Advent IV See You At The Manger

In a friend’s recent e mail, he closed with the line “See you at the manger.” A far cry from Yours Truly or Sincerely, his closing caught my attention and has remained with me since.

As a child, I imagined participating in the Christmas story and my heart and imagination gravitate to the stable, still. I like to imagine the dim lights and hushed sounds in the shadow of the rambunctious inn. I like to imagine reaching out and petting the overworked donkey and telling him he did a great job. I like thinking about the other animals looking on in between bites of whatever they’re eating. The shepherds would be there, of course, but hopefully not the kings or wise men. Shepherds are easy folk, the kind around whom you can be yourself, whereas the kings, dressed in robes and carrying gifts, make Christmas feel like a competition. Such a night shouldn’t be cluttered with worries about whether you are important enough, rich enough, or wise enough.

I’d step closer, which would cause Mary and Joseph to look up, and, in their eyes, I’d see something I couldn’t quite figure out. A knowing, perhaps. An invitation to know, as well. With only the slightest smile, Mary would invite me to look for myself.

Standing over the manger, I’d see the baby we talk so much about. All the things said wouldn’t matter at that moment, just the child would. Asleep, but ready to take on the world. My bet is, standing at the manger would change my view of the world. Things that overwhelm me would diminish. Mistakes would fade. Troubles with others, would no longer seem important. Instead of being complicated, my bet is it would suddenly seem simple. Peace on earth. Good will to all.  Simple, but revolutionary. All things would suddenly feel possible.

Going to the manger in my dreams like this, stirs a desire to bring others to the manger. “You’ve got to see this!” I’d cry, as I pull their arm. In that moment, I wouldn’t have to explain. There’d be no need for debate about who he is or what he meant. We could simply look down and know the world will never be the same. We wouldn’t need to know how, just that it’s true. Such a moment would be worth sharing.

Let’s meet at the manger this year.

Advent III Seeing the Ocean

“I never want to own a place at the beach, because I never want to stop seeing the ocean.”

When I first heard the remark above, I twisted my head like others in the audience. Then, I understood what he was trying to say. As someone passionate about the sea, he didn’t want to live at the shore where he would grow used to the view and stop appreciating its magnificent beauty.

Such wisdom applies to much more than where we live, and Advent offers a wonderful opportunity to reclaim our appreciation for the people, places, and things which surround us. Over the years, we grow accustomed to our surroundings and no longer see them for the gifts they are. In some cases, we stop seeing them all together.

We no longer see our Christmas trees, and decorating our houses becomes a chore.

We don’t hear the carols any more, let alone sing them like we did as children.

We tell our children to hurry and get in the car and forget when they were all we hoped for.

We no longer look across the table and remember the days before rings.

We sigh as we enter the building, and can’t recall how we danced when we were offered the job.

We complain about taking out the trash, and forget the months in bed after back surgery.

We complain about another party, and forget the year living alone that Christmas.

Familiarity creates temporary blindness, but the good news is it’s temporary. All we need do is close the eyes of our hearts and open them again. Suddenly we will see what has been before us all along.

One might say it’s a modern day incarnation!

Advent II Noise Reduction Christmas

With high hopes, I awakened in my Washington DC hotel room excited to spend the day with my daughter in the city, knowing it would do much to ignite the Christmas spirit within us both. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it past the hotel lobby before wanting to cover my ears and close my eyes.

I enjoy the time before she, or any other member of my family, arises, because it allows me to find a place set apart, grab some coffee, and do my morning reading and reflecting. As the elevator doors opened, however, the music hit me. It was louder than usual, and, as a connoisseur of Christmas music, it was the worst kind - the kind where the artists lean into the lyrics to make them drip with significance, or the arranger changes the rhythm or key to make it sound new and innovative.

The decorations in the lobby weren’t much better. The tree would melt, more than burn, if a match were near, and the gaudy silver balls in the tree made an otherwise appealing space look like a frightfully sophisticated New York department store. The decorators, like the musicians, wanted people to take notice of their work and forced the issue, leaving us with the look and sound of Christmas, but none of the meaning.

It made me realize the challenge facing many of us most of the time. We’re surrounded by sounds and sights that mean well but end up drawing us away from their intended purpose. By being overdone, they push us away rather than draw us in. With increased Christmas events, extra social gatherings, and the need to be sure we wear each piece of our Christmas apparel, and watch every movie, before the season ends, our plates are full, but hearts empty. We end up having the look but none of the meaning.

Fortunately, I have ear phones specifically designed for me and such situations. They are called noise-reduction headphones and they work magically as I seek to remove the sounds that are tormenting my ADD soul. So, too, I have books to read and eyes I can close to shut out the sights that distract as well.

The Christmas spirit is just that, spirit, and sometimes the best way to hear the spirit is to tune sounds out. Sometimes the best way to see it is to close your eyes. Instead of looking to the loud and lively Inn, we are invited out back to the quiet and serene stable, where spot lights give way to candlelight, songs to silence.

It’s counter-intuitive, I know, but so is God becoming human.