The Twelve Myths of Christmas #2

MYTH 2: THE ANGELS SANG 

Shockingly, some people do not believe that the angels sang the night Jesus was born. And though I love music, neither do I. 

Everyone has heard the story of the shepherds keeping watch over their flock by night, and everyone also believes that the angels sang for joy, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”  Luke 2:14

But really, the chances are 50/50 that the angels actually sang. The Bible simply does not say that they sang. This is what it DOES say in Luke 2:

8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

The word “saying” is unmistakable. Here’s one explanation of the translation from Greek to our English:

The word translated as “saying” in Luke 2:13 is λεγοντων (legontōn) from the root λεγω (legō). This is a very common word in Scripture, and it means “to speak or talk, with apparent focus upon the content of what is said.”

J. P. Louw and E. A. Nida, Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament: Based on Semantic Domains, vol. 1, electronic ed. of the 2nd ed., (New York: United Bible Societies, 1996), 396.

Here’s what I picture. Imagine the scene. The angels in heaven know full well what is going on. ONE angel appears first and it’s a good thing. I’m guessing if the shepherds were so freaked out by the sight of one angel in the dark of night, so much so that the word recorded here is they were “sore afraid” or “terrified”, it was a good thing all the angels did not appear at once or the shepherds may well have had heart failure. 

What if the scene is more like this: the angels come to earth out of the black hole, or the third heaven, or the heavenlies, wherever that is. Most of the angels, like over 10,000 of them according to the Jewish definition of a “multitude”, hang back somehow so that the shepherds only see the first one. 

Then, as soon as the first angel was done with his message, the 10,000 could not contain themselves any longer. They appeared to the shepherds and praised God. This picture in my mind is that of men at a soccer game as they go into a chant in unison of praise. The noise is deafening. They are chanting in unison. 

One of my favorite English translations of the Greek is the Tree of Life Version (TLV). It describes the multitude as “heavenly armies”:

13 And suddenly a multitude of heavenly armies appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

14 “Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth shalom to men of good will.”

15 And when the angels departed from them into the heavens, the shepherds were saying to one another, “Let’s go!….”

What if the idea here is more like an Army/Navy Football game where the crowds just burst into “Saying” or more like chanting “U-S-A.” or something? I think it was more like a chant—at least at first. Otherwise, the author, Luke, the precise medical doctor and wordsmith, would have chosen the word “singing” wouldn’t he? Just asking. Some things on the side to note. The angels were aware of how scary they are. The first thing they always say is, “Don’t be afraid.” 

Secondly, they were messengers sent to tell the message. I wonder if the first angel was sent to appear to the shepherds, and the other angels asked God if they could go too—something like the opening scene of It’s a Wonderful Life, and God might have said, “Okay, but don’t scare them to death.”

Also, angels always in the Bible are referred to in the masculine pronoun. They were not female types with wings and flowing hair like in all the Victorian-Era Christmas Cards. Anyway, it does not appear that way in the Bible. So to me the picture is soldiers. “Heavenly Armies” as it says in this translation.

To be biblically accurate then, the only thing to do is to remove those little figures of angels from your Christmas trees or in your Fontanini nativity sets and replace them with G.I. Joes or those little green army men. At least that is the way we did it in our household as we were raising our two boys to study the Bible—accurately handling EVERY WORD, and not leaning of the images of Christmas cards and mythical notions.

The second Myth of Christmas? Right. I do not THINK the angels sang, so it’s still hard for me to sing, “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.”

This Christmas instead, as you sing that beloved hymn, just insert, “Hark, the Herald Angels Said” or use your imagination and sing “SHOUTED.” 

We chant loud enough at a football game. How much more, then, should we loudly and boldly proclaim the amazing, miraculous, astonishing news that the Messiah—the Son of God—was born.

photo by Jake Skrlep from Unslpash.

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The Twelve Myths of Christmas #1

Myth 1: Jesus was born on December 25th

Here’s a question. Was Jesus born on December 25th?

Ah, no. Probably not. I suppose since the Bible does not exactly say, there’s a 1/365 chance that Jesus was born on December 25th, but a real student that actually studies the Bible knows a bit better than that.

