Faithful Presence

When I saw the Facebook post, it was all I could do to stop myself from commenting. In the post, a friend was reacting to the latest political drama—about which I happened to have some strong opinions of my own. But after a few seconds of my fingers hovering over the keyboard, I resisted the urge to type.

As a pastor, I need to be cautious when airing my political opinions. I certainly can’t do it from the pulpit. Stirring the pot on Facebook is almost equally unwise.

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But this episode got me thinking: how should a Christian relate to politics?

In James Davidson Hunter’s excellent book To Change the World: The Irony, Tragedy, and Possibility of Christianity in the Late Modern World, he argues convincingly that both conservative and liberal Christians in our country have had the wrong relationship with politics. On the right, Christians in the “Moral Majority” of the 80s and 90s made a sincere but ultimately misguided attempt to wield political power to legislate Judeo-Christian ethics. The causes were often good. They may have acted in the name of truth and righteousness. But as Hunter points out, their efforts were doomed to fail because of the nature of political power itself. The power of the state is a blunt tool. You can use it to change laws, but not hearts. 

What about Christians on the political left? They have used the same flawed strategy. Only instead of linking their faith to conservative causes like abortion and marriage, they have linked their faith with liberal causes like racial equality and environmental protection. Again, these are worthy causes, and left-liberal Christians also believed they were acting on the side of truth. However, as Hunter points out, political power alone can’t deliver what it promises.

So where does that leave us? Should Christians—or people of any religious conviction, for that matter—leave faith out of politics?

No. What Hunter pleads for, and what I want to echo here, is for Christians to integrate their faith and politics in a far deeper way than casting a vote.

It is easy to check the box for a pro-life candidate. It is harder, and much more significant, to adopt a child or become a foster parent. It is easy to post an “Occupy Democrats” meme on Facebook about Jesus’ concern for the poor. It is harder, and much more significant, to volunteer at Martha’s Kitchen or give your own money to the poor. 

Christians should live in the world with what Hunter calls Faithful Presence. Faithful presence means putting our faith in action by loving our neighbors, adding value to our schools and workplaces, and coming up with creative solutions to common problems (Jeremiah 29:4-7). It means being quick to listen and slow to speak (especially on Facebook!). It means not just voting our values, but spending, serving, and working according to our values. All of this has a political dimension. But when it comes to direct political involvement, it means rising above partisan loyalties and speaking truth with gentleness and love. The Christian can do all these things with optimism no matter who is in office because, ultimately, our confidence is not in human rulers but in God himself (Psalm 146).

Why We Need (Good) Sad Songs

My favorite songs are sad songs. I bet many of yours are, too.  

But lately I’ve been wondering, “Why?”

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Maybe there are just more sad songs out there. For songwriters, sadness is a more potent muse than joy. Music historians tells us that the oldest surviving songs are ballads. Studies show that sad songs top the charts more often than happy ones.

Recently I asked people on Facebook to share their favorite sad song. I was struck by the range of musical styles, themes, and emotional terrain. Below are some of the responses, along with a few of my own favorites (indicated with an asterisk):

Not surprisingly, there are were many sad songs about death: losing a parent (Hazel Dickens, “Mama’s Hand”; Crystal Shawnda, “Daddy You Can Let Go Now”), losing a friend (James Taylor, “Fire and Rain”), losing a child (Eric Clapton, “Tears in Heaven”; *Andy Gullahorn, “The End of a World”), and losing a pregnancy (Jetty Rae, “Climbing Clouds”). Heartbreak is another huge category: the heartbreak of abandonment (*Anais Mitchell, “Shenandoah”; *Over The Rhine; “Suitcase”), the pain of love growing cold (Crowded House, “Fall at Your Feet”; Chris Stapleton, “Either Way”), the regret of wasted years (Patty Griffin, “Long Ride Home”), and the giant bummer that life and love sometimes is (Harry Chapin, “A Better Place to Be”). Others offered songs about loneliness (The Beatles, “Eleanor Rigby”), addiction (The Black Crows, “She Talks to Angels”), and depression (Otis Redding, “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay”). There were also songs about feeling sadness for other people’s sadness (Brad Paisley, “One of Those Lives”; Coldplay, “Fix You”). There are songs that mourn the loss of innocence (*Andrew Peterson, “The Ballad of Jody Baxter”), what is good slipping away with time (*David Mallett, “A Long Goodbye”; *Mark Heard/Pierce Pettis, “Nod Over Coffee”), the tragedy of a squandered life (*Gillian Welch, “One More Dollar,”) the pain of seeing your child struggle (*Pierce Pettis, “Black Sheep Boy”), the nostalgia of summer’s end (*Ben Shive, “The Fall”), the pain of remembering what once was and can no longer be (Neil Halstead, “Wittgenstein’s Arm”), and even the complicated grief of leaving something you thought was terrible, but a part of you had grown to love (*Stan Rogers, “Leave Her Johnny, Leave Her”). And that just scratches the surface. What would you add to this list?

