Surprised By Santa

I hold a prejudice against Santa movies.  What does Santa have to do with Christmas, anyway?  So, when my family suggested The Santa Clause 2 for our Friday night movie recently, I was not in favor.  We had watched it several years ago.  My recollection distilled down to a middle-aged Tim Allen chasing a younger woman so he could marry and keep being Santa (the 2nd 'Santa Clause').  The rest of the family insisted it was really cute.  Cuteness is oozing out of Miracle on 34th Street, another 'Santa' movie that still goes against my grain.  Cuteness on its own does not sway me.  However, I succumbed on the pretext that I was tired and would probably sleep through it.  But a strange thing happened on the way to dream-land.  I began to see things in The Santa Clause 2 that I had either forgotten or not noticed the first time.

Such as a god-like figure (for what else is Santa?) coming to earth to find a bride to live forever with him in an eternal city of happiness (Ephesians 5:25-27, Revelations 19:6-9).  What about that North Pole?  A magical place where immortal creatures live a happy, purposeful existence mainly concerned with obedience to their Master and blessing humanity (Hebrews 1:14).  

We are shown an 'anti-Santa' seeking to overthrow the dominion of the real Santa, who wants everyone to get what they deserve -- a lump of coal -- while the true Santa 'cuts kids a little slack this time of year'.  A picture of grace (Psalm 51).  

Then there is the school principle, soon to be the future Mrs. Claus.  The offspring of two fallen parents (Genesis 3, Psalm 27:10), left with a hardened heart.  Through a supernatural demonstration of generosity to a crowd of miserable people, Santa breaks through the hardness  (Psalm 34:18, Ezekial 36:26, 2 Corinthians 5:17).  

Obviously, the analogies fall flat at some point.  The notion that Christmas would not exist without Santa Claus delivering toys is annoying.  Tim Allen still comes across as lecherous.  Yet, in spite of a very different intent, the yearning for an eternal happily ever after, for redemption from the hurts of a fallen past shines through in The Santa Clause 2.  Though rationality tries to squish it out of us, this instinctive desire for a transcendent reality is an essential part of what it means to be human, to be a creation made in the Divine Image.

And it shows up in the most unlikely places.

Light And Dark

Christmas lights have sprouted up on houses all over the neighborhood.  Except ours.  Our strand of large, old-fashioned bulbs spent three neglected years trimming our eaves until thoroughly bleached and faded by the sun.  I was finally shamed into taking them down.  Now, I am trying to convince the rest of the family that our not having lights provides needed contrast for the twinkling homes around us.  After all, if every house had lights, what would be the novelty in that?  I am not winning the argument.

The Christmas concert we attended last weekend opened with "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence".  The  Vanguard University choir filed in through the doors of St. Andrew's Presbyterian church holding candles and sang the ancient chant a cappella, including these lines:

Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
As the Light of light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
That the powers of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.

The coming of Jesus that we remember each December is about light breaking into darkness.  And yet, somewhere between the daylight savings time change and early December, I notice a creeping spiritual and emotional lethargy.  Part of it I attribute to S.A.D., something I scoffed at until I had enough time trials to observe the trend in myself.  In December, I am leaving for work in the dark, coming home in the dark, and spending most of my day in a cubicle far from a window.  The extra daylight hours I productively enjoyed during the summer have gone. In our highly-regulated society, we expect trains, planes, and emotions to run according to our schedule.  But, they don't.  Therefore, we find treatments.  Yet, I wonder if this seasonal response of my body and mind to the dark is not really the best preparation for the Savior.  I understand that the time of year we celebrate Christmas is a result of melding the church calendar with pagan practice and that Christians in the southern hemisphere are getting Christmas suntans.  But, I am who and where Providence has placed me, feeling the darkening winter days and looking for the Star that will break through once again.

P.S. - I recommend the Fernando Ortega rendition of "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence" as an addition to your Christmas music library.

One Hot Sunday

On a particular Sunday when I was five or six, I was sitting next to Mom in the morning worship service at the Assembly of God church.  The song service was over and the sermon had begun.  Though it pains me to admit it, my keen interest in the finer points of theology was not fully developed and my attention was wandering.  Until the anointing fell and the shouting started, I often got, well... bored.  

Offering Envelope - before unfolding

One way I would alleviate this condition was to dissemble an offering envelope and doodle in it.  For the convenience of givers, the old wooden pews had little envelopes into which you put your cash before depositing it in the offering plate.  On the outside were places to put your name so your record of giving could be updated, as well as whether the gift was designated for something specific.  Next to the envelope slots were pencil holders which usually held those half-length pencils with no erasers.  But, since Mom was sitting right there, I didn’t think I could risk making use of these convenient art supplies.  So, there I sat, my idle mind primed to be the devil’s workshop.

Then, my wandering gaze spotted a small, red object on the pew a few feet away from me, just out of reach.  I discretely sidled over, stretched out and snatched it up.  It appeared to be some kind of fruit or vegetable, but it was unknown to me.  Naturally curious, I began examining it from all angles.  It was a little longer than my fingers, shaped somewhat like a pickle, but tapering unevenly to a rounded point from the wider end where the small, green stem was.  The color reminded me of a ripe tomato, but the surface had a waxy sheen that made the red vivid.  I squeezed it a bit and nothing came out.  It seemed to be filled with air underneath the rubbery surface, but rather deflated like a bicycle inner tube that has most of the air let out of it.  I thought this might be what tomatoes do when dried like grapes, sort of the tomato equivalent of a raisin.

About that time, Mom noticed what I was doing.  

I caught her glance and whispered, “What is it?”

“It’s some kind of pepper,” she replied, “and you’d best leave it alone.”

With that admonition, she left my fate -- and the little red pepper -- in my hands.  Whether she was simply trying to follow the sermon and was only giving me partial attention or had deliberately left an opening for me to exercise self control is uncertain.  What is certain is that I knew that pepper was a black powder that Mom liked to dump on perfectly good food.  Pepper came from little pepper corns that looked nothing like this fruity thing.  There were, and still are, lots of pepper trees in Fallbrook, many of them around my school playgrounds.  So, I knew what a pepper corn was -- though I wasn’t sure exactly how it became the pepper in the shaker at home.  It dawned on my young mind that for the first time in my short life, Mom was mistaken.  This, I was certain, could not possibly be pepper. 

Mom had turned her attention back to the pastor while I sat there wondering why she thought my mystery fruit was pepper.  As a test, I held it up to my nose for a good sniff.  It had a vaguely spicy scent reminiscent of pepper, but definitely different.  I poked my thumbnail into the skin and left a curved indentation.  I sniffed again.  It still didn’t smell like pepper to me.  There was only one thing left to do: an autopsy.  Carefully, I ran my thumbnail along the length of the ‘pepper’, and then peeled it open.  Inside the limp carcass, I saw little collections of white seeds.  Aha, this is a tomato, I thought, though the now more noticeable scent seemed to contradict that notion.  My scientific mind was racing as I considered how to present my discovery to Mom.  But, as she still seemed to be quite focused on the sermon, I thought better of bothering her.  Instead, I decided to pick the seeds out, dropping them into the hymnal rack in front of me.  It was at that moment that the hazards of improperly dissecting mysterious fruit came to light.  Perhaps it was the lingering chemicals I had released into the air, perhaps it was just a coincidence, but I had the urge to rub my eyes and proceeded to do so.  My eyes were suddenly seared with an agonizing burning sensation.  I was sure my eyes were melting.  Tears began streaming down my face.  Had the pastor noticed, I’m sure he would have been gratified to notice my fervent response to the message, unless he discovered the real reason for my emotional state.

Shortly, Mom noticed my discomfited squirming.  In a fearful, quavering voice I whispered my dreadful symptoms.  She told me to keep my hands away from my eyes, gave me a Kleenex or two, and let the tears do their work.  After a few minutes, the misery diminished to a painful memory.  By this time, the service was drawing to a close, and though a bit blotchy-faced and red-eyed, I was no worse for the wear.  On the drive home, Mom explained about peppers, a spicy vegetable that people use to add flavor to certain dishes like chili.  It was entirely plausible, but I still questioned way sane people would want their food to be so painfully hot.  More importantly, I learned that while the devil is advertised in scripture as wearing an angel costume, or roaring about like a lion, he also enjoys appearing as something more in keeping with his nature: a bright red vegetable loaded with the fires of hell.  

