Christmas and Vegas

What if this was it?
What if Christmas ends today?
No more carols to sing…
trees to decorate…
parties to attend.
No more lavish meals to prepare…
cookies bake…
cards to send…
No more crowds.
No more gifts to purchase, wrap or exchange.
No more last minute you “fill-in-the-blank.”
That’s it… done… finished… we can all go home now. It’s over.

I mean, if these activities are all there is to Christmas… if Christmas ends today… then Christmas is almost like three days in Vegas, isn’t it?

You buy yourself a new outfit
You have some great food…
See a great show…
Stay up too late with friends and family…
Maybe have a few too many cocktails…
And even justify spending the extra money-- I mean after all, you are in Vegas.

But there's more to Christamas isn't there?

The arms of God have extended into our world. The arms of God extend into your world…into your life and touch those places within you that only God can touch… Those places beyond reason, beyond doubt, beyond your control and even beyond your belief those deep places in the core of your being.

Love reaches out… and touches you.

Jesus.

A Poem about Mary

She was thirteen or thereabouts,
pregnant,
still a child herself.
No vote, no rights, no husband,
no education,
in a small village in an occupied land.
So why would you,
the Great God of the Universe,
pick this peasant girl?
Why not some queen
dressed in blue and gold
like those statued madonnas?

I think we've had it wrong all along.
It's not that she was so saintly,
so pure,
so serene, so special,
but that she wasn't special at all.
Maybe she even had zits.
It was God picking someone mundane,
to show that we are all special,
God choosing what is simple
to confound the wise,
the banal
to shock the glitterati,
the castdown
to shame the exalted.

Mary understood,
Why has God chosen me, a handservant?
To pull the mighty down from their thrones,
and raise up the lowly,
to fill the hungry with good things
while the rich walk away empty-handed.

She could have been any downtrodden woman,
broken,
child of oppression.
In fact,
that is who she always is,
always has been,
and those peasant children of hers
have been messiahs,
but we were too busy
with our census, our mutual funds
our wars
to notice.

Take it easy

There was once a fellow who, with his dad, farmed a little piece of land. Several times a year they would load up the old ox-drawn cart with vegetables and go into the nearest city to sell their produce. Except for their name and the patch of ground, father and son had little in common. The old man believed in taking it easy. The boy was usually in a hurry … the go-getter type.
One morning, bright and early, they hitched up the ox to the loaded cart and started on the long journey. The son figured that if they walked faster, kept going all day and night, they’d make the market by early the next morning. So he kept prodding the ox with a stick, urging the beast to get a move on.
“Take it easy, son,” said the old man. “You’ll last longer.”
“But if we get to market ahead of the others, we’ll have a better chance of getting good prices,” argued the son.
No reply. Dad just pulled his hat down over his eyes and fell asleep on the seat. Itchy and irritated, the young man kept goading the ox to walk faster. His stubborn pace refused to change.
Four hours and four miles down the road, they came to a little house. The father woke up, smiled, and said, “Here’s your uncle’s place. Let’s stop in and say hello.”
“But we’ve lost an hour already,” complained the hotshot.
“Then a few more minutes won’t matter. My brother and I live so close, yet we see each other so seldom,” the father answered slowly.
The boy fidgeted and fumed while the two old men laughed and talked away almost an hour. On the move again, the man took his turn leading the ox.…
Twilight found them in what looked like a huge, colorful garden. The old man breathed in the aroma, listened to the bubbling brook, and pulled the ox to a halt. “Let’s sleep here,” he sighed.
“This is the last trip I’m taking with you,” snapped his son. “You’re more interested in watching sunsets and smelling flowers than in making money!”
“Why, that’s the nicest thing you’ve said in a long time,” smiled the dad. A couple of minutes later he was snoring—as his boy glared back at the stars. The night dragged slowly; the son was restless.
Before sunrise the young man hurriedly shook his father awake. They hitched up and went on. About a mile down the road they happened upon another farmer—a total stranger—trying to pull his cart out of a ditch.
“Let’s give him a hand,” whispered the old man.
“And lose more time?” the boy exploded.
“Relax, son … you might be in a ditch sometime yourself. We need to help others in need—don’t forget that.” The boy looked away in anger.
It was almost eight o’clock that morning by the time the other cart was back on the road. Suddenly, a great flash split the sky. What sounded like thunder followed. Beyond the hills, the sky grew dark.
“Looks like a big rain in the city,” said the old man.
“If we had hurried, we’d be almost sold out by now,” grumbled his son.
“Take it easy … you’ll last longer. And you’ll enjoy life so much more,” counseled the kind old gentleman.
It was late afternoon by the time they got to the hill overlooking the city. They stopped and stared down at it for a long, long time. Neither of them said a word. Finally, the young man put his hand on his father’s shoulder and said, “I see what you mean, Dad.”
They turned their cart around and began to roll slowly away from what had once been the city of Hiroshima.22
22 Charles Swindoll, Come Before Winter and Share My Hope (Portland: Multnomah, 1985), 215-217.
Bryan Chapell, Using Illustrations to Preach With Power, Rev. ed. (Wheaton, Ill.: Crossway Books, 2001), 78.