Music can also communicate sadness apart from words: Consider the haunting tones of a Mozart Mass, the searching sadness of an Irish ballad, the wail of a blues guitar , or the melancholic croon of Brazilian Fado.

Sad music resonates with us in a special way. But why are we drawn to sad songs? Don’t we spend our lives trying to avoid pain and maximize pleasure?

What Sad Songs Do for Us

Here’s why I think we continue to enjoy sad songs, and why they matter.  

First, sad songs help us connect to and make sense of our own pain. When we hear about someone else’s heartbreak or loss, we think, “Ok, I’m not the only one.” We’ve all had losses, large and small. We’ve all longed for a relationship we didn’t have or been hurt by one we did. We’ve all been disappointed by what is, ached for something that is gone, or longed for something that never came. We’ve all felt melancholy, insecurity, and shame. To quote Michael Stipe of REM, “everybody hurts.”

One way they help us to make sense of our pain is to give a richer vocabulary for it. Our Sad Song Playlist shows the gradations of sadness that the human heart can feel: nostalgia, regret, homesickness, melancholy, sorrow, gloom, dejection, heartache, heartbreak, anguish, misery, bitterness, desolation. Adding infinite variety, dark threads of sadness can even be woven through positive emotions (bittersweet? Longing? Transition?).

But I think sad songs are important for an even bigger reason—a theological reason. Sad songs remind us that the world is a broken place and that we are broken people. Behind every sad song is a question, or an echo of a question, waiting for an answer. Is this the best life has to offer? Are there any happy endings? Does my pain matter? Is death really the end? Am I loved? These are theological questions.

Lament: Sad Songs of the Bible

The Bible has a special place for sad songs. The technical term is lament, which one writer aptly defines as a “cry of despair, anger, protest, and doubt.” A full one-third of the Psalms fall into this category. These sad songs of the Bible affirm the importance of singing our pain. They can also teach us what to do with our sadness.

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Laments are raw and honest about the negative emotions. Unlike the heart string-tugging sentimentality common to so many songs of our time, Psalms of lament give full voice to experiences such as depression, anxiety, betrayal, loss, confusion, disappointment with God, and personal failure. Consider the following examples: (All quotes from NIV)

• “I am worn out from my groaning. All night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears. My eyes grow weak with sorrow; they fail because of my foes.” (Psalm 6:6-7)

• “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 13:1)

• “You have taken from me friend and neighbor – darkness is my closest friend.” (Psalm 88:18)

Yet for all their darkness, biblical laments are never cynical or fatalistic. This also is different from some of the sad songs we are used to. Even in the depths of emotional and spiritual distress, the psalmist (almost) always sees a flicker of hope.

The psalmist’s emotional journey pivots on a spoken or implied “but.” They say, despite how bad I feel now, I know this isn’t the end of the story. I choose to trust in God's goodness.

For example:

• “But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the Lord’s praise, for he has been good to me.” (Psalm 13:5-6)

• “Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5)

In their combination of honesty and hope, the Psalms of lament are a protest against the sadness of this world. They cry out, “This is not how things should be!” And they answer, “And it will not be this way forever!”

Laments show us that there is good reason for our longing. The world is indeed broken. The deepest questions of our souls have bright and good answers. Our pain is real, but it does not have to be final. There is hope.

The Hope of the Gospel

The New Testament makes this hope explicit. In stunning fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy, Jesus Christ “took up our pain and bore our suffering” (Isaiah 53:4). In his seemingly tragic death by execution, Jesus was actually fulfilling his mission to destroy the power that causes all sadness: the power of sin.

When sin entered the world, death came with it (Romans 5:12). With death came tears. But sin also drives us to harm one another and ourselves. Look back at that list of sad songs for proof.

Jesus came to set us free from everything that causes sadness—but we must first look in the mirror and reckon with what we see. This is called repentance. When we can be sad about our own sin, then we can actually ask Jesus to help us, which is where we find joy. Consider Jesus’ own description of this phenomenon: “Blessed [literally happy] are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” The path to joy must go through tears.

And joy there is! Jesus was raised from the dead to give us a “living hope” (1 Peter 1:3). The gospel announces that when our lives are bound to Jesus Christ through faith, our present sadness is only a chapter in an ultimately happy story. All our sorrows have an expiration date. We await a home where “He [God] will wipe every tear from [our] eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away” (Revelation 21:4).

Why do We Still Need Sad Songs?

As long as we are still living in a fallen world, we still need sad songs.

