Far as the curse is found

Every year on Christmas Eve night, our church's Sunday School presents a pageant. The pageant includes lessons and carols, with some shepherds' robes, microphone feedback, candlelight, and the usual-yet-unexpected poignancy whenever children are involved in public confessions of faith. This year, the Sunday School teachers did an exceptional job preparing our youngsters to read and sing of Christ's coming. And despite a last-minute rash of kids getting the flu and a snowy, blowy Eve, Our Saviour's Sunday School did a wonderful job. Here they are right before the service.

Our small group is blessed to include Ali, a lovely, energetic girl who is developmentally disabled. She cannot walk without help and she cannot speak with words that we understand. But she smiles often, participates vigorously, and shows us how God makes beauty out of brokenness.

Ali's mother is one of our Sunday School teachers, and one of the ways Ali participated in the pageant was to light candles during one of the readings. Her mother helped her walk up to the Advent wreath. Then, she carefully wrapped Ali's fingers around the acolyte's brass lighter and lifted the flickering end bravely toward the candles. It took some doing, for it was difficult for Ali and her mother to get the lighter wick lined up just so against each candle wick. But as we watched Ali's rapt face glow in the soft light she lit and listened to the Old Testament prophecies and New Testament narratives of Christ's coming, we saw exactly why Christ came: to give light to darkness and to give hope to the weak. Later, while Pastor read of joyful noises and praise for God's good gifts, Ali lifted her voice to share her excitement. Her timing was perfect. She literally made a joyful noise as we heard about all of creation rejoicing in God's greatest gift.

One of my favorite Christmastime readings is Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. In the story, Bob Cratchit tells his wife about taking their son, the saintly Tiny Tim, to church. "He told me, coming home," Bob says, "that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see." 

Parents of disabled children, including Ali's mom and dad, will tell you that their children are not perfect. They know, just as parents of able-bodied children know, that despite glimpses of sweet innocence and selflessness, children act in savage, selfish, sinful ways, ways that belie their angelic appearances. That's one reason why Lutherans baptize babies--we know our months-, days-, or even hours-old children have been infected with the sin of Adam. Their behavior shows this, but their bodies show it, too. Children scrape knees, break limbs, get infections, battle cancer. Some of the scars heal, but none of them disappear forever. And even the most saintly kid can't fix himself. Tiny Tim recognized this. Even at young ages, we see our children marked for death.

Papa and I witnessed this firsthand in our own home this week. Superman developed a low-grade fever a few days after Christmas. I kept him home, snuggled him, gave him lots of 7-Up and regular doses of bubble-gum Tylenol. But he still felt badly, and his body suddenly reacted to its illness by triggering a seizure. We took him to the Emergency Room within ten minutes of his seizure, and he revived, especially when the nurses prepared his hand for an IV. (Oh, the great patience of pediatric nurses!) He spent the night at Sanford Children's in Sioux Falls, at what we call the Castle (it looks like the Cinderella castle at Disney World). And we were relieved when his temperature disappeared after a night and the doctors concluded that Superman is one of about five percent of kids who experience febrile seizures, or seizures causes by a fever. He might have another one, but he might not. It's most likely that he will grow out of them. And we are very thankful that he is well now, asking for candy at every meal, and asking us, "Do you remember when I got to spend the night at the children's doctor?" Yes, Superman. We remember. And we always will.

In a feeling-apple-eatin'-good moment.

Few things are as terrifying to parents, I think, than when their children become physically unresponsive. Right after his seizure, Papa scooped up Superman and held him like a baby. Our son was helpless, and so were we. All we could physically do was to rock him and place him in the care of people who know how little bodies work and what they need. The experience with Superman was a mighty, visceral shock to remember that our son is not ours, that we did not make him, and that we cannot keep him well, or even keep him at all. His days on this earth are numbered. And this knowledge can cripple us with fear and anger.

Too often, I think the world manipulates the weakest among us. Many are manipulated because they are small or voiceless. Many are exploited as powerful political or religious examples that we thoughtlessly or knowingly parade in a voyeuristic show of pity to achieve other ends--our own selfish ends. But Christ came as a weak Babe precisely to show us that He loves each little one unto death. Because that's where Ali and Sam and every child, from the red-faced newborn to strongest Olympian to the frailest centenarian, is headed. And the Child gifted with myrrh, the embalming spice and funeral incense, reached for Death and struck it away, for us, forever.

On Christmas Day, we sing joy. We sing, "Joy to the world, the Lord is come." But even more, we sing healing. "He comes to make His blessings flow/ far as the curse is found." In the Christmas season, and for the rest of this year and every year, we need joy. But we also need to know that His blessings flow even into the very crevices of our sinful lives, into every dark and putrid corner, into every broken heart and annihilated hope that we suffer due to our terrible physical and emotional and spiritual frailty and that of those we love. We need to know that He, the mightiest and the greatest, made Himself the smallest and weakest and most nothing of men to save us, the ones who so desperately need Him. As this Christmas season closes, I pray you know and remember that He comes to defeat every curse that haunts and plagues you. He comes as the lowliest to lift you lowly ones up, to hold you like babies, to heal your brokenness. And he comes still to make His blessings flow.

Quasi-Resolution: Let's Ditch the Wimpiness

Otherwise known as "Tough It Out, Wimps."