Detective students that follow the clues can discover that Jesus was born near the end of September. Maybe even September 25th, not December 25th, or so. How do I know? Follow these clues with me.

First, we know that the angel told Mary that her cousin, Elizabeth, the wife of the Jewish priest, Zachariah, was in her sixth month of pregnancy just before Mary became pregnant herself, not by a man, but by the Holy Spirt. The angel explained what would happen to her, and offered her proof in the news about Elizabeth.

Luke 1 says:

Mary asked the angel, “How can this be, since I have not been intimate with a man?”[j]

35 The angel replied to her:

“The Holy Spirit will come upon you,
and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.
Therefore, the holy One to be born
will be called the Son of God.

36 And consider your relative Elizabeth—even she has conceived a son in her old age, and this is the sixth month for her who was called childless. 37 For nothing will be impossible with God.”

38 “I am the Lord’s slave,”[k] said Mary. “May it be done to me according to your word.” Then the angel left her.

If then Elizabeth’s baby, John the Baptist, was due after three more months, and Mary’s baby, Jesus, after nine more months, all we would need to know was when Elizabeth became pregnant, and then we could count the months until Mary would deliver Jesus. Easy.

Actually, the Bible DOES say when Elizabeth conceived! Amazing! That is found in the book of Luke, Chapter 1:

5 In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a priest of Abijah’s division[c]named Zechariah. His wife was from the daughters of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. 6 Both were righteous in God’s sight, living without blame according to all the commands and requirements of the Lord. 7 But they had no children[d]because Elizabeth could not conceive,[e] and both of them were well along in years.[f]

8 When his division was on duty and he was serving as priest before God, 9 it happened that he was chosen by lot, according to the custom of the priesthood, to enter the sanctuary of the Lord and burn incense. 10 At the hour of incense the whole assembly of the people was praying outside. 11 An angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing to the right of the altar of incense. 12 When Zechariah saw him, he was startled and overcome with fear.[g] 13 But the angel said to him:

Do not be afraid, Zechariah,
because your prayer has been heard.
Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son,
and you will name him John.

Well then, if only we knew WHEN a priest of Abidjah’s devision would serve in the Temple.

Actually, the Bible DOES say when that would be. It would have been the eighth “course” or time slot.

1 Chronicles 24: 7-18:

7 Now the first lot fell to Jehoiarib, the second to Jedaiah, 8 the third to Harim, the fourth to Seorim, 9 the fifth to Malchijah, the sixth to Mijamin, 10 the seventh to Hakkoz, the eighth to Abijah.

The Jewish year started at passover, in the month of Nisa. March. Zachariah would have served in the eighth course, or in June, and returned to his wife, Elizabeth, therefore, in the middle to end of June. She may well have conceived quite soon. Easy. Just count. When is six months after June? December.

What if December 25 is not the BIRTH of Jesus, but around the time the angel came to tell Mary the news. What if Mary conceived by the Holy Spirit quite soon after that? That would put Jesus’ birth at the end of September, and John in March.

But wait. What if the REAL miracle of the life of Jesus is not how He was BORN. He was just born the regular way, or, well, slightly lower than the regular way since there was not room in the inn, and they laid him in a manger.

No. The real miracle of the life of Jesus is how he was CONCEIVED. By the Holy Spirit. In other words, he was not the son of a man, but the son made by GOD.

Isn’t it poetic indeed, that Jesus was conceived at the darkest time of the year? Maybe God has the last laugh after all. On December 25th we put on this big celebration called Christ-mas, but nothing is wasted. Perhaps we celebrate His CONCEPTION, not his birth. That’s worth pondering.

One more thing. A real student of the Bible would also be amazed at the fact that the real birth of Jesus was during Sukkot, the Feast of the Tabernacles. Maybe that’s why John writes in John 1:14 that Jesus “tabernacled” among us—or literally “pitched His tent” among us. On His BIRTH day.

John 1:14 Tree of Life Version

14 And the Word became flesh and tabernacled among us. We looked upon His glory,[a] the glory of the one and only[b] from the Father, full of grace and truth.