Churches should sing songs of lament in worship. But we also need the “secular” sad songs. The best sad songs—not the cheesy, sentimental ones, or the nihilistic ones—teach us to be honest about our pain and the plight of the world. They remind us of the tragedy of death and the destructive power of sin. They help us understand our own sadness so that we can better express it to God. They give us compassion for others. They help us stay homesick for heaven.

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This has been true in my life. As an angsty teenager, I felt drawn to something real and true in sad songs. But my playlist only led to toxic introspection and gloom. When I became a Christian, my sadness found its true home. Now, when I listen to sad songs, they produce hope: I remember the comfort God has brought me in my own grief. I repent of my own sin and feel deep gratitude for forgiveness. I long, with tears, for the fullness of joy that Jesus will one day bring. I long for others to know the love of God through Jesus and the bright hope that he brings to a sad world.  

Jesus is the answer to the questions. Yes, your pain matters. Yes, the pain is real. But no, it is not final. There is a happy ending. You are loved. In God's Story, to paraphrase what J.R.R. Tolkien wrote on the lips of Sam Gamgee, “everything sad is coming untrue.”

Or in the words of the Psalmist, “You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent” (Psalm 30:11-12).

Unexpected Jesus

The following is a story I wrote for our Christmas Eve Service. It is based on some personal experiences and other stories I have heard.

I want to tell you the story of how Jesus took me by surprise. It happened right before Christmas when I was 21.

My name is Alex. Growing up my mom would drag me to church most Sundays. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to believe. It was just that the stories didn’t make sense to me. Especially the Christmas story.

Our priest said that Christmas was about God's greatest gift of love to the world. But why did it have shepherds and wise men and animals in it? What did Bethlehem have to do with anything? Why was Jesus, who was supposed to be God himself, born to poor parents? Come to think of it, no one ever really explained why Jesus was born at all. I remember thinking, “Can’t you have a message of love without all the extra stuff?”

Once when I was 8, I was in the church Christmas pageant. I was the innkeeper. The one line I was supposed to say was, “I’m sorry, there’s no room in the inn.” But when my big moment came, instead of saying my line, I blurted out, “Sure, you can have my room. I’ll sleep in the stable.” Yeah…talk about an awkward moment.  

As a teenager, I found better things to do with my time on Sundays than go to church. I felt more love hanging out with my girlfriend than going to some big building where they talked about a God you couldn’t see.

By the time I got to college I had ditched whatever faith I had. When my freshman roommate invited me to the Skeptic’s Student Union, I found good company. We read French philosophers and talked about how science disproves faith. I have to admit I became one of those people who posted snarky memes on Facebook ridiculing Christianity.   

But meanwhile, I was crushing it in school. I decided to do a dual major in sociology and religious studies, and was writing my senior project called “Religion as a Cultural Narrative.” This gist was that all religions basically were created by people to maintain shared values and provide stability in a culture. By the fall of my senior year I was already lined up with a fully-funded graduate program at the University of Chicago.

On December 19th of my senior year, Jesus was the last person on my mind. But that day, a poster in the student center caught my eye. It said, “The Surprising Truth of Christmas,” a free lecture hosted by the Christian Student Fellowship. Inexplicably I felt a strong urge to attend. Maybe it was my inner skeptic wanting to show up and crash the party. Or maybe it was my inner 8-year-old, with all of his unanswered questions about Christmas.

Then I noticed that the event was happening at 7 o’clock that evening. I was supposed to be going out for drinks with friends to celebrate the end of the semester, but strangely, my hand went immediately to my phone and I sent a quick text saying I had to bail.

At a minute before 7, I walked up to the second floor of the Student Center to the meeting room where the event was happening. As I got close enough to the door to see inside, I froze. I noticed only a handful of people sitting in there, and they were all, as far as I could tell, part of the Christian Fellowship group. My heart started to race. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said to myself. This would just be too awkward. But right as I turned to leave, a man stepped out into the hall. He was a tall, middle-aged guy, balding, with a turtle neck and a tweed jacket. “Just in time!” he said. “Come on in!” I reluctantly followed him into the room, and everyone turned to look at me. Everyone knew me as, by now, the president of the Skeptic’s Student Union. I saw shock on some faces. I thought I saw smiles on some others. My face turned red and I made a bee-line for the seat farthest in the back.

When I sat down, another student got up and introduced the guest speaker, the man I met in the hall--Rev. Dr. Timothy Carson, a pastor from Emmanuel Presbyterian Church, down the street.   

Dr. Carson cleared his throat, and said, “I wish I could draw a crowd this size on a Wednesday night at my own church.” A few people chuckled.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, wondering if I could come up with an excuse to slip out early.

