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Category: Advent

Regaining your bearings when your kingdom crumbles

I tend to get into Christmas.

I mean really get into Christmas.

I am Clark Griswold. If I could cover my house in thousands of lights, I would risk my well-being to string them up. If I could find a tree too big for my living room, I would cut it down and figure out a way. I am proud of that identity. I own it. I have no inhibitions.

However, this Christmas feels a little more subdued. I still “don me now my gay apparel” (Oh, how I wish the original meaning of that word hadn’t been hijacked): Christmas tee-shirts, and neckties, and an over-the-top Santa hat. I watch Christmas movies like A Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, and Die Hard (and, yes, it is a Christmas movie). I play carols incessantly without hesitation or shame (and those who constantly complain about Christmas music, I don’t care). read more

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The promise of peace

In 2014, I wrote about Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “Christmas Bells” in the context of an active shooter situation at a mall near my home in Portland, Oregon. The day after the shooting, I drove down to the mall, watching the police activity, the media frenzy, and the stunned onlookers standing in small groups still trying to grasp what had just happened.

As I drove around the mall, the carol “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” came over the radio.

That song has stuck with me ever since.

The thought of church bells piercing the grit, darkness, and violence of the times and proclaiming the arrival of a promised Messiah is burned into my mind.

Especially at the conclusion of each of the every subsequent year since. read more

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Darkness surrounded by Christmas

It’s no secret that Christmas falls during the month of December.

What isn’t as clear is the reason why.

“That’s easy,” one might reply. “It’s when Jesus was born.”

Actually, it wasn’t.

Most biblical historians place Jesus’s birth around either October(ish) or April(ish). They argue that shepherds would not have been out in the fields with their sheep in the dead of winter. It would have been far too cold, especially at night. (Fun fact: Christ likely wasn’t born in the year 0 AD either. Because of some miscalculations in the Gregorian calendar, he was probably born sometime between 3 to 5 BC.)

Secularists–and particularly militant atheists–enjoy rubbing that little detail into the face of unsuspecting Christians before adding, with gleeful snark, that the whole Christmas holiday is based on a pagan holiday filled with drunken debauchery, which is true.

To a point.

But the deconstruction of the Christmas narrative into a bunch of uncomfortable half-truths in no way minimizes the power of the Incarnation.

The decision by the early church to set the celebration of Jesus’s birth on December 25 was intentional.

Celebrating his birth on this date is not an attempt to deceive the masses about the actual date it happened, any more than is celebating his resurrection on the first Sunday following the first full moon after the Spring Equinox. It’s merely a date for global body of Christ to celebrate as one.

And–gasp!—Resurrection Sunday was also around the time of pagan holidays.

So why did the early church set the celebration of Jesus’s birth on December 25th? The answer is quite enlightening (pun very much intended).

With the shortest days of the year, December is shrouded in darkness more than any other month (at least in the northern hemisphere–the early church’s known world at the time). December can seem downright depressing. Further, the month also contains a solitary annual event: the winter solstice.

The winter solstice is the day the earth’s northern hemisphere is tilted furthest away from the sun, marking the official first day of winter. It is also the day considered the shortest of the year, with the northern-tier states of the US getting only about eight to nine hours of daylight, decreasing as one goes further north. People in northern Canada and Alaska receive only a few hours of light a day, and must hunker in for the cold, depressing darkness of winter.

However, though that solstice marks the shortest, darkest day of the year, it also marks the point after which the days begin to grow longer.

In other words, light is entering into the world.

Following the winter solstice by only a few days, December 25 marks both the coming of more daylight to dispel our physical darkness, and the coming of the Light of the World who dispels our spiritual darkness.

It feels like the two years following the whole COVID mess have been spiritually dark. It’s like our nation–in fact, the whole world–has been stumbling along, trying to regain our sense of equilibrium. We’re assessing the damage of lockdowns, individually and relationally. We suffered through another election which grows uglier by the year. We now accept lies as truth for no other reason than it’s “our guy” telling them.

Students are woefully behind on their level of studies from where they should be. Many of us who have been able to get by are now living paycheck to paycheck, draining our savings and running credit card balances in order to stay afloat while being told by the highest authorities that everything is peachy. Just this month, there have been mass shootings in both a gay club and a Walmart as well as a brutal quadruple homicide of four college kids while they slept.

