Evidence and evolution

I was in the 8th grade and was a very attentive student. My science teacher taught a lesson about evolution and I asked some question, asserted a dissenting opinion.

She got angry and made me stand in the hall for the rest of class. This was akin to office roulette–if the principal came by I would face discipline. If he did not then my punishment was just the public rebuke and humiliation.

Oddly enough I cherish this memory.

Jesus says if we are ashamed of him now, he will be ashamed of us later. If we stand for him now, he will stand for us later.

When I think of the “wasted” years of my life, years when people have taken my sacrifice without gratitude or worse, hurt my children, I think of this miracle Baby, this King made man.

We Christians understand the evidence for evolution. I teach it to my children. I want them to know it well.

But there is not a single soul on this planet who could ever convince me that Jesus is not

the Word made flesh.

I see Him in the most ordinary things.
I hear His voice in the stillness and the wind.

If you can believe that a single quiet failure of a carpenter can bring hope in the world through a thief’s death, well, the rest is easy.

We all have faith in something.
Someone.

Why not Jesus?
With his story so crazy it is true.

Homesick Christmas

So. Being an army brat; homesickness was a big issue. Nothing in the routine ordering of life’s calendar evokes greater nostalgia, more intense pathos than the hoopla of American Christmas.
It can make us feel homesick.

But none of it is real. All the flashy lights, saccharine music, bubbly party dresses in the world cannot begin to fill the void of the solitary manger.

We need that baby.

We need Him because He is hope. He is the inexplicable star in an inky dark sky. He is our Ransom.

And all we do to “celebrate Christmas” can make us feel that much more shipwrecked if we don’t cut through all the noise and plastic.

And push toward the quiet winter manger. What God in His right mind puts His Son in the arms of a girl in the smelly dark of a stable?

Jesus was born homeless
Because He is our home
And we are sick without him

December 3

Imaging a group of shepherds, young, poor, smelling a bit gamey.

They are discussing something in a rushed, exhilarated way

S1: so it was night and things were quiet and then there was a….

S2: no, no, no…it was night and things were quiet and then…then there was a

S3: an explosion!

S4, s1, s2: yeah!!! An explosion!

S5: freaky man!

S2: yeah…and then there was a…

S1: an angel!!!!

Tomorrow–the chick flick version:-)

December 2

I am stealing this conversation from my daughter.

She was at a youth camp and she overheard a conversation among some boys about her age. It went something like this:

B1: so then the car hit the…and there was an explosion….

B2: no, no, no, no…then there was an…explosion!!!!!

Overlapping with the other 2 boys–

B3, B4, etc…
No!
No!
No!
Then there was an….
Explosion.

End of part one.

December 1

Yesterday was the first day of advent and I am catching up.

When I was in China I remember the lights. Many little (delicious) restaurants adorned their awnings with Christmas lights. These lights, like the ones that adorned the outdoor dance floors or the western-style clubs were festive but unconnected to Christmas.

And there were tons of Christmas cards, hundreds of images of Santa Claus. The imagery of a de-Jesused December holiday coexisted benignly with a government anxious to attract foreign money and commerce.

Without our mad rush for slankets and computerized ear warmers, where would China be?

But that story? The strange one about the God-king’s infant son born in a barn?

Never heard of it.

Christmas Stories

I truly believe Christmas is the hardest season of the year. It is a characteristic of humans–our ability to make the most joyful event in human history into a frenetic, stressful, lonely race for the trappings of glee without the core of joy.

So this month I am giving myself the gift of stories.

My favorite storyteller was my paternal grandfather whom we called Papaw. My favorite thing about Christmas was his stories, his kitchen. For a nomadic military brat, his house, his kitchen was home.

Flawed, aging, ordinary home. But something about the combination of warm food aromas–coffee, pinto beans, brisket, pies–still comes back to me through all these years.

Home. The very place Jesus left to save us.