But as Dr. Carson began his lecture, I was transfixed.

“Christmas might not be about what you think it is,” he began. “In fact, the first Christmas wasn’t about what people thought it was. Jesus the Messiah came in a way that no one expected.”

He wove his message from several of the accounts of Jesus’ birth, reading from a worn Bible in his hand.

From Matthew chapter 1 he explained that the genealogy of Jesus was full of surprises: failed kings, prostitutes, outsiders to Israel. Not the kind of pedigree you would expect for the Messiah.

He read Luke chapter 2 and explained that the first people to whom angels announced the news of Jesus’ birth were, shockingly, not the religious leaders or the rich and powerful, but shepherds: those who were poor, outcast, and humble.

He read John chapter 1, unpacking the claim that Jesus was fully God, who came in the flesh as a human being.

“The authors carefully wrote these accounts” he explained, “To show us who Jesus really was. He was Israel’s long-awaited Messiah, yet he came in a way that no one expected. He was the world’s true king, yet just as there was no place for him in the inn, he would be rejected by his own people. He was God with us, in the flesh, yet he was a human being whose life ended in torture and death on the cross.”

“In conclusion,” he said, “the surprising message of Christmas is the gospel: The Creator came into his creation in the person of Jesus Christ to save us. Not through power but through weakness, in laying down his own life for us. From his birth in a manger to his death on a cross, it’s a story we never could have dreamt up. All we must do is be humble enough to surrender ourselves to him.”    

Dr. Carson asked if there were any questions or comments, and to my surprise I shot up my hand. He raised his eyebrows and nodded for me to ask my question. Everyone in the room turned and stared at me. “Thank you, Dr. Carson,” I said as cooly as I manage. “You talked about God becoming a person to save us. But If Jesus really was God, as you say, it’s unbelievable to me that the creator of the universe would actually become a helpless baby, that he would have to sleep, eat, that he would feel pain, let alone that he would be rejected by his own people, and die on a cross. It seems irrational.”  

Dr. Carson looked at me with a steady gaze. He paused for what felt like an eternity. I expected some kind of rebuttal or defense. But when he finally spoke, all he said was, “Thank you for making the uniqueness of Christianity so clear.”  

My mind was racing. I had never heard anything like this before. I felt as if I had been turned upside down and shaken and all my ideas and beliefs were in a jumble. 

I left the lecture that night in a daze and went straight back to my room.

The next day I had a 3-hour drive home. I thought about what Dr. Carson had said. I thought about my life. I felt strangely exposed, like someone was looking straight into my heart. I felt guilty about my pride, my meanness, and a hundred other things. But more than that I felt a sense of love.

On Christmas Eve, I went to church with my Mom. I felt like I was hearing the readings and songs for the first time. Everything made sense in a new way. As we sung “O Little Town of Bethlehem” we got to the line, “Where meek souls will receive him still the dear Christ enters in,” at that moment something happened. “Jesus,” I whispered. “I believe in you.” “Jesus, come in and be my king.”   

That’s how Jesus took me by surprise. And I want to ask you on this Christmas Eve, has he surprised you, too? 

You might be wondering what happened in life after that. Believe it or not, I walked away from that fully-funded grad program and went to seminary instead. And do you know where I got hired as an assistant pastor? Emmanuel Presbyterian Church, working with Timothy Carson. Jesus is full of surprises.

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“Good News?” - A Pastor’s Response

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Last Thursday I got an email from my Dad: “Have you seen this?” The link was to Seven Days’ latest cover story, ambiguously titled “Good News? Evangelicals are ‘Planting’ Dozens of Churches in Vermont’s Rocky Soil.” 

I was immediately interested. As both a Vermont native and the pastor of a more-or-less evangelical church (a rare combination), I pay attention to anything with “Vermont” and “evangelical” together in the title.

But I hesitated. Would the reporting be flippant? Condescending? Politically charged? Fair-minded? How would it paint the movement that has formed and nurtured me, the faith that gives my life purpose, and the pastoral calling that I have followed? I braced myself and clicked on the link.

I read with some relief. Despite some cynical undertones, Chelsea Edgar’s story was a sincere inquiry into the church-planting movement and, more broadly, the basic claims of Christianity itself.

I felt pride to read about the good work being done to serve small Vermont communities in the name of Jesus. I felt deep resonance as I read the words of fellow pastors articulating how Jesus re-forms our identities. I chuckled with familiar amusement at the unchurched’s perceptions of evangelical subculture. I winced as I recognized some of the quirky, off-putting, even ugly parts of my own tribe. I prickled with annoyance at the worn-out stereotypes of conservative Christian theology. (All these feelings were amplified reading the comments section at the end of the article!)