We no longer believe anything from our media, government, and academic institutions. And every day, that level of mistrust grows progressively worse. Institutions we normally trust to fix things are themselves broken.

Nothing makes sense. When institutions we should trust are telling us things totally out of line with the reality around us, uncertainty prevails. And with no truth to stabilize, darkness saturates.

There is no solution.

Save one.

The dark reality Jesus entered into the first time is the same reality now.

We don’t need Christmas in spring or summer, when all is warm and bright. But we do need it in the darkest time of the year. Why do you think the most dominant decoration is the light?

As we enter into the Christmas 2022 season, don’t wait to start the season until you feel “festive.” That is the way the world does it, trying to drum up emotions and then falling even deeper into depression and darkness.

That is also putting the cart before the horse.

Acknowledge the Christmas season from within the darkness around you. Let the brilliance of Christmas trees and lights remind you that the true Light of the world has come and will come again.

Yes, it’s dark. But Christmas is the reminder that Emmanuel has come.

And the days will start growing longer.

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That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown

A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS (1965)

On November 30, 2015, the ABC television network aired the 50th anniversary special of “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” This annual animated TV show, based on Charles Schultz’s comic strip “Peanuts,” has traditionally aired shortly following the Thanksgiving weekend to kick off the Christmas season. It tells the story of Charlie Brown’s depression and angst at Christmas as he tries to find the point of it all amidst the shallow emptiness of commercialism.

The show is a big deal for me—so big, in fact, that I consider it the start of my Advent season. My tradition is that my Christmas tree and lights must be up and glowing before the program airs.

I want to kick of my Christmas celebration with the whole Peanuts gang.

That year, in 2015, the 50th anniversary special included a message from then-President Barak Obama. He said that this beloved Christmas program teaches us that “tiny trees just need a little love and that on this holiday we celebrate peace on Earth and good will toward all.”[1]

“A Charlie Brown Christmas” is about a tiny tree? Did the President miss the part where Linus walks onstage and quotes Luke 2:8:14?

That moment was pretty hard to miss. After Charlie Brown laments the stress and anguish of the holidays while staging a disastrous Christmas play, he cries out for anyone to tell him what Christmas is really all about. His friend Linus responds matter-of-factly, “Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”

Linus walks onto the stage and quotes the gospel of Luke:

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. 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. And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not: for behold, I bring unto you good tiings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.'” read more

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Bring on the schmaltz, hallmark!

I just watched my first Hallmark Christmas movie for 2019.

It’s not the first one I’ve watched. Last Christmas, somehow [the Christmas elves did it?] my television got glued to the Hallmark Channel, and I am pretty sure it is again. I freely admit that I am addicted to these movies; I cannot get enough of them, which is odd given that just days ago before Halloween, I was discussing the theological profundities of such movies as “The Conjuring” and “The Exorcism of Emily Rose.”

For the life of me I don’t know how I got hooked on Hallmark Christmas movies, or why they melt my butter the way they do. They are sappy/goopy and clichéd and have only one or two storylines that usually goes something like this: Just before Christmas, a beautiful businesswoman from the big city, highly successful but missing something, gets stuck in a small town – sometimes even her hometown – in a quaint little community that looks like Thomas Kinkade threw up on a Norman Rockwell painting.

There, she meets a ruggedly handsome widower with a sugary kid (think Beaver Cleaver) who helps her rediscover what matters most in life. She must choose between returning to her successful-but-empty career or finding true fulfillment in the quaint community, with the rugged widower person thrown in as a bonus. After a moment of misunderstanding, everything gets sorted out at the Christmas Eve gala. Beautiful businesswoman and rugged widower embrace and kiss. Then It snows.

The end.

Smarmy? Yes. Schmaltzy? Definitely. Warm and fuzzy? Sure. Blissfully wonderful? Absolutely!

What is it about these movies that completely draws me in? For that matter, what is it about them that draws in so many other people too? Last Christmas, Hallmark totally dominated the ratings.[1]

Why? What is the draw?