This Christmas, let’s celebrate the REAL miracle that happened at this time of year—the moment Jesus was amazingly, miraculously, astonishingly conceived.

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On My Knees in Rivendell

If the little woods we planted thirty years ago is My Narnia, then for sure the lake house in Michigan is My Rivendell.

For sixty years my family has summered there amidst the cedar and the spring-fed quicksilver they call a lake. It is my bliss. A dream-like place, it was built down a mile-long road at a time between a horse-drawn existence and the Model T. It’s a summer home, really. Five bedrooms, three baths, and most importantly three glorious porches to watch the world from. My Rivendell.

But with blessings come responsibilities. A white, 120-foot wooden dock that we whitewash every third year and is in constant need of repair, is the gateway to this dream lake. It has fifteen, eight-foot sections that lead straight out over the water with a right turn into a U-shaped boat slip and a huge sunbathing platform.

From this dock we test the waters, begin life’s voyages, gaze into the liquid mirror of Galadriel, notice creatures in the world beneath the surface of MiddleEarth, and study the starry host at night for what they may foretell. “The stars. The forget-me-nots of angels.” – Longfellow

Therefore, as with all physical things, the white, wooden dock must be cared for, and we are the care-givers. Newly replaced boards and chipped paint must be covered for protection from the evils of wind and sun and rain. So out come the white dock stain, the tray, the roller, but first–the scraper. As with most worthy endeavors in life, the actual painting is the fun part–the joy of transformation to the new and fresh. The drudge is in the prep work. Hot. Messy. Bone-hard scraping. This cannot be done by mere standing, for it can only be achieved in one way–on my knees.

I started at the shore amidst the watercress, the mint, and the forget-me-nots, in the shade of a whispering paper birch. That’s how most epic tales start. But it was not long when the sun beat my shoulders and my knees ached. I scraped three feet at a time in front of me, lifting and removing all loose bits, then rising from my knees and sliding my knee pad. I would inch ahead, sink to my knees, and keep scraping. It was not long before I wished for shade, blessed the breeze, and looked with longing at the smiling waters. But at least I was here in the place I love–on my knees in Rivendell.

When followers of Christ fall to their knees, a miracle happens. You remember whose you are. Your eyes open. The latent, sub-surface dreams and thoughts pour into your mind and you find yourself in dialogue with the Maker. He’s been waiting just to be asked. Some call it prayer. But to me, it’s just asking. A family member is tormented by pain. My loved one is being led the wrong way, but what should I do? Will our land be healed, or will it go into the shadows until Your return? If so, will You show me the right path? Or as Gandalf said, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

But for now, I was being shown my task. Scrape the old paint off. Put on the new.

Every now and then, my knee-questions were disturbed by interruptions. I lost my focus. After all, there were twin eagles! Azure skies! Passing boats. Comedic ducks. And here a dragonfly, newly hatched, still clung to the vestiges of its old larva shell. How silly of it! Did it not know that was just its shell, and that now it could actually fly? But even new-born dragonflies must dry their wings first, and that takes time. They must wait for the sunshine to pour in. And waiting is not very adventurous.

My mind had drifted away from the dialogue with my Maker to do some self-centered math. How many times did I need to heave up from my stiff knees, move ahead, and sink into scraping again? Three times per section, so forty-five. Plus the sundeck and that makes at least seventy times. Reminds me of seventy times seven–those famous words. What about the ones from whom I need forgiveness? Now there was a thought. More scraping.

Looking back on that day, I see now that perhaps the time that was given me on my knees was the beginning of the adventure. Perhaps that time spent was needed to keep my feet, as Bilbo said. “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

So what’s the metaphysical point of the physical? There’s dangerous business to attend. If God is in the business of restoration–indeed the point of Rivendells–perhaps then, so should I be busy in that most dangerous business. All things new.

“And He who was seated on the throne said, ‘Behold, I am making all things new.’ And He also said, ‘Write this down! For these words are trust-worthy and true.'” Revelation 21:5

What are you in the process of making new? Maybe its you, yourself, that could use a makeover? Some scraping? New paint? “Therefore, if anyone in is Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away. Behold! The new has come.” 2 Corinthians 5:17.