But what impacted me most of all was the author’s own experience. I imagined Chelsea Edgar, clearly an outsider to conservative Christian culture, taking up her notebook and entering this alien territory of praise bands, baptisms, and expository Bible-preaching. It must have taken courage. Reading between the lines, I sensed her discomfort, disorientation, dare I say fascination? with these Jesus people.   

Ironically, what Chelsea criticized most is what made me feel most understood. While describing her experience at New King Church in South Burlington, she notes the apparent contradiction (with discernible incredulity) that the loving Jesus we preach would also insist we surrender the right to define our sexuality. Here’s when I knew she had struck oil. Yes, I thought. The message of Jesus is and always will be counter-cultural. The gospel—the good news that Jesus died and rose again to save sinners—sounds like “foolishness” to secular people and a “stumbling block” (literally, a scandal) to those who don’t believe (1 Corinthians 1:18-23).

So if it is the gospel that seems scandalous to Chelsea or any progressive people, I know they are on the right track. It is a commitment to the gospel, not a conservative political agenda, that animates the church-planting movement. It’s what inspired a group of Georgia residents in 1793 to “plant” the church I now pastor. It’s the message that I believe changes lives and restores communities.

Chelsea probably doesn’t share that belief. But that’s OK. She got close enough to try to understand it. In our pluralistic society, the temptation is to retreat into one’s own tribe for security and affirmation. This only brings out the worst in us all. We need more people who do what Chelsea did: get close enough to others to see and appreciate them, even to be shocked by their beliefs, and to continue to share this little state we all call home.  

Thanks, Chelsea. If you ever want to talk to another pastor, my door is open.

Oh Sing, My Soul!

For the remainder of 2019, we are going on a journey in WORSHIP. Through much prayer, study, reflection and conversation, I’ve hammered out two goals that we can aim for on this journey. Here they are:

1. To become worshipers who respond to our holy and gracious God with adoration and action, through the power of the gospel. (Life worship)

   The first goal has to do with our individual lives. Worship is what life is all about. Every human is a worshiper at heart. We are made to give glory to something or someone. The priority for Christians is that our whole lives give glory to God—because he is the only one truly worthy. Worship is about responding to God’s holiness and grace, through Christ, by the power of the Spirit, with all of who we are: our minds, emotions, and wills, our work and play, our relationships, and yes, in our songs and prayers on Sunday morning.

   Jesus said that the Father is seeking “true worshipers” who “worship the Father in the Spirit and in truth” (John 4:23). How can we become these kind of worshipers? What does it mean to worship in the Spirit and in truth? My preaching this year will attempt to answer those questions. I believe that in order to worship God rightly, we need to see God in his beauty, we need a deep understanding of the gospel, and we need to deal with the idols in our lives that drain worship away from God.

2. To design worship services that are gospel-shaped, that engage our hearts, and that draw on all our gifts. (Gathered worship)

   The second goal moves from the individual to the collective. The worship practices that we engage in on Sunday mornings are very important. When we gather as the body of Christ, we encounter God in a special way. We encourage one another in the faith. We are reminded, refreshed, and re-oriented. Over time, our hearts and minds are formed according to the gospel. Gathered worship is precious and vital.

   For this reason, we will spend time this year reflecting on our Sunday morning gathering. Why do we do the things we do? What should be changed, or kept the same? What new worship practices can we adopt? As we ask these questions, I want us to be guided by three priorities. First, that our worship services are gospel-shaped—meaning that the flow of worship every week tells the story of the gospel and is centered on Christ: God is holy / We are sinners / Jesus saves us / Jesus sends us on mission.

   Second, our worship should engage our hearts. Worship should not be a passive experience, but one in which each worshiper is fully engaged. We will draw on a wider range of worship practices and find the ones that help us fully enter into worship.

   Third, our worship should find ways to engage all our gifts. To an extent, we already do this: people serve as greeters, Scripture readers, mic-carriers, communion servers, musicians, singers. In the New Testament, worship gatherings look more like pot-lucks than lectures. Everyone brings something to contribute.

Most importantly, I pray that God would do His work of renewal in all our hearts, which would overflow into renewed worship as a church. May our lives might offer up one continual refrain, “Oh Sing, my Soul!”

Would you join me in praying for this?

How I Ruined Christmas

As I was preparing for the Christmas Eve service a few weeks ago, I thought, “I want to have fun with this, and I want it to be different than normal.” I decided to write a poem in the style of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. While it was fun to write and to deliver, my hope is that my reflection at the end helped us all take our hopes and expectations off Christmas itself and put them onto Jesus Christ.

How I Ruined Christmas

Based (loosely) on a true story

‘Twas the night before Christmas, the kids were asleep

The presents were all wrapped and laid under the tree.