Too Many Books

There they sit, accusingly, on the bookshelf.  A half-dozen or more books that I have acquired over the past several months with the intent of reading them 'some day'.  These are not all the books I have accumulated this year, mind you, just the ones I haven't read, yet.  A row of shame, sitting in front of another row of books on the shelf.  My fellow book-hounds know all about double-parking books when your book-cases reach capacity.  But now I have clearly reached a tipping point, a watershed.  I am acquiring books faster than I can read them.  In earlier days, I would find a book that I was interested in, purchase it, and read it.  Or maybe two.  But now the collection of unread books is well beyond that.  I am somewhat afraid to take an actual inventory to find out just how many there are.

Impulse acquisitions.  I assume everyone makes them.  In the category of "Things we don't need, but…"  

What is it about books that when I see one, I think, 'Oh, that would be REALLY interesting'?  As I stand there at the New Arrivals table in Barnes & Noble hefting this treasure in my hand, do I even consider all the books at home I haven't yet read, that I won't have time to read if I read this one?  Including all those Great Books that are vital to my intellectual and spiritual growth?  I have a vague plan to read more of those, as well.  In the mean time, in spite of the avalanche of new media that threatens to bury traditional books, new volumes come out every year that capture my attention.  Just yesterday, I saw two more books (three, actually) referenced in National Review that I added to my mental wish list.  One thing I can say, is that I no longer read simply out of necessity, or to conquer the 'Great Books' list.  I find myself inclining towards history more and more: stories of real people, whose significance is far more intriguing to me because they walked this planet and breathed this air and lived a life with all its joys and sorrows.  People who should not be forgotten.  And that, more than anything, explains why my library will keep growing.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving Day is less than three hours away.  A 24-pound turkey just went into the oven for its slow roast until tomorrow.  My daughters and their cousins are dancing in the living room to music by The Piano Guys.  My wife and I share tired, knowing looks across the room.  Both of us would rather they and we be in bed.  But this late-night frivolity is a rare treat for our band of happy girls.  So, we give free rein.

To prepare for Thanksgiving, Karen started wending her way through 1000 Gifts at the beginning of November; recording things she is thankful for each day.  It seems a simple thing, but practicing eucharisteo (New Testament Greek for "be grateful, feel thankful, give thanks") by a daily habit of writing down three thanks results in the accumulation of over 1000 gratitudes in a year.  While there are many, many, many things I am thankful for, I have yet to develop the habit of recording small thanks every day.  

Though I may not come up with another 997 before the end of the year, here are three simple gifts I am grateful for today.

Glasses.  At this point in my life, they are on my face most waking hours.  For many years, it was just a work thing - a necessary token of hours in front of a computer screen.  Now, any task requiring rudimentary visual acuity has me bellowing "Where are my glasses?"  So, I am thankful to have them.

Running.  Last November, I injured a ligament in my left hip.  A month ago I was despairing that I would ever be able to run without aching the rest of the day.  But, about that time, a corner was turned.  While I still have an occasional twinge,  I will celebrate this Thanksgiving with no limp and little thought for the hobbling figure I was last year.

Hot beverages.  I rarely start a workday without a proper "cuppa" tea (PG Tips) and feel the loss if my weekend date with Karen does not include a latte.   The warm mug comforts my chilled, bony fingers and nothing clears the morning fog away like a gentle jolt of caffeine.  

It is easy for me to see the flaws of life I encounter in a fallen world and take for granted the innumerable blessings that surround me.  Today, I choose to recognize the gifts of grace.

It Happened Again

I have noticed something every morning since November 6th.  The sun has come up without fail.  Yes, I was disappointed by the results of our recent election.  A cultural tipping point was reached where people voted for more government and government-defined rights (as opposed to God-given rights).  Here in California, higher taxes were approved.  Elsewhere, voters enshrined a new 'right' of marriage for any couple of any gender combination.  Our re-elected president is truly representative of a changing America.