First, Middle America is respected. For the rest of the year, Hollywood depicts its residents as backwards, bigoted simpletons who lack the style and sophistication of the Coasts. It gets exhausting to be told by Hollywood how much we suck. But in Hallmark Christmas movies, these folks and their simpler, slower life is celebrated. Rural wisdom is acknowledged. Instead of fleeing in horror to the major metropolises, people actually find fulfillment in the small towns. For a couple of months each year, Hallmark movies truly connect with the values and traditions of the heartland.

See the source imageSecond, the stories show innocence and unity. Their sole purpose is to show people enjoying Christmas as a community. Nothing can tear the townsfolk apart; they all truly want the best for their families, their children, and their neighbors. If they disagree with one another, their differences are never mentioned because celebrating the season together is far too important; there is no “us-versus-them.” This shows us that there is life beyond divisiveness, that true community is people caring for each other because they want to – not because they are forced by government policies to do so.

Sooner or later, I will hear the objection (because that’s the type of people we are): “These stories aren’t real! They’re completely made up!”

True. But the same applies to Jesus’s illustration of the Good Samaritan. It’s a story—a parable. That doesn’t mean there is no truth in it.

Hallmark Christmas movies are a wink to the audience. They don’t pretend to be real (and the joke is really on those who take them too seriously). Instead, these movies show not what is, but what could be—if we all just reset our priorities, cut the drama and vitriol, and put people and community first.

If you hate Hallmark Christmas movies, don’t worry. Soon, there will soon be a whole ten months where everybody can hate on each other again.

P.S. Full disclosure: As I write this, the Hallmark Channel is on in the background. I look up just in time to see beautiful businesswoman and the rugged widower embrace and kiss. Then it starts snowing.

[1]Toni Fitzgerald, “Behind the Hallmark Christmas Movies Juggernaut: Ratings Just Keep Rising.” https://www.forbes.com/sites/tonifitzgerald/2018/10/26/behind-the-hallmark-christmas-movies-juggernaut-ratings-just-keep-rising/#760f2a9051ed Accessed, 11/3/2019.

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Clark Griswold, me, and discovering the joy of Advent

This week, churches around the world lit the third candle of Advent—the candle of joy. This joy is based on the fact that after centuries of promise, Messiah has come at last.

One of my guilty Christmas pleasures is watching the movie, “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.” In it, Clark Griswold (Chevy Chase) does all he can to create the joy of an old-fashioned “Griswold Family Christmas.” He prepares in advance. He makes his plans, calculations, and formulas. He pursues the perfect gift for the family (one he clearly can’t afford). He longs to give everyone a holiday as perfect as those he remembers from childhood.

But it’s a comedy, so of course his plans never work. His perfect yard display won’t light up. His perfect Christmas tree won’t fit in the house, and becomes a firework due to a cat and a short in the lights. His perfect family time is disrupted by difficult in-laws as well as his uninvited Cousin Eddie and his, um, dog Snots. His perfect gift falls through after his Christmas bonus morphs into an annual membership in the Jelly-of-the-Month club. And then the whole holiday literally goes up flames when a gas fireball explodes from his sewer. The season is ruined. read more

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Finding the hope of advent in the darkest corners of humanity

For week two of Advent, the theme is hope.

In 2016, the world seems dark and filled with conflict. War and violence are common; our hearts ache with uncertainty and loss. We take sides against each other, both literally and figuratively.

But it is in this darkness that hope shines brightest.

In the 2006 movie Children of Men, the world faces a bleak, hopeless future. For unexplained reasons, humanity has become infertile. No baby has been born in eighteen years. The world, fractured by despots and terrorists, has descended into chaos. The human species is being wiped out by attrition and war.

Then, amazingly, a woman becomes pregnant. Like the infertility, this event is unexplained.

At the climax, a fierce battle rages outside as the woman, hiding in a decrepit building, gives birth. A miracle baby is born.

Furtively the protagonist escorts her out, but the fighters begin to notice the baby. The shooting dies down; the air becomes still. The protector, woman, and child pass through a gauntlet of stunned silence. Peace falls as a sliver of hope returns to the world.

It’s a nativity story, if you will, set in a dystopian world. A world not unlike our own.

In the summer of 1914, Great Britain and its allies engaged Germany and the Central Powers in World War I. Many Allied soldiers enlisted to help fight “the war to end all wars,” which was predicted to be over by Christmas.