We long for the rest and renewal of Rivendell. George MacDonald, the author of many of my favorite books and influencer of J.R.R. Tolkien (the creator of Rivendell) penned this anagram by scrambling the letters of his name, thus making a life motto that has encouraged me every time I see it. –CORAGE! GOD MEND AL–

Where is your personal Rivendell? What should you do with the time that is given you? Your dangerous business may start on your knees like mine did. Don’t worry, dear heart. Courage! What looks like scraped paint and old larva shells may not be what they seem. Open your eyes. He is making all things new. The old has passed away. Everyone needs their own personal Rivendell. Find it.

–CORAGE. GOD MEND AL– Anagram of George MacDonald

Anagram of George MacDonald
George MacDonald

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On My Knees in Narnia

narnia treesby Lora Hattendorf

We call it Narnia. Thirty years ago, when we bought our seven acres of bliss, we covered our hot spot corner overlooking the intersection of Middle and Barry with pines. From the first it sequestered us from the ever-increasing car traffic, but as those seven trees grew to thirty feet in as many years, it became our own personal Narnia. Everyone needs her own personal Narnia.

One day we added a rescue tree. It came from two states away, destined soon to be cut down from a remodel project. There was nothing for it but to dig it up along with its clump of myrtle and a surprise fern and bury it in Narnia to live or die.

We dug plenty of leg room in the pine needles on the open east side to catch the morning sun, inserted peat moss and a five-gallon bucket’s worth of water from the Tank of Truth (an old oil drum welded to make our private rainwater reservoir), and spread apart the fibrous roots, when what should we find? Not a pine tree, but FOUR pine trees huddled together, the other three sheltered by their brother’s branches. Well then. We recognize a gift from God when we see one.

We labored over three additional holes, peat moss, more Tank-of-Truth water, spread the love, patted the soil over, and tucked pine needles around each one. Naming things is the right of ownership. What other names for our personal Narnia than Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy of course?

1600px-Seedling_planting

Every spring I check Narnia to make sure our four have survived, and this year with the frigid polar vortex and temps plunging to 24 below zero, made no exception. I trotted over to Narnia with my garden wagon and my football-shaped, very pregnant calico cat. She had appeared on our front porch on that polar vortex day. Well then. We recognize a gift from God when we see one.

I named the cat “Kelpie” for George MacDonald’s obstinate horse tamed by Malcolm in the Marquis of Lossie. I had discovered the writings of George MacDonald thanks to C. S. Lewis about the time we had planted our Narnia. When Michael Phillips re-introduced the writings of MacDonald in the 80s, I devoured every one. Malcolm became my thirty-year serial-read. This stray calico had to be a “Kelpie,” and now she followed me everywhere.

Yes, three of the four trees had survived, Peter, Susan, Edmund, but no Lucy. The myrtle, or periwinkle if you prefer the fairy name, scattered its blue-violet trumpets over the dark emerald leaves, now in a royal train around the princes and princess of Narnia, in a twelve-foot patch surrounding the living child-trees. This was deep magic. But something looked very wrong.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

In amongst the emeralds with their amethyst flowers and at the feet of my Pevensies, long-necked, goblin dandelions dared to strangle my Narnia. This would never do. I pulled, separated the myrtle leaves to identify the base of the enemies, and twisted the roots away. They obeyed easy enough and came out in handfuls. Kelpie sprawled in the periwinkle. Perhaps she wondered if this would be a fitting place to lay her kittens and indeed it would. Funny thing about pulling weeds – once you find one, you see ten. I fell to my knees and really attacked.

When a follower of Christ falls to her knees, a miracle happens. You remember whose you are. Your eyes open. A weed becomes a prayer gathered and given and a gentle green comes upon you – clean and emerald and amethyst. That friend’s heath issue – peace. Your worry for your child – gone. That looming decision, that battle with addiction, that sorrow, suffering, loss, uncertainty – casting all your weeds upon Him, for He cares for you.

Kelpie shadowed my every move as if she knew her time would come to deliver five kittens alive, and one not in this world. But as for now, she lay her preposterous body across my lower calves making it impossible for me to rise from my praying, weeding position. What a laughable trap. Malcolm tamed Kelpie by outrageously sitting on her head. Now my Kelpie pinned me to stay on my knees by preposterously sitting on my calves. Why?

What more did I have to ask the Father about? But then He saw it all, and I, under a long-necked, goblin weed saw her – Lucy, the last seedling tree. She had survived the polar vortex, and with twice the chartreuse of new pine-needle growth – a full seven inches tall at least, double last year’s height. Well then. We recognize a gift from God when we see one. Shall I trust in the answered weed-prayers to the One who made time and can see them answered?

Where’s your Narnia? What are your long-necked, goblin weeds? Twist them into prayers. Open your eyes to see that your Kelpie, who pins you to your knees, has some Narnian princess to show you. Everyone needs their own personal Narnia. Find it.

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Subsoil: A Flower’s Dream

blue siberiansquill

Just asking how an ugly, nasty, dirt-covered wad called a flower bulb could ignite the hope of spring. I guess the real question is why. Why does God allow this? Why does He create in this way? What are we to say?

Can I really believe in such a thing that seems not just impossible, but tragically as unreasonable as a flower bulb? But I saw the green shoots burst up through the frozen, leaf-covered ground! I noticed the bud appear, and I experienced the miracle of that azure-sky flower bell that pushed open the spring in our lives. Who could not but smile at such a thing? When the world seemed cold and dead, then, no! The flowers that came into our lives told us about THE life! We never once stopped to consider the death of the bulb below the earth. Why would we?

George MacDonald’s Polwarth character explains it:

            It is well enough known that you dig deep in any old garden… ancient, perhaps forgotten flowers, will appear. The fashion has changed, they have been neglected or uprooted, but all the time their life is hid below…[1]

We love a flower, watch it live, enjoy the freshness of the smell, especially when we crush the petals in our hands. Sometimes the petals fall on their own, one by one. Sometimes we snip the tight blooms and put them in our best crystal vases. A great life. Whole-hearted! Fragrant. Who could not but smile at such a thing? But consider what came before the flower, and what will come after. MacDonald’s Polwarth then says:

            I have sometimes wondered whether troubles… may not be as subsoil ploughs… that the seeds of lost virtues… may in them be once more brought within the reach of sun and air and dew.

What hides subsoil within you? It may be a dead, shriveled thing, like an old dream, or a rotting failure – a shameful sorrow or an ancient fear that you tried to bury once. You pretend to forget, but you wonder why you see no blue-flower joy, no fresh life. You wonder why everything seems so dead. Maybe you need a trouble.

What troubles have you had which, like a plough or shovel, have unearthed a nasty thing? We must let that trouble bring us closer to the surface, “within the reach of sun and air and dew.” Sometimes it is reasonable to cry. It is most rational also to hope, or where is the lesson of the buried flower? 

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Heb. 11:1[2]

Isn’t a flower the evidence of things not seen that causes the rational belief in the unseen? Isn’t the trouble, then, the plough, brought close to bring us to the air, the light, the dew?

Do you have a trouble? Will it, nevertheless, eventually turn out to bloom like a blue spring flower? With 20/20 hindsight shouldn’t we earnestly look at these problems, this quarantine, trials, bad reports, struggles, heartaches, worries, as potential flowers? “Give the buried flower a dream,” says the poet.[3]

Just asking… what if the shovel cuts? What if the ground turns over and around you? What if the rain soaks a damp bed of fear and doubt that causes a sickness in your soul? Is that how the bulb feels?

Are we meant to consider the buried lump as a future creation of delicate beauty – opening blue? Yes, we are. God has not stopped creating. In fact, perhaps some of his best work may lie buried for now. Who could not but smile at such a thing? I know what happened on the Third Day. Just asking.

To the Thawing Wind
Robert Frost- 1874-1963
 
Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate’er you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit’s crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.

[1]MacDonald, George. Paul Faber, Surgeon.

[2]KJV. Hebrews 11:1

[3]Frost, Robert. “To the Thawing Wind.”