I tend to side with the Ron Paul.  Just give me liberty as evidenced by a much smaller, less-intrusive government.  But whether renewal of liberty ever happens in the United States of America, the future is as much in the hands of Providence as it has ever been.  If we are called to live our faith in more difficult times, we are in good company.  Whenever I am inclined to pessimism (which is often), I re-read these words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer on January 1, 1943, less than four months before he would be imprisoned by a Nazi regime that would execute him two years later:

"...some Christians think it impious for anyone to hope and prepare for a better earthly future.  They think that the meaning of the present events is chaos, disorder, and catastrophe; and in resignation or pious escapism they surrender all responsibility for reconstruction and for future generations.  It may be that the day of judgement will dawn tomorrow; in that case, we will gladly stop working for a better future.  But not before."  (Letters & Papers From Prison)

Bathroom Trauma at Grandma Gene's

Bathroom competency is a key developmental marker of early childhood.  Parents dream of the day when they no longer have to worry about an 'accident'.  In the child's mind, two concerns are uppermost with regards to the bathroom: getting there on time and a toilet that works. Truth be told, even adults fret over those same things.  The quantity of emotional capital invested by both parents and progeny trying to avoid bathroom failure no doubt explains why the following events are so clear in my mind.

Our trailer park years were spent without a television.  The lack of an 'idiot box', as my Mom occasionally referred to T.V., contributed to my being an avid reader.  It also made the hour or so of television rationed to us at Grandma Gene's a coveted treat.  There were two afternoon programs I remember distinctly: Dialing for Dollars at 3:00, and a kids program hosted by Johnny Downs 30 minutes later.  One particular afternoon, Phil was napping as the time for the Johnny Downs show approached, having already slept through Dialing For Dollars.  Anticipating how grumpy he would be if he missed the entire afternoon's allotment of television, I rushed in to get him from the bedroom.  Not wanting to miss any of the program myself, I half-drug Philip out to the living room, where we stopped and stood watching just as the show started.  On the oval rug in front of us was the the Gardner's old dachshund ‘Snitzer’.  While dachshunds can be small, hyper and annoying, Snitzer was larger, older, and mostly quiet.  His favorite place was the large oval rug in the center of the living room which also happened to be directly in front of the television.

As we stood watching the black and white screen, events took a dramatic turn.  Snitzer yelped and darted for the kitchen.  I looked down and saw a stream of liquid arcing from Phil to the oval rug on the floor.  In horror I yelled, "What are you doing?"

The next thing I knew, Grandma Gene, alerted by the commotion, appeared in the doorway.  I cannot imagine how the two of us looked, standing rather stupidly by a large wet spot on the rug.  The rug went out in short order, reappearing some days later, presumably after a trip to the dry cleaners.  From then on, I made sure Philip hit the bathroom any time I decided to get him up from a nap.

On another afternoon when I was in 3rd or 4th grade, I meandered over to Grandma Gene’s after school as usual.  It was one of those warm, bright days common to Fallbrook in the late spring.  As was our practice, I entered the house by the back door which opened to the kitchen.  Oddly, no-one seemed to be there.  I called out.  No answer.  I walked through the house and went out to the garage.  Nobody.  The chinchilla side of it was locked.  I walked completely around the house and the garage.  Deserted.  Then, with a chill of fear like I’d never known, it hit me: the Rapture had taken place and I’d been Left Behind.  Though reasonably confident in my child-like faith, I had a lingering fear that due to some misunderstanding, I might be left out when Jesus returned.  Now, it seemed I had been.  Why else would the house be empty with the door unlocked?  I wandered around for a few more minutes pondering my fate.  I decided my only option was to walk home and find out if any of my family remained.  Which would not be so good for them, but at least I could share this dire destiny with someone I knew.  Before setting out on the trek for home, I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.  Though it felt odd to be using the facilities without permission, I reasoned that the place was now abandoned.  Who would care?  But, when I flushed, the toilet started to back up!  To my relief, the rising water stopped just short of running over.  Not knowing what to do and with no-one around to ask, I left things in that precarious state and trudged home.

When I arrived in something less than an hour, I found out that my sisters and brother had not been raptured either.  When Mom came home a bit later, she reminded me that I had been told to take the school bus home because Grandma Gene was out of town that day.  The next morning, we were dropped off at Grandma Gene's as usual.  Before Mom left, to my embarrassment, I heard a wry remark about how I’d left my ‘calling card’.  Still, that was a minor inconvenience in the context of my relief at knowing I did not have to face the Tribulation.