It is common to wonder whether what we do at Christmas has much to do with the birth of Jesus. And sometimes we are probably right to wonder as we wander around the streets and malls fretting about finding the right gift for the right price, or wander from party to party, or become so stressed as we wonder which will run out first, our money or our time.
Truly a season of wonder for us poor o'rnery people wandering around.
But maybe we are a bit hard on ourselves.
When my sons were small and even now that they are not so small one might hear an exclamation from our car as we wander.
"LIGHT ALERT, LIGHT ALERT."
The warning is set off by lighted Christmas lawn decorations, the gaudier the better. Baby Jesus in the manger surrounded by Mary, Joseph, shepherds, angels, cattle, sheep, wise men, camels, Rudolph, Santa, Frosty the snowman, and an inflatable Grinch.
One of our favorites in the past was outside of Oneonta on a small side road. A former city employee had salvaged years of worn out municipal decorations and strung them all over his yard. It was great. Big silver bells, snowflakes, a veritable history of Christmas light bulbery, and random Christmas icons were creatively placed in glorious splendor. The display was only a mile or so from the Oneonta municipal airport. I am sure many pilots were guided through cold foggy advent nights toward the place where they should land.
I loved it. And I still do, although my sons reside in other more sophisticated cities which I am sure are not quite as advanced in this particular art form.
As long as I remember one of the highlights of my Christmas season was looking for the big star on the side of Pine Mountain in Remlap, visible from Highway 75, the route for our Christmas pilgrimage to Birmingham. I still don't know who did that, but it was quite a feat. I wonder how many people waited to see the star each year just like me?
So is looking for the light shows just another one of those traditions that have little to do with Jesus that just makes me feel good?
Nope. At least I don't think so. Check the story in Matthew 9. The wise men had been looking for Jesus and had spotted a star that in their studies was a sign of the Messiah. Suddenly they arrived at the place where Mary, Joseph and Jesus were. There was the brilliant star, right above it, the first lawn decoration.
10When they saw the star, they were overjoyed.
I suppose it seems silly to give such spiritual weight to lawn decorations.
But the whole improbable story is full of silliness. God, creator of the universe, entering this world as a poor, ordinary baby lying in a feed trough in a cave, being born to a virgin, visited by mysterious visitors from the East who followed the star, and a bunch of rough shepherds coming to see a brand new baby because angels told them to.
1In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2He was with God in the beginning.
3Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. 4In him was life, and that life was the light of men. 5The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.
John 1: 1-5
LIGHT ALERT! LIGHT ALERT!!!!!
.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Art History
I walked up to the judge's bench before court started one day last week where I noticed a docket from the previous day. When I picked it up to look at what I may have missed I saw something on the back of the docket. The judge had sketched two faces in pencil. He had copied them from a rehab brochure sitting on the clerk's desk. If I had drawn portraits like that they would be framed and hanging on my den wall. But he just left it to be thrown into the trash.
When I was in first grade we received pictures to color. I sat next to a pretty girl with long blond hair that she used as a weapon while standing in our single file line, swinging her head from side to side, lashing anyone who came close with golden razor wire. Okay, that was a little strong, but it did sting. But I tried to get in line beside her anyway. But I digress.
Her dad owned the local dime store. For you younger folk, Dollar Tree and Dollar General are like dime stores adjusted for inflation. Actually dime stores were more local. Japan rather than China was the major manufacturer of the stuff we wanted. There was generally a popcorn machine, a candy counter, a great toy and trinket section, comic books, and, before school started each year, everything a student would need to matriculate. Shiny book satchels, compasses, protractors, rulers, pencil sharpeners, mechanical pencils, notebooks (all the current year models), paste, glue, fountain pens . . . and crayons.
Being the daughter of the dime store magnate you can imagine that the little blond haired siren had all the latest and coolest school supplies. She had a faux patent leather candy apple red book satchel with green plaid lining.
But best of all, she had the box of 64 Crayola crayons with the built in crayon sharpener right on the box.
I had the box of colors that the school supplied. They were not the small, precise sticks of waxy, nuanced chromaticity that Crayola was known for. They were more the size and smoothness of a small raw carrot, with no real point, just a blunt end, and came in packs of eight.
About this time of year our teacher handed out a coloring sheet. It was Santa Claus. We were to color in the lines of our Santa Clauses which would then be hung with Scotch tape along the chalk holders under the chalk boards all around the room.
I don't know who taught that little blond haired girl to color, but she was a first grade Dorothea Lange. Santa came to life. You could see the twinkle in his dark eyes and the blush on his cheek was subtle enough to indicate exposure to cold air rather than intoxication. I think his eyes followed us, judging the naughty and nice, as we moved across the room.
My Santa looked like I had left red and black crayons too close to the radiator and cleaned it up with our assignment paper. And my hands and face had also become part of the canvas. It was awful. Horrible. Traumatic. I'm glad my mother did not waste good money on buying me the deluxe 64 Crayola crayon collection with built in sharpener. I think she knew of my artistic deficiency from the whole paint by numbers/spilled apple juice debacle. But that's another story.
So I have known I have no gift for the visual arts for quite awhile now. But an artistic friend chastised me last week. She said I just haven't really tried.
There was a time in my life that I didn't like turnip greens. For years the thought of them made me gag. But at some point in time all that changed. Now I love them.
So, my friend, who is artistic and acted like she knows stuff, convinced me to try again. I thought perhaps my artistic muse had just been delayed. Maybe it would be like my taste for turnip greens.
I did. Try that is. It was like ripping open old first grade wounds. It was horrendous even in the much maligned stick figure genre. I sent my effort to my friend as a Christmas card. She deserved it. I wish I knew the little blond haired girl's address. I would send her a copy too. Perhaps that would put an end to my demons.
I think one of the reasons I love to watch sports is that, having played at a few games, I marvel at what real athletes can do. Things that I could only dream about. I still dream of dunking a basketball, in slow motion. One of my favorite dreams. But these are real people, not dreams, doing these amazing things.
And I love visual arts. Partly because it is such a mystery to me how people create such amazing things, creations that I could only dream about.
And that's okay. I bet most of those artists cannot play tunes by hitting their skull with their fists and adjusting the notes by manipulation of the mouth. We all have our gifts. I'm working on a Christmas CD now. Stay tuned.
.
When I was in first grade we received pictures to color. I sat next to a pretty girl with long blond hair that she used as a weapon while standing in our single file line, swinging her head from side to side, lashing anyone who came close with golden razor wire. Okay, that was a little strong, but it did sting. But I tried to get in line beside her anyway. But I digress.
Her dad owned the local dime store. For you younger folk, Dollar Tree and Dollar General are like dime stores adjusted for inflation. Actually dime stores were more local. Japan rather than China was the major manufacturer of the stuff we wanted. There was generally a popcorn machine, a candy counter, a great toy and trinket section, comic books, and, before school started each year, everything a student would need to matriculate. Shiny book satchels, compasses, protractors, rulers, pencil sharpeners, mechanical pencils, notebooks (all the current year models), paste, glue, fountain pens . . . and crayons.
Being the daughter of the dime store magnate you can imagine that the little blond haired siren had all the latest and coolest school supplies. She had a faux patent leather candy apple red book satchel with green plaid lining.
But best of all, she had the box of 64 Crayola crayons with the built in crayon sharpener right on the box.
I had the box of colors that the school supplied. They were not the small, precise sticks of waxy, nuanced chromaticity that Crayola was known for. They were more the size and smoothness of a small raw carrot, with no real point, just a blunt end, and came in packs of eight.
About this time of year our teacher handed out a coloring sheet. It was Santa Claus. We were to color in the lines of our Santa Clauses which would then be hung with Scotch tape along the chalk holders under the chalk boards all around the room.
I don't know who taught that little blond haired girl to color, but she was a first grade Dorothea Lange. Santa came to life. You could see the twinkle in his dark eyes and the blush on his cheek was subtle enough to indicate exposure to cold air rather than intoxication. I think his eyes followed us, judging the naughty and nice, as we moved across the room.
My Santa looked like I had left red and black crayons too close to the radiator and cleaned it up with our assignment paper. And my hands and face had also become part of the canvas. It was awful. Horrible. Traumatic. I'm glad my mother did not waste good money on buying me the deluxe 64 Crayola crayon collection with built in sharpener. I think she knew of my artistic deficiency from the whole paint by numbers/spilled apple juice debacle. But that's another story.
So I have known I have no gift for the visual arts for quite awhile now. But an artistic friend chastised me last week. She said I just haven't really tried.
There was a time in my life that I didn't like turnip greens. For years the thought of them made me gag. But at some point in time all that changed. Now I love them.
So, my friend, who is artistic and acted like she knows stuff, convinced me to try again. I thought perhaps my artistic muse had just been delayed. Maybe it would be like my taste for turnip greens.
I did. Try that is. It was like ripping open old first grade wounds. It was horrendous even in the much maligned stick figure genre. I sent my effort to my friend as a Christmas card. She deserved it. I wish I knew the little blond haired girl's address. I would send her a copy too. Perhaps that would put an end to my demons.
I think one of the reasons I love to watch sports is that, having played at a few games, I marvel at what real athletes can do. Things that I could only dream about. I still dream of dunking a basketball, in slow motion. One of my favorite dreams. But these are real people, not dreams, doing these amazing things.
And I love visual arts. Partly because it is such a mystery to me how people create such amazing things, creations that I could only dream about.
And that's okay. I bet most of those artists cannot play tunes by hitting their skull with their fists and adjusting the notes by manipulation of the mouth. We all have our gifts. I'm working on a Christmas CD now. Stay tuned.
.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Of Jesus, America, Family and snow. . .
Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.
It snowed last night, a wet soupy snow. The weather guys called it a dusting. A bit paradoxical.
There is nothing dusty about this stuff. Very pretty, but so sloppy to walk in. Being a southern boy I still get excited when I get up and see something white on the ground. It requires personal inspection simply because it just doesn't snow much around here. But I've done my inspection and am back on the sofa.
I am too lazy this morning to look a bunch of stuff up. But if I had a little more energy I might write about any number of things.
"C Street" for instance. It is a brick building on the edge of the capitol complex, designated as a church, where many U. S. Senators and Congressmen reside. They are members of "the family" or as some of them have called themselves, "the Christian mafia." I have read a little bit about the group, and it disturbs me greatly. My own Congressman, Robert Aderholt, is a member of The Family. One member explained their view of bipartisanship.
"Jesus didn't come to take sides. He came to take over." http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2009/07/21/c_street/
That's wonderful, you may be thinking. But I hope not.
Another topic this morning might be Uganda. There is a constitutional provision proposed in Uganda that would criminalize homosexuality and make certain offenses capital. Having sex with someone of the same sex could be punished by death under certain circumstances. Touching someone in a gay way will get you put in jail. No kidding. And this is not lunatic fringe stuff in Uganda. It is mainstream. http://www.guardian.co.uk/katine/2009/nov/20/homosexuality-bill
And then there is Uganda and C Street. http://www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=120746516
The Family is playing a major role in the Uganda legislation to criminalize and incarcerate homosexuals.
It would be nice if U. S. Congressmen who are also members of The Family strongly condemned the proposed legislation. Some have. But it is difficult. A devoted member of the family, Senator James Inhofe (R, OK) has taken many trips to Uganda, befriending the sponsor of the legislation, and brought him, as well as other leaders in Uganda, into "The Family." http://www.examiner.com/x-4107-International-LGBT-Issues-Examiner~y2009m11d29-US-Congressmen-support-Uganda-AntiHomosexuality-Death-Penalty-Law-in-the-name-of-Jesus?cid=channel-rss-Society_and_Culture
Jeff Sharlet, whose new book, "The Family: The Secret Fundamentalism at the Heart of American Power", exposes the existence and complexities of the Family, also explains these connections with other countries more fully.
The story seems too crazy. But it is true. I think that is one of the secrets of the continued existence of powerful secret groups in America. Most of us normal folk just can't believe it can really happen.
Kind of like when it snows in Alabama. Hard to believe. But it calls for inspection.
.
It snowed last night, a wet soupy snow. The weather guys called it a dusting. A bit paradoxical.
There is nothing dusty about this stuff. Very pretty, but so sloppy to walk in. Being a southern boy I still get excited when I get up and see something white on the ground. It requires personal inspection simply because it just doesn't snow much around here. But I've done my inspection and am back on the sofa.
I am too lazy this morning to look a bunch of stuff up. But if I had a little more energy I might write about any number of things.
"C Street" for instance. It is a brick building on the edge of the capitol complex, designated as a church, where many U. S. Senators and Congressmen reside. They are members of "the family" or as some of them have called themselves, "the Christian mafia." I have read a little bit about the group, and it disturbs me greatly. My own Congressman, Robert Aderholt, is a member of The Family. One member explained their view of bipartisanship.
"Jesus didn't come to take sides. He came to take over." http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2009/07/21/c_street/
That's wonderful, you may be thinking. But I hope not.
Another topic this morning might be Uganda. There is a constitutional provision proposed in Uganda that would criminalize homosexuality and make certain offenses capital. Having sex with someone of the same sex could be punished by death under certain circumstances. Touching someone in a gay way will get you put in jail. No kidding. And this is not lunatic fringe stuff in Uganda. It is mainstream. http://www.guardian.co.uk/katine/2009/nov/20/homosexuality-bill
And then there is Uganda and C Street. http://www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=120746516
The Family is playing a major role in the Uganda legislation to criminalize and incarcerate homosexuals.
It would be nice if U. S. Congressmen who are also members of The Family strongly condemned the proposed legislation. Some have. But it is difficult. A devoted member of the family, Senator James Inhofe (R, OK) has taken many trips to Uganda, befriending the sponsor of the legislation, and brought him, as well as other leaders in Uganda, into "The Family." http://www.examiner.com/x-4107-International-LGBT-Issues-Examiner~y2009m11d29-US-Congressmen-support-Uganda-AntiHomosexuality-Death-Penalty-Law-in-the-name-of-Jesus?cid=channel-rss-Society_and_Culture
Jeff Sharlet, whose new book, "The Family: The Secret Fundamentalism at the Heart of American Power", exposes the existence and complexities of the Family, also explains these connections with other countries more fully.
The story seems too crazy. But it is true. I think that is one of the secrets of the continued existence of powerful secret groups in America. Most of us normal folk just can't believe it can really happen.
Kind of like when it snows in Alabama. Hard to believe. But it calls for inspection.
.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Ezekiel saw the wheel, with a cute little hamster running in it . . .
I saw a news item the other day about a theme hotel where one can go and live the life of a hamster. Guests receive a hamster uniform, drink water out of a little plastic tube hanging from the wire walls of the cage, eat from a little trough, and play on a little hamster playground including the ever-popular hamster running wheel. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/france/centralfrance/6589449/French-hamster-hotel-lets-guests-live-like-rodents.html
Those wheels always disturbed me. In a caged hamster universe the wheel becomes more than recreation. It appears to become the hamster's raison d'etre. The successful hamster gets on the wheel and churns away on his cute little hamster feet. I wonder if he ever wonders why he never seems to get anywhere. Maybe he just never knew any different. Neither did his parents, or their parents. Hamsters have run on the little wheel for hundreds of generations.
Kind of like a couple of things we humans have been doing for generations.
War, for instance. What is it good for, after all? (Reference Edwin Starr http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bX7V6FAoTLc )
A war may have an end. But War does not, or at least it will not until some good and brave people are willing to risk another way. Because winning a war has nothing to do with what is right and good. In war might makes right. The violence may end for awhile, as long as the victor can oppress the vanquished. But so far in human history, the oppressor cannot hold on. Inevitably the weak rise up, re-arm and re-load, and the wheel just keeps on spinning.
And when we step off for a moment, we realize we've gotten nowhere.
No war? A ridiculous, naive notion, I know. Only an idiot would suggest that there is another way. It's always been this way.
What fool would suggest that we shouldn't fight back? Or that we should give away what we have to an enemy who asks for it? That we should put away the sword? That we should love our enemy? That the way to be first is to become last?
Come on, you know. Surely you've heard about Him as you've wandered through the malls the past few days.
Time to get off the wheel and follow Him.
Now we're getting somewhere.
.
Those wheels always disturbed me. In a caged hamster universe the wheel becomes more than recreation. It appears to become the hamster's raison d'etre. The successful hamster gets on the wheel and churns away on his cute little hamster feet. I wonder if he ever wonders why he never seems to get anywhere. Maybe he just never knew any different. Neither did his parents, or their parents. Hamsters have run on the little wheel for hundreds of generations.
Kind of like a couple of things we humans have been doing for generations.
War, for instance. What is it good for, after all? (Reference Edwin Starr http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bX7V6FAoTLc )
A war may have an end. But War does not, or at least it will not until some good and brave people are willing to risk another way. Because winning a war has nothing to do with what is right and good. In war might makes right. The violence may end for awhile, as long as the victor can oppress the vanquished. But so far in human history, the oppressor cannot hold on. Inevitably the weak rise up, re-arm and re-load, and the wheel just keeps on spinning.
And when we step off for a moment, we realize we've gotten nowhere.
No war? A ridiculous, naive notion, I know. Only an idiot would suggest that there is another way. It's always been this way.
What fool would suggest that we shouldn't fight back? Or that we should give away what we have to an enemy who asks for it? That we should put away the sword? That we should love our enemy? That the way to be first is to become last?
Come on, you know. Surely you've heard about Him as you've wandered through the malls the past few days.
Time to get off the wheel and follow Him.
Now we're getting somewhere.
.
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