Bing Crosby crooned, the tree lights were glowing,

Inside it was cozy; outside it was snowing.

With glasses of eggnog, my wife and I sat

Wrapped up in our blankets on the couch with our cat.

I savored the moment, and I knew without fear,

Christmas was going to be perfect this year.

As I petted Bart’s back, and heard his soft purr.

I felt a small bump, and parted his fur.

“Oh no,” my wife gasped, as we beheld it with dread:

A tick dug in deep, all the way past its head.

My wife tried to tug it, but I held up my hand.

“Don’t break it!” I said, “I have a good plan.”

Upstairs I sprinted as quick as an elf

And got the rubbing alcohol down from the shelf.

“Let’s pour some on a rag,” said I as I did.

“We’ll smother that tick till he comes unhid.”

My wife held poor Bart while I pressed for a minute,

Then I checked the cat’s skin, but the tick was still in it.

We tried again for longer till his fur was all smelly,

But the tick was still as attached as Santa is to his belly.

Dismayed, we both thought of what else we could try,

When suddenly a box of matches caught my eye.

I said, “How about the red-hot tip of a match?

Maybe that will make the little bugger unlatch.”

As I struck the match brightly, I saw the cat jerk

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I think this will work.”

But as soon as I pressed the glowing tip on the tick

A thought crossed my mind that made me feel sick:

Is rubbing alcohol flammable?

Let me pause for a moment, as you hang in suspense

So I can prepare you for what’s coming hence.

The cat was unscathed in the end—he survived—

But our Christmas did not. So here’s how it nose-dived:

As soon as the match to the cat’s skin alighted,

I heard the sound, “woof,” as poor Bart ignited.

With a blood-curdling howl he shot into the air,

And before we could stop him, he streaked up the stairs.

The eggnog was spilled as we lurched off the couch

And halfway up the stairs, Bart came streaking back down.

“Is Santa here?” A child looked down and said.

“No!” we both yelled. “Just go back to bed!”

But the house was now filled with all kinds of commotion

And everything next seemed to move in slow motion:

The poor cat, still flaming, jumped onto the table,

And knocked off baby Jesus, the wise men, and stable.

He clawed his way up the wall, in vain for relief

And pulled down the garlands, and the holly, and wreath.

As I dived down to catch him, he evaded my grasp

Streaking like a four-legged comet as he passed.

When you cat is on fire, what advice do you need?

Don’t let him go near your Christmas tree.

We got our tree early that year, and by now it was dry

And as Bart ran right for it, I let out a cry.

Diving between presents, poor Bart sought some cover

And the flames on his fur finally started to sputter.

I thought, “What could possibly happen now?”

But then I saw a spark leap up to the boughs

Now three kids were watching, with three mouths agape,

As the Christmas tree lit up, and a singed cat escaped.

Like a reindeer in the headlights, I froze and just watched it.

“The fire extinguisher” my wife yelled, “Where is it?”

Then I saw on the counter a large bowl of punch

That was sitting there ready for our Christmas day lunch.

I grabbed it in a flash and ran toward the tree

As my wife charged in with extinguisher next to me

With a splash and a spray, the fire sputtered out

Bing Crosby crooned, and Bart meekly meowed.

As the kids gathered round like a pageant production

We collapsed on the floor and surveyed the destruction.

Our tree was half burnt, our presents all soaked,

Our cat was now black and our house full of smoke.

The fire alarm beeped, I panted and thought,

What about a perfect Christmas? Well, maybe not.

To top it all off—no surprise, with our luck—

When we picked up poor Bart, the darn tick was still stuck.

All you who want Christmas to be perfect, now hear:

That was how Christmas was ruined last year.

Have you ever felt like Christmas was ruined?

Maybe it was “ruined” by family drama, or bad weather, or stress. For some of us, Christmas isn’t full of joy and cheer, but a time that accentuates our grief.

Even when the holiday goes well, we often have such high expectations for Christmas that we feel an in inevitable let down when it is over.

Sometimes, don’t we think, “If only things could be perfect—if only we could have this special, happy time at Christmas, things would be OK.” I’ve thought that before.

The truth is, Christmas can never do what we want it to. Even if we have a picture-perfect Christmas, it won’t give us the peace, or joy, or sense of fullness and love that we long for. Christmas can’t do any of that. Only Christ can do that.

The Christmas story in the Bible is not about love, or peace, or kindness, or family. It’s about a person, Jesus Christ.

We heard it in the readings tonight: thousands of years before his birth, there were prophecies about him. In the Christmas story, he is the focus. Mary hears about Jesus. The angels announce to the shepherds that he has been born. The wise men come to worship him. He is the long-awaited Messiah, the King, the Savior, the Word made flesh, Emmanuel, God with us.