I've realized that, aside from my typical blogging chagrin, I'm not a big fan of New Year's resolutions. They bespeak a kind of subtle laziness: "Now that the calendar's changed, I resolve to take charge of my health, my finances, and my life!" In other words, I couldn't act like an adult, i.e. make hard decisions and actually do the hard work to carry those decisions to fruition, without an arbitrary time marker to kick my rear into gear. My issue isn't with resolutions, you see; my issue is with resolutions time-stamped, as though the other 364 days of the year aren't fit enough opportunities to act decisively about healthy eating habits or exercise or actual penny-pinching budgeting or resolving differences with a friend or setting boundaries with family or whatever things there are that we can reasonably change in our lives.

Now that I've had that little rant, let's get on to this recent Wall Street Journal interview with Julian Fellowes, the creator of the period drama "Downton Abbey." Fellowes makes a point of criticizing "our lack of personal discipline" and how it begets vulnerability and weakness. Unlike early-twentieth century Britishers, like the characters on the show, we lack a certain toughness. "Some pain was the lot of every human being alive," he says. "It didn't matter if you were the King of France. We don't have that." Then the interviewer asks these intriguing questions, which prompt Fellowes to really open up about modern society:

So we've become a bunch of wimps?

We think we can go from cradle to grave without any pain at all. As a generation, we can be rather feeble about toughing it out. Even the people who were working in those households, I don't think they were all miserable. It was a tough job but if you had a good employer, like anything else, there were worse places to be. It was a hard life—you had to get up early, work very hard. They had a more realistic expectation of life.

Do you think people's expectations these days are unrealistic?

With marriage, our generation thinks that we should all be incredibly happy all the time. The moment we are not incredibly happy, something's wrong with the marriage. Well, nothing's wrong with the marriage! You've signed up to live with someone for a half a century, and as long as you still have stuff in common and are still close, it's fine. But you see people getting divorced and you think "What do you think is waiting out there?" I kind of liked that [the generation that grew up in the interwar period] would have laughed at this idea.

I really appreciate Fellowes' analysis of us because, ultimately, I think most of us are wimps. I include myself in this. Most of us have had pretty easy lives, and when hardship has come along, we react as though it's an anomaly to life. Like Fellowes implicitly points out, expecting painlessness all the time isn't merely unrealistic; it sets us up to think we can be "incredibly happy all the time." Both expectations are laughably infantile. And who wants to go through life with an infantile view of life?

Aside from the huge number of people who actually do want to cling to this way of thinking and living, I think many people want to ditch the wimpiness embedded in our coddled culture. And I'm one of them. With Fellowes' words in mind, I'm resolving to approach the problems and struggles and crosses that will inevitably occur in my life with at least a modicum of perspective; that is, that while pain is hard, sometimes terribly hard, it is temporary. True Christians will understand this. In fact, they're still celebrating the end of waiting for the ultimate Defeater of pain, suffering, and loss (that's "Merry Christmas!" in vernacular-speak). And billions of people have weathered far worse tragedies than mine and still managed to be thankful for the good things that come. If they can do it, and God Himself took on the worst of it, then I at least can strive to keep a stiff upper lip, come high water and whatever else comes--for Hell isn't coming for me.

On the Ninth Postpartum Stable Day

Everyone knows "The Twelve Days of Christmas." And if you don't, then you've really missed out--on turtle doves, geese-a-laying, and lords-a-leaping. But seriously, I think we all miss out on the full twelve days of Christmas too, beyond the song that's kind of annoying (okay, really, depending on who's singing and how creative they get).


As we head full-boar into the New Year of 2013, though, I've been thinking about 2012. More accurately, I've been thinking about Christmas, and what we remember and commemorate that day, and what comes after. Namely cows.

Whoa. I mean, "Moo."

**

A few months ago, a church member invited us out to her farm. She and her husband have milked for years, and they were slowly selling off their cattle. She wondered if we'd want to come over and see how they milk the cows and how she bottle-fed the calves.


We drove east out of town around sunset one night. Gloria met us at her house and we drove about a quarter-mile south to the barn where the cows are milked.

A wind turbine we passed in the early twilight.

The kids were super excited and eager to get out. Once we went into the barn, they were a little--ahem--cowed by the size of the animals. And the sounds. And the smells. And the, erm, floor.

P is impressed.

Gloria and Mike's operation is like most small diary farmers in America, I'd guess--efficient and impressive. The machinery is amazing; I know mechanical milkers have been around for decades, but still. And the way the milk stays clean in the midst of the cows' regular digestive events (that's gotta be a new euphemism for, well, you know) is really amazing.

Then we watched Gloria mix up the formula for the calves. Our little C's formula seemed downright paltry in comparison; Gloria made a few five-gallon buckets of the stuff several times a day. Then she poured it into individual bottles for each calf.

Good thing calf formula isn't priced like Similac. Shudder.

Then we left the barn to go out to the little sheds where the calves lived. In the early November air, they needed some shelter from the coming winter freeze, Gloria explained, so they lived in the little huts until they were weaned. When they saw her coming with the bottles, they wiggled and groaned in excitement. They were adorable. And hungry.

Heading to the little calf sheds.

Smiley S, posing next to the busily eating little guy. Or gal. I couldn't tell.

 The final thