recognize the blessing of belonging to God approach Him with a longing to serve in gratitude and love, and receive the treatment of sons with awe and wonder. Those who see themselves as sons strictly because of their own outward fidelity, expecting privileges that ultimately get them out of such fidelity, behave like slaves. They throw away their inheritance for the sake of selfish pride.
The great news is that, no matter how we have squandered our portion, our condition is not final unless we make it so. The younger son was welcomed home with great celebration. The older son was reminded that he had always had access to what he sought, he had just been looking from the wrong direction. We will never stop being God’s children as long as we live, no matter how we waste our time and His chasing the wrong dreams. He will always be there to welcome us home. But why squander any of it? Why throw away a love, an eternal estate, so full as His?
The Pharisees and other Jewish leaders ostracized anyone who broke what they thought was part of God’s law. They spent their days watching for infractions, railing about rules, and arguing about minutae. When God Himself visited them, they rebuked Him using their interpretation of the law He wrote, the law He was; then they killed Him rather than admit they were wrong.
Jesus looked for the smallest signs of faith, sometimes extending compassion and help in order to spark life in broken souls. He lived by love rather than rules. He was intimate with “sinners” and held the “righteous” at arm’s length. Hearts were changed by being in His presence. Crowds followed Him everywhere, drawn by what He offered. A feast day parade to the temple reversed course into a reception for the King. The only people given harsh treatment were the heartless enforcers.
What we look for in people matters. The Jewish leaders looked at Zaccheus and saw a greedy thief. Jesus looked at him and saw an eager heart. The Jews looked at the Samaritan woman and saw an adulterous descendant of a rebellious people. Jesus looked at her and saw a woman searching for a Savior. The Pharisees looked at the crowds following Jesus and saw lazy, unholy rabble. Jesus looked at them and saw sheep longing for a shepherd’s love and protection.
The Pharisees were certain that salvation came from their own actions, their own perfect rule following. They lost sight of the law giver and of the souls to whom it was given. They believed that they trusted God, but when given the chance to prove it they dug into their self-imposed framework instead and lashed out at anyone who threatened their perception of their own perfection.
Matthew 23:13, 15 (CSB): “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! You shut the door of the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces. For you don’t go in, and you don’t allow those entering to go in. Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! You travel over land and sea to make one convert, and when he becomes one, you make him twice as much a child of hell as you are!”
Jesus delivered the above rebuke over exactly that behavior, that approach to their fellow humans. He also said anyone who hindered another from a relationship with God by their need for control would be better off drowned in the deeps with a millstone around the neck. Jesus didn’t see people with such an attitude as sheep; he saw them as wolves slathering to rip the flock to shreds and eat them for lunch.
The faithful reflect the nature, the character, the viewpoint, of Jesus Himself. If our claims to faith are accompanied by a fine toothed comb or a twist of the wrench, whose character is reflected? What is it we are truly seeking?
This morning I woke up with a heart that felt like lead in my chest. The future lay in shadows that I could not penetrate, and I doubted even the point of me. I did not think anything I tried to do came to anything. I felt as if all my gifts from God were useless, extras in the grand scheme, discardable. I felt discardable.
I buried my head in my pillow with tears pouring down my face, and I cried to my God for answers. “Why does everything have to be so hard? Why does no one want what you gave me to give? What exactly is it that you want from me? Why am I failing?”
As I lay there, my husband wrapped his arms around me and spoke in my ear. He reminded me of our children’s answers to some recent questions, answers that filled me with awe at the hearts of children. Children who have seen God. “You are not pointless.”
The telephone rang, asking if the kids could interrupt their routine to haul firewood. A cold front is coming and hard workers were needed to lay in a good supply. The hard workers asked for were my children, because they would certainly get it done. It’s what they have been taught. “You are not failing.”
My tears still flowed, my heart still screamed, and I reached out to friends for prayer. Four dear sisters heard my cry and felt my pain. Messages flooded in; prayers, empathy, wisdom, and love filled my screen. “You have been called for a purpose.”
My husband remembered a lunch meeting with a brother. Their conversation turned to frustrations, doubts, and fears that this friend and fellow worker shared with us. Commonalities that would have continued to have been suffered alone otherwise. In the sharing perspective was discovered in each other’s struggle. “You are needed.”
Family called with an invitation to a donut feast. A loved dog had died and cheer was needed. Orders were taken, favorites recorded, and two dozen donuts purchased. The laughter of children, sticky fingers, and sugary faces followed a shared supper. Grief receded into togetherness. “You are wanted.”
I went to shower and turned on the radio as I often do. My daily shower provides a few minutes of reflection and music provides a focus. Words of faith and reassurance streamed like water over my head. All the feelings I had poured out to my Lord, all the answers given through the events of the day, culminated in those strains of praise. “You’re gonna be okay!” “I am not alone!” “I will trust in you!”
My heart still aches. The causes of my feelings still exist and will continue. But in my moments of pain God heard me. In the words of friends He was there. In the calls for help and fellowship He was there. In my quiet hours He was there. God is in all my moments, and in seeing Him there I can dry my tears. In His presence I find again my reasons and my joy.
Part of Christmas tradition is the giving of gifts. It has been argued that this tradition has become too commercialized, that focus on gifts detracts from what is important. I certainly saw advertisements that missed the point and pushed the idea of social status rising from gift quality or price. However, the concept of giving gifts stems from the core of God’s nature and is one of the ways humans in our limited capacity can try to reflect Him in our lives.
Gift giving is one of our favorite family traditions, and rather than allow financial restrictions to cast shadows on our joy, we decided to let it motivate us to deeper intention. Wish lists became highlights of interests and favorites. The kids used their own money saved from birthday gifts and odd jobs for family to buy things like stickers or art supplies, or used their talents to make gifts to suit the receiver’s personality. I raided my fabric stash and used outgrown clothes to make hand-sewn treasures.
It was a simpler approach, reminiscent of a time when life was simpler, but there was nothing easy about it. Handmade gifts take time. A lot of time, squeezed between the usual chores and responsibilities that don’t vanish because holidays are coming. Artwork requires both work space and space for drying paint, which in our full little house means the dining table. Sewing with scraps and old clothes means working with materials that weren’t designed for small projects or for particular work with needle and thread. It means aching eyes and fingers from hours of close work creating straight, invisible stitches. Handmade gifts make surprises difficult, as everyone is working right in front of each other.
The hard tried to take over as Christmas drew closer, raising stress levels and encouraging distractions. Tears flowed, panic attacks occurred. It’s harder for adults to remember the important things than for kids, it would seem. It was the kids who kept us grounded with their excitement for everyone to open the gifts they had made.
When the time came to wrap everything and fill stockings, the true blessings began to be revealed. What we had feared would be a sparse spread had grown to as many or more packages as usual. They were small, but so much thought and effort had gone into every single one that they seemed larger than life. On Christmas morning, stockings that had felt underfilled were received with unmitigated joy. Sticker sheets and snacks produced reactions associated with gifts of gold and incense. Paintings and purses were pored over and strutted with as if made by the world’s finest creators.
Simplicity isn’t easy; it never was. In so many ways our lives are much easier now than when life was simpler. There’s nothing wrong with easy, but sometimes having everything at our fingertips makes us a little too focused on what we can have. Love isn’t about stuff or money, it’s about what we are willing to give up or go through for someone else. Nothing we did was extraordinary; our usually easy lives made hard begin to feel burdensome, but hard carried love that would never have been seen otherwise. Sitting in their little piles of love offerings, our kids declared our recession Christmas to be the best ever. They understood better than we did the blessing of love found in hard simplicity.
No matter what other traditions people may have around the holidays, food is always a key factor. Every family has their favorite recipes, associates certain flavors and smells with family and good times. My favorite holiday memories from childhood involve baking with my grandmother. We made piles and piles of candy, cookies, and pies.
Although most of the time I rather hate the perfectionist and time-consuming nature of baking, for a few days in December I throw myself into the process with joy. My children wait impatiently for the announcement of “baking day,” and all have their special requests. This year they were all old enough to participate independently, and my thirteen-year-old has fully co-opted her particular preference: sugar cookies.
Made of little more than flour, sugar, and butter, those economical little cookies are the perfect family activity. Everyone’s fingers and noses (and probably clothes) are floured as much as the cutting board. Reindeer, trees, snowflakes, and “gingerbread men” take shape under cutters pressed by small hands. The oven is impatiently watched between turns to “cut,” and golden cookies cover every surface while voices clamor for “just one.”
Other easy recipes soon join the marching shapes. Pretzel and cracker dips splatter chocolate in remote corners. Oatmeal cookies redolent of cinnamon fill the house with their comforting aroma. Gingerbread puffs delightfully in muffin tins. Homemade eggnog whips in the mixer.
When all the beautiful food is finished, it’s time to package it up. You see, while we do enjoy eating some of our goodies ourselves, we bake with another purpose. The time spent together is our gift to each other as a family, and the results are our gift to friends. A little of everything is packed into little bags with holiday notes attached, and on the Sunday before Christmas the kids get to hand deliver every package with an excited hug and a Merry Christmas. These gifts, made in an atmosphere of love and by the labor of their own hands, unconsciously reinforce the meaning of giving in their hearts.
Only when the gifts are ready and the mess cleared away do we taste the fruits of our labors. With a holiday movie on the screen, a fire crackling in the heater, and lights twinkling on our rather Seussical tree, we savor the taste of love.
“Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?”
“Connor!” Emily leaned over the rail, her voice hushed but quivering with laughter. “What do you think you’re doing? They’ll kick us out!”
“Not if the bridge troll eats them first!” Connor growled, then coughed as his vocal cords protested. He ducked out from under the boards and hopped up to sit on the warm stone beside the bridge.
Emily propped on the rail, elbows stiff, and tried to glare at him, but he leaned over and planted a kiss on her lips. She laughed softly and fisted the front of his shirt, shaking him slightly. “What if I was the big Billy goat gruff?”
“That would be disappointing,” he said, shifting his weight and grabbing her hand as if to keep himself from falling. “Because this wouldn’t fit a gruff old goat.” He held her hand tightly, running his thumb over her fingers with quieter expression, then with a sudden strangled throat clearing shoved the ring over her knuckle. “It looks pretty good on you, though.” He gave a nervous chuckle and glanced sideways with an almost pleading grin.
Her breath hissed inward and she stared at her hand for an eternal fifteen seconds. Then a blush suffused her cheeks and she touched the tiny sparkle resting on her finger with tender awe. Agreement came in a whisper as her forehead met his, but the quick rise and fall of his shoulders registered full comprehension.
“Come along, we’ll see the bridge later,” a passerby urged her child with a knowing smile. “Those two might be there for a little while. We’ll give them their privacy. “
Peter wrote to early Christians during a time of relentless persecution. Those who claimed the name of Christ were surrounded by neighbors and authority figures who wanted them dead, exterminated with no memory of their existence. The pressure had begun to wear on the faithful of God, inciting rage and resentment toward their enemies and causing tension even among themselves.
Rather than giving in to such feelings, Peter urged the beleaguered Christians to uphold a higher choice. By responding to attackers with anger, they merely fueled the hatred directed toward them, proving the accusations of their enemies. Instead they were to be respectful of their haters, remaining free of the trap in which their enemies had already fallen. They were simply to live their lives, keeping God in focus and demonstrating His love. If a slavemaster bullied them, they needed to be sure they had given no excuse by rebellion or poor work; the slavemaster was wrong, but they should not be. If a woman followed God but her husband did not, she was not to create a wall in their marriage over it. Instead she was to offer him all her love and trust, be a quiet irresistable strength for him. Men were not to be tyrants over their wives, even in spiritual matters, but were to be gentle and respectful of their partners in life.
If they were to hold such character toward their enemies, their relationship with each other as the followers of Christ was to be infinitely more precious and protected. They were to live in harmony with each other. Harmony in music is something that nearly everyone understands; it requires many different notes being played together in such a way that each is beautified and enriched by the others. These Christians were individuals with different cultural and religious backgrounds, different preferences and styles, different experiences, and often different understandings of spiritual matters. Instead of arguing about their differences, they were to use them to create a beautiful melody that could not be ignored even in the face of great terror. Their love and compassion for each other, and for their enemies, would provide the strength to stand for truth without rancor against an onslaught of suffering.
This approach is difficult for most. Human love is often limited by an instinct for self-preservation and exaltation. We want others to sacrifice for us, become what makes us comfortable, believe what we tell them without question, and so on, while the same asked of us is offensive. There is no room for understanding of or compassion for another’s struggle when that struggle makes us uncomfortable, yet the example of our Savior is weighted heavily in the opposite direction. To follow Him each one of us must be willing to wear another’s shoes. Respect between us as humans must be mutual, regardless of human differences. Sacrifice for other humans must be mutual between God’s faithful, and weighted against ourselves when dealing with lost souls.
The love of our Savior sacrificed everything to show hope to the hopeless, peace to the raging, love to the hateful. It did not seek to condemn souls, but to change them. It challenged them, pushed them, even rebuked them sharply when necessary, but most of all it called them by its very existence. It, He, understood the depth of human failure and used the deepest horror of it to display perfection. To display love. How can we do otherwise?
The Word Worker 