So I say, enjoy the Christmas traditions you have. Savor the time with family you have. But if the holiday doesn’t live up to your hopes and expectations this year, remember that Jesus Christ will. He never fails. There is nothing you can do to ruin the truth that Jesus came as God in the flesh to be with us, to die on a cross to save us, and to bring us home.

The Value of a Life

The following is an article I wrote for the St. Albans Messenger, which was published on Friday, December 14th.

The Value of a Life

In the past eight days, I have attended two funerals. The first was for my grandfather. We anticipated his death for months. When it finally came, a few dozen family and friends gathered to mourn, reflect and celebrate his life. Eulogies were offered. Scriptures were read. Songs were sung. As far as funerals go, his was typical for an 87 year-old who died of “old age.”

The second funeral was for A.J. Holzscheiter, the 18-year-old BFA Senior who took his own life on November 30th.

A.J.’s death was anything but expected. He was young, healthy, and liked by all. He was a star athlete and an exemplary student looking forward to college, with many close friends and a tight-knit family.

Two funerals. Two very different circumstances. Yet both reminded me of one truth: life is precious.

It was at A.J.’s funeral that it hit me the hardest. As I stood in the back of the Collins-Perley Sports Complex (it was standing room only) and scanned the crowd, I saw the many other lives A.J.’s single life had touched. By my count, at least 750 people were there [I have since learned it was at least 1500]: A.J.’s family members, friends, teachers, classmates, teammates, and many friends of the family. At varying depths, our hearts all felt the same void left by A.J.s life. When something valuable is lost, we feel its value keenly. A.J.’s life was valuable. It was priceless.

If this is true of A.J., it was also true of my grandfather. It is true of everyone you love. It is true of your friends and your enemies. It is true of your mail carrier, your Hannaford’s cashier, and your furnace repairman. It is true of the old woman neglected in a nursing home and the celebrity at the peak of her fame. It is true of every single person living or dead who has populated this planet. And it is true of you. Your life is precious.

What gives our lives value is not our achievements, our usefulness to society, our productivity, or our beauty. Our value is inherent. It is the mark of the divine on us—or rather, in us. The famous passage in the first chapter of the Bible tells us that God created men and women “in the image of God.” Every person bears the indelible mark of their Maker. 

At Christmas we remember just how far the Maker went to prove the value of human life. God “became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14), being born as a baby, growing up, and living a human life much like any other. Jesus came and shared in our human experience, and by his life showed the sacredness of all life. What is more, he came to bear all our human sorrows and pain, meeting an early death himself, in part to show that God is no stranger to our suffering.   

Don’t wait until a funeral happens to appreciate the value of a life. Behold the image of God in those all around you. Give hugs to your family. Be kind to strangers. Spend less time looking at screens and more time looking at faces. Prize people over things. Celebrate with those you love. Thank the God who gives the precious gift of life. I can’t think of anything more appropriate for the Christmas season.

My Top 9 Takeaways from Genesis

With our Genesis series in the rear-view mirror, I didn't want to move on too quickly without first reflecting on some of the big things I have learned. I hope you have gotten these out of Genesis also.

1. God is the Great Initiator. He creates. He speaks. He loves. He comes to find Adam and Eve after they sin. He chooses Noah. He calls Abraham. He appears to Jacob. He makes covenants. He destroys. He saves. He works evil for Good. His initiative and power, not man’s, are what drive the story forward.   
2. Human beings can have a relationship with God. This can only happen by God revealing himself to us and entering into a covenant with us. We then can choose to respond by faith and obedience. Faith is believing that God is real, active, and dependable. Obedience is doing what God commands based on the assurance that he is trustworthy.
3. God is in control, yet we are responsible. The writer of Genesis commends the patriarchs for their faith and obedience, yet also warns us by describing their foolish escapades. 
4. Sin has devastating consequences. Rebellion against God began a cascade of evil in the world. Genesis shows us the horrible fruit of that evil: murder, boasting in violence, abuse, rape, warfare, exploitation, deception, jealousy, pride, selfishness, and plenty more. The magnitude of sin is also revealed in God's judgment on the world through the flood and later his destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.   
5. God is a redeemer. He chooses to save the world rather than destroy it. He uses messed-up, imperfect people to do his will. He is the master at weaving all events, even evil ones, into his good plan.
6. God is patient. He is patient with Abraham’s family through their failures. He patiently waits for his plan to unfold. All the patriarchs waited for something. Abraham and Sarah waited 25 years for Isaac. Jacob spent 20 years in “exile” in Mesopotamia. Joseph spent 21 years in Egypt before he saw God's purpose in it. God is not in a hurry!
7. Human nature is universal. The culture and setting of Genesis are far removed from ours. Practices that were normal then seem shocking or strange to us. Yet the human experience rings true.
8. Our understanding of God through Genesis is limited. Genesis does not tell us everything we need to know about God.It raises as many questions about God as it gives answers. But Genesis is only the beginning of the story. We need the rest of Scripture to understand fully who God is.
9. Genesis points to Jesus. Genesis creates expectation for a coming Messiah. With the New Testament, we can see how Jesus Christ fulfills these expectations. He is the second Adam who will rule over creation. He is the seed of the woman who will crush the serpent’s head. He is the true heir of Abraham. He is the ram God provides instead of Isaac. He is the suffering servant, like Joseph, exalted to save. He is the Lion of Judah. Jesus is God’s final answer to the problem of sin. He carries out God's greatest work of redemption. All the questions we have about God in Genesis are answered in Jesus. All God's promises in Genesis lead to Jesus.   

Take some time to reflect on what you have learned through Genesis. How has Genesis affected your relationship with God? What has challenged you or comforted you? What unanswered questions do you have? 

The Power of Small

The following is a column I wrote for the St. Albans Messenger. I hope it is encouraging to you whether or not you are part of the Georgia Plain Baptist Church family. 

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A member of our church recently returned from visiting family out of state. There, he attended a large church, complete with a parking crew, a loud worship band, and auditorium seating. When he relayed what the experience was like, he said with a smile that he sure was glad to get back to his little country church in Georgia.

The timing was uncanny, because I had just returned from a conference for Vermont pastors all about rural, small town ministry. It was called a “Small Town Summit” (smalltownsummits.com). I joined two other Franklin County pastors: Jason McConnell, of Franklin and East Franklin United Church, and B.J. Walters of Redeeming Grace Church in Georgia. The Summit’s goal was to gather rural pastors for encouragement and networking, to talk about the value of “ministering a great big gospel in small and forgotten places.”

Vermont is a small, often forgotten place. We have the second smallest population in the U.S. (after Wyoming). We usually make small headlines. We are a land dotted with small towns, small schools, and small churches.

The rest of our country (and world) is quickly moving in the opposite direction. In 2007, for the first time in our nation’s history, more people lived in urban areas than in rural ones. By 2050, only 30% of the U.S. population will inhabit small towns, while 70% will be in urban and suburban settings (in 1950, 70% were rural and 30% urban).

Many of us live in Vermont precisely because of its smallness. We love being out of the spotlight, away from the hustle and bustle. But in the wider culture, rural areas are forgotten and despised. We don’t have much of what the world values: cultural influence, wealth, or political power. How many people in Manhattan know or care about places like Richford or Fletcher?

Unfortunately, the same attitude has crept into the church. For decades, with the growth of the megachurch movement, small places have been overlooked, even despised. Since small places have less influence on culture, they were less strategic to reach, and had less of a return on investment of resources. For pastors, there’s a temptation to see a small country church as a “starter church” on the way to something bigger and better. For members of small churches, it can be tempting to think, “If only we had bigger attendance, a bigger budget, a bigger building, then we would have something to offer.”

But maybe that is all wrong.

It turns out that the gospel Christians believe exemplifies the power of small. If the story were not so familiar to us, it would seem ridiculous. Jesus was born in a stable and grew up with poor parents in a backcountry village. (“Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?” [John 1:46]). Jesus had only a handful of disciples. They had no property, no wealth, no political power. And when Jesus was crucified, it looked like a complete failure. What kind of strategy is that?

Likewise, God's love for small things is extravagant—even wasteful. He is like a shepherd who leaves ninety-nine sheep to go recover one that is lost (Luke 15:1-7). He throws extravagant parties for people who don’t deserve it (Luke 15:11-27). He gave his Son to die for people who can never repay him.

As one of the presenters at our conference said, “God does not disdain what is small.” On the contrary, he esteems it. His kingdom starts like a mustard seed (Matt 13:31-32), and in his economy, two pennies offered in love are more than a thousand dollars given for show (Mark 12:41-44).

The power of small is built into the very way God works and saves. Therefore, if you are a member of a small church, know that God has powerful work to do through you. It may not look flashy, strategic, or impressive, but it is eternally important. Embrace the power of small. 

A poem for the Jacob in all of us

Last Sunday we talked about how God wants to break the back of our self-reliance so that we can trust him. The truth is, as one writer Eugene Peterson said it, "The Kingdom of self is heavily defended territory." Sometimes we, like Jacob, need God's violence against our sinful nature so that we can surrender to him. This 400 year-old poem is by a man, John Donne, who knew that experience well.  It can take some work to make sense of the language, but it's well worth it.

Batter my heart, three person’d God (Holy Sonnet 14)
John Donne, 1572 - 1631
Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.