Gradually the combat spread 400 miles along Europe’s western front. But by mid-December, this front had reached a stalemate.

In the freezing cold, the two forces dug in—in some spots barely a hundred feet apart. Close enough for eye contact. The trenches were flooded with water, waste, and misery.

But by Christmas Eve 1914, the war’s end was nowhere in sight. The hope of a swift and glorious victory was gone. Lice, squalor, and trench-foot were the norm. One careless moment could prove fatal. They say you never hear the shot that gets you.

As the rest of the world celebrated the hope of Christmas, death and despair hung over the trenches. The western front was at its darkest.

Then something remarkable happened. From the German trenches came the sound of singing in the frigid air:

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht

Alles schläft, einsam wacht.

Nur das traute hochheilige Paar,

Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,

Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!

Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!

The Allies didn’t know German, but they knew the tune. Slowly they added their voices in English:

Silent night, holy night—

All is calm, all is bright.

Round yon virgin mother and child,

Holy infant so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace!

Sleep in heavenly peace!

Then a British guard saw a shocking sight: a German soldier making a suicide walk. Holding a small Christmas tree lit by candles, he crossed over to the British trench and offered up a warm “Merry Christmas.”

At first it was thought a trick, but one by one the British soldiers climbed out their trenches and laid down their arms. German soldiers did the same.  Across no-man’s land the two sides shook hands, traded chocolate and cigarettes, and chatted about better times. They helped one another bury their dead. Even a soccer match broke out.

Not long before, these men had been aiming their guns at one another, shooting to kill.

But on Christmas Eve, this stretch of the western front was silent. A glimmer of hope had returned.

Each year during Advent, I remember this Christmas Truce of 1914.[1] I am amazed to think that two millennia after Christ came, his birth could still bring peace in the middle of a world war.

As long as humans have existed we have tried to enforce peace by might and coercion. But it is always short-lived and superficial—just a shadow of the peace Jesus brings. We cannot push back the night; all we can do is invite him to invade our darkness.

In this week of Advent,  I encourage you to reflect on the power and hope of the incarnation.  Our dark world needs hope. Our hurting hearts need hope. Just remember that hope comes only from Jesus, the Prince of Peace.

 

[1] For details on the Christmas Truce, see http://www.history.com/topics/world-war-i/christmas-truce-of-1914

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Why we need Advent now more than ever

5598559126_90f2e2024c_bAdvent—beginning with the first of four Sundays before Christmas—is usually my favorite time of year. I start anticipating it around June 21, when the days start getting shorter. I love the lights and colors, the smells of Christmas trees and warm fresh-baked cookies, the sounds of bells and carols, and the sight of Rudolph and Charlie Brown running across my television screen. But there’s a deeper reason for my love of Christmas.

For years, I have wrestled with my broken life, and Advent is a season to remember how God stepped into humanity’s story—my story—and lived among us for the sole purpose of saving us. Have you ever suddenly realized that you find more excitement in the days leading up to Christmas than the actual day itself? That is Advent. The “secular” Christmas season of anticipating Santa Claus is merely a shadow-like reflection of what Advent is. Advent is waiting, knowing Jesus will come. So for me, Advent is a reflection and celebration of the magnitude of Jesus’s birth, and what it means in the mess that is my life.

Yet this year, despite my love of Advent, the temptation has been strong to just sit in the darkness and be sad over a world gone mad.

I tried to start this blog on the first Sunday of Advent, because I wanted to give a warm, meaningful introduction to this season of hope.

Yet no words came.

I was in a sour, bleak mood. This year has felt like an episode of the Twilight Zone – or, more accurately, like the overall plot  of “The Walking Dead”: There is no way this story can end well.

Like many people, I have been reeling from a painfully long and ugly presidential election which divided families, friends, and even the body of Christ. I celebrated the day after, not because of the outcome but because it was finally, mercifully over. Then came weeks of riots and accusations, and as if those weren’t enough, the election that will not go away is about to be stretched out at least another few weeks because an official recount was requested in three states. The uncertainty continues.

As I continued trying to blog, a Somali refugee plowed his car into a crowd of students at Ohio State University, then jumped out of his car and began stabbing everyone he could before he was shot dead by law enforcement.

Yet another tragedy. Yet another reason why I could find no heartening words to say.

1280px-night_sky_stars_trees_02The hope of Advent seems pushed out by a dark, broken world, extinguished by the pain of daily life.

Perhaps it’s just the cumulative weight of 2016 in my psyche. Granted, there have been many things to be thankful for in this year; I can’t pretend there were no blessings. But it has been a year unlike any other in my lifetime. Globally we are overwhelmed by issues and evils, knowing that no one – not even the talking heads on TV or the self-proclaimed experts on social media – can solve them. Nationally we are shattered by politics, nursing suspicions and firing accusations against our closest friends and family members because of who we did or didn’t vote for. And personally I celebrated my 50th birthday this year, which reanimated deep questions about life’s meaning and God’s plan.

I have felt so many raw emotions and scary uncertainties this year that I just want to tap out for a while.

So instead of anticipating Advent with joy, I did so with numbness and dread—as if it were just another task to get through.

As I watched the horrible events at Ohio State scroll across my television screen, I got into a pretty frosty (bad seasonal pun intended) debate with myself over whether it was worth it even to get a tree. But I knew that if I didn’t, I’d keep debating the question and be unable to move on to other things – like finishing this blog.

So despite my Grinch-like heart, I ventured out.

Barely thinking or caring about anything, I drove to a nondescript tree lot, grabbed the first decent tree I saw, secured it atop my car, and headed home. Within an hour I had fixed it in a stand, strung it with lights, and thrown some decorations on it.

And although my initial intent was simply to get that chore out of the way, the result changed me.

In the daytime, my tree was just an odd, temporary living room decoration, giving off barely visible light. But as darkness fell, it became truly beautiful.

I sat in the warm glow of my new Christmas tree, a glow which brought remarkable contrast to my darkened living room. And I began to feel the hope that Advent brings.

That morning I had been reading Ann Voskamp’s new book, and now one sentence she wrote explained my experience: “The way you always find the light in the dark is to make your hand reach out.”[1] My sparkling-new Christmas tree was suddenly the symbol of Advent for me. It was light invading the darkness. But I needed to reach for it, and invite the hope of Advent into my own heavy world.

I am grateful I chose to go buy a tree despite my sour disposition. God used that tree to show me that we remember Advent not despite the world’s darkness, but because of it. The anticipation of Advent shines brightest in a dark world; it is when the world is darkest that the anticipation is most needed.

In 2017, there is no guarantee of a better year. We will still be living in a dark, fallen world. And that is exactly why Advent is more important than ever. The world’s darkness is exactly why we must remember Advent—which holds within it the anticipation of Jesus’s birth, the power of his sacrifice, and the hope of knowing that one day he will come again.Photo by Daniel Hochhalter

[1] Ann Voskamp, The Broken Way, p. 57.

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Advent: Lighting the darkness, one dim bulb at a time

Advent-Light2The first week of December, as I sat on my couch untangling Christmas lights, I saw the breaking TV news of two active shooters in San Bernardino.

It was terrible. My first reaction was shock. I saw the confusion, the horror.

But as the news unfolded, my second reaction was dread—dread of what I knew would follow. And sure enough, instead of a focus on compassion and support for the victims, their families, and the first responders, immediately there sprang up arguments about how to fix it.

As the victims bled, pundits began talking on every network, while ordinary folks started blowing up the Internet. All were commenting from comfy remote locations; none were in the path of danger, surrounded by death and destruction or risking life and limb to help. Yet—while police cleared the site, helped the injured, and searched for the shooters—these people who weren’t there, who didn’t hear the screams or see the blood or feel the bullets, promoted sure-fire solutions on TV and shouted each other down in social media.

I kept wishing we could take a moment to feel the shock and truly grieve together, before we started destroying each other with zingers and blame.

Then it got worse. The next day, the cover of the New York Daily News blared, “GOD ISN’T FIXING THIS.” In other words: Screw God; either he doesn’t exist, or he doesn’t care. We must fix this ourselves.

The problem is, we can’t.

As the aftermath played out in San Bernardino, my growing frustration was that we truly don’t have a solution to the terror. No matter how many laws we pass or therapists we hire, determined criminals and mentally ill people will still make deadly choices. From the moment Cain killed Abel, violence has been and will always be a tragic part of human nature.