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On My Knees in Narnia

narnia treesby Lora Hattendorf

We call it Narnia. Thirty years ago, when we bought our seven acres of bliss, we covered our hot spot corner overlooking the intersection of Middle and Barry with pines. From the first it sequestered us from the ever-increasing car traffic, but as those seven trees grew to thirty feet in as many years, it became our own personal Narnia. Everyone needs her own personal Narnia.

One day we added a rescue tree. It came from two states away, destined soon to be cut down from a remodel project. There was nothing for it but to dig it up along with its clump of myrtle and a surprise fern and bury it in Narnia to live or die.

We dug plenty of leg room in the pine needles on the open east side to catch the morning sun, inserted peat moss and a five-gallon bucket’s worth of water from the Tank of Truth (an old oil drum welded to make our private rainwater reservoir), and spread apart the fibrous roots, when what should we find? Not a pine tree, but FOUR pine trees huddled together, the other three sheltered by their brother’s branches. Well then. We recognize a gift from God when we see one.

We labored over three additional holes, peat moss, more Tank-of-Truth water, spread the love, patted the soil over, and tucked pine needles around each one. Naming things is the right of ownership. What other names for our personal Narnia than Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy of course?

1600px-Seedling_planting

Every spring I check Narnia to make sure our four have survived, and this year with the frigid polar vortex and temps plunging to 24 below zero, made no exception. I trotted over to Narnia with my garden wagon and my football-shaped, very pregnant calico cat. She had appeared on our front porch on that polar vortex day. Well then. We recognize a gift from God when we see one.

I named the cat “Kelpie” for George MacDonald’s obstinate horse tamed by Malcolm in the Marquis of Lossie. I had discovered the writings of George MacDonald thanks to C. S. Lewis about the time we had planted our Narnia. When Michael Phillips re-introduced the writings of MacDonald in the 80s, I devoured every one. Malcolm became my thirty-year serial-read. This stray calico had to be a “Kelpie,” and now she followed me everywhere.

Yes, three of the four trees had survived, Peter, Susan, Edmund, but no Lucy. The myrtle, or periwinkle if you prefer the fairy name, scattered its blue-violet trumpets over the dark emerald leaves, now in a royal train around the princes and princess of Narnia, in a twelve-foot patch surrounding the living child-trees. This was deep magic. But something looked very wrong.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

In amongst the emeralds with their amethyst flowers and at the feet of my Pevensies, long-necked, goblin dandelions dared to strangle my Narnia. This would never do. I pulled, separated the myrtle leaves to identify the base of the enemies, and twisted the roots away. They obeyed easy enough and came out in handfuls. Kelpie sprawled in the periwinkle. Perhaps she wondered if this would be a fitting place to lay her kittens and indeed it would. Funny thing about pulling weeds – once you find one, you see ten. I fell to my knees and really attacked.

When a follower of Christ falls to her knees, a miracle happens. You remember whose you are. Your eyes open. A weed becomes a prayer gathered and given and a gentle green comes upon you – clean and emerald and amethyst. That friend’s heath issue – peace. Your worry for your child – gone. That looming decision, that battle with addiction, that sorrow, suffering, loss, uncertainty – casting all your weeds upon Him, for He cares for you.

Kelpie shadowed my every move as if she knew her time would come to deliver five kittens alive, and one not in this world. But as for now, she lay her preposterous body across my lower calves making it impossible for me to rise from my praying, weeding position. What a laughable trap. Malcolm tamed Kelpie by outrageously sitting on her head. Now my Kelpie pinned me to stay on my knees by preposterously sitting on my calves. Why?

What more did I have to ask the Father about? But then He saw it all, and I, under a long-necked, goblin weed saw her – Lucy, the last seedling tree. She had survived the polar vortex, and with twice the chartreuse of new pine-needle growth – a full seven inches tall at least, double last year’s height. Well then. We recognize a gift from God when we see one. Shall I trust in the answered weed-prayers to the One who made time and can see them answered?

Where’s your Narnia? What are your long-necked, goblin weeds? Twist them into prayers. Open your eyes to see that your Kelpie, who pins you to your knees, has some Narnian princess to show you. Everyone needs their own personal Narnia. Find it.

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DRINK THE LIGHT – Part One

“Our first show of light as the Lord’s disciples must be in doing the things he tells us… So shall we drink the light like some diamonds.” 

– George Macdonald – The Hope of the Gospel

–

SHINE IN:

Doing the Things He Tells Us

Drink the light? Mine would be a salted caramel mocha frappuccino with half the pumps, if you’re asking – my favorite drink. Of course with whipped cream or what’s “all this sweet work worth?” (Shelley)

This “Drink the Light” series is a hobby-pondering of mine in the making, inspired by George MacDonald’s Hope of the Gospel. My thoughts, coming as soon as I can figure them out, come from what God is trying to tell me.

Unknown

 

Until then, I’m pondering this:

Love’s Philosophy

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river   
And the rivers with the ocean,   
The winds of heaven mix for ever   
With a sweet emotion;   
Nothing in the world is single, 
All things by a law divine   
In one another’s being mingle—   
Why not I with thine?   
   
See the mountains kiss high heaven,   
And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister-flower would be forgiven   
If it disdain’d its brother;   
And the sunlight clasps the earth,   
And the moonbeams kiss the sea—   
What is all this sweet work worth 
If thou kiss not me?

 

“So shall we drink the light like some diamonds.”

 

Drink the Light – 2   SHINE ACROSS The Dust of Our Failures

Drink the Light – 3  SHINE AS Lights – Holding Forth the Word of Life

Drink the Light – 4    SHINE BY Keeping in His Light

Drink the Light – 5    SHINE BY Sunning Our Souls in the Light

Drink the Light – 6   SHINE BY Thinking

Drink the Light – 7   SHINE BY Drinking the Light Like Some Diamonds

 

KEEP THE LIGHT

SHINE IN THE DARK

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What Should I Do Next?

I heard somewhere that baby boomers retire at a rate of 10,000 a year. Hey! I want to be in that number, but for now, what should I do next?” Where else can I go for the answer but to the masters?

When I met Michael Phillips and his wife, Judy, by a serendipitous accident on a trip to Cullen, Scotland, they invited us to tea at The Retreat. I asked them once, “What should I do next?” and the answer came as a shocker:

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“I have no idea! That is between you and God.”

Amazed, I acknowledged the wisdom and self control it takes to give that answer. So to seek God, where should I start?

My pastor, James MacDonald, recently gave this answer from Matthew 22:

Love God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength, and your neighbor as yourself.

Still doesn’t answer my question. C.S.Lewis would not have me stand scratching my head:

“Every road, after a few miles, forks into two, and each of those into two again, and at each fork, you must make a decision.”

George MacDonald would have me do the hardest thing yet, from Unspoken Sermons:

“…wait in quietness until light goes up in thy darkness. Fold the arms of thy Faith I say, but not of thy Action: bethink thee of something that thou oughtest to do, and go and do it, if it be but the sweeping of a room, or the preparing of a meal, or a visit to a friend. Heed not thy feelings: Do thy work.”

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And MacDonald assures the result will drive out doubt and indecision. This quote from Malcolm hangs over my desk for my times of fear:

“The very first step towards action is the death warrant of doubt.”

For now? Step onto the road.

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Early Snow

img_1569Early Snow – February Fog

This year we had great hopes. The cleansing snow would last, the healthy air would crystalize our breath, the change would be permanent.

We should have known. Manna must come every day, new born. Hope is a daily gift. You must gather it fresh. It will not keep. You must go out and gather it. It will not come to you unless you do, and yet it faithfully appears when you look for it.

Take a step out into the fog. Breathe. Receive.

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See You Soon, Chase

11695798_10153239901993462_2210234034099670130_nFrom the first, we knew. We prayed, but mostly for ourselves.

The “bad dream that leaked into reality” woke us all. Whatever we all had poured into our friend and student, Chase Froese, bubbled over in her effervescent spirit looking at us with her sea-glass blue and green eyes. Her magnetic, nutty, spirit-animal, question of the day, carpe diem soul has forced us to look, with her, “Onward and Upward.” Thank you for reminding us that without Jesus, there is no “Onward and Upward.” We love you for that! See you soon, Chase.

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