And I feel helpless to stop it.

Deep down, I think we all do. In the big picture, we know there are no permanent, failsafe solutions that will end all violence and killing – so, instead of letting ourselves feel deep sadness and grief, we immediately jump to anger, frustration, and debate.

However, in my own small way, there is something I can do. And, no matter how trivial it may sound amid mass killings (and believe me, there is nothing trivial about that), it is a symbolic gift to the world.

I can hang Christmas lights.

Jesus told his followers:

“You ar­­e the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven” (Matthew 5:14-16, NIV)

My house is not “built on a hill.” In fact, it is hard to see—it’s off the street, behind other buildings. But it does have two stories. So I climb up there and hang the lights as high as I can, where they can be seen over the other rooftops. My lights are mostly the standard ropes and icicles –but at the very top, I hang a silhouette of the star and the Holy Family to shine out in the dark, watching over the neighborhood.

Compared to other light displays I have seen, mine is nothing extravagant—in fact, it’s quite modest—but in the darkness of a long December night, it shines very brightly. Its light can be seen from far away throughout Advent.

It’s no mistake that Advent occurs during the darkest time of all. In the northern hemisphere, late December has the least light and the shortest days of the whole year. For many, the lack of light is most depressing. But Advent means “coming.” So Advent is a time of hope, anticipation, and waiting in the darkness—a time which reminds us just how helpless we are. The world is broken and, contrary to humanistic Enlightenment thinking, there are some things humans just can’t fix. So, in our darkness, we groan and cry out for God to step in and save us.

In my neighborhood, there isn’t much light. Instead, there is brokenness, abuse, and addiction behind covered windows. Very few homes sparkle with Christmas cheer. Although there are many good people here, there is also a lot of darkness.

Yet it is only in the dark that light has value. Christmas lights can barely be seen in the brightness of day. They only dazzle in darkness. And the deeper the darkness, the more the smallest pinpoint of light attracts the eye. Likewise, in the darkness of our world, I am called to be a pinpoint of light that will draw eyes to my Savior.

Advent-Light3So, as I untangled my light strings and crawled out on my roof with a staple gun, thinking of San Bernardino, I realized that although I can’t undo that tragedy, I can add light to this messed-up world—both literally and figuratively. My Christmas lights may be somewhat dim and crooked with a few bulbs missing, yet they still shine through the dark to all who pass by. In the same way, my reflection of Christ may be flawed and spotty, but to the best of my ability, I can still shine his light into this dark world.

No one can fix everything. In fact, most of us can’t fix much of anything.

But each of us can do something. We can light the darkness. Individually and in our faith communities, we can engage with the needs all around us. Feed the hungry. Befriend the lonely. Clothe the threadbare. Comfort the broken.

And above all, we can pray. There is power in prayer and, despite headlines to the contrary, prayer is the primary action we should take before anything else.

During Advent, as God’s people have always done, we groan and cry out for our Savior to enter our darkness.

Our greatest need is not political solutions.

Our greatest need is Jesus.

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The paradox of the bells

01f3de4d7e0148b5b4f93d30cdc65338At Christmas I often reflect on the incongruity of peace amid conflict, hope amid despair, light amid darkness. I am reminded of the simple paradox that light can push back darkness, but darkness cannot overcome light.

And nothing expresses this paradox better than Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s 1864 poem, “Christmas Bells,”  later set to music as the carol “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”

We seldom hear the peal of church bells anymore, but in Longfellow’s time it was prominent in every town—especially at Christmas.

On Christmas Day 1864, our nation was enveloped in the darkness and despair of the Civil War. Yet Longfellow was struck by the joy and jubilation of the Christmas bells.

 I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
     And wild and sweet
     The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
     Had rolled along
     The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
     A voice, a chime,
     A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!*

A couple of years earlier, Longfellow’s wife had died due to injuries from a fire; and more recently, against his wishes, his son Charles had joined the Union Army and had been critically wounded in battle.

Overwhelmed by grief, Longfellow struggled to reconcile the joy of the bells with the hopelessness of death and the destructiveness of war.

Then from each black, accursed mouth


The cannon thundered in the South,
     And with the sound
     The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
     And made forlorn
     The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!*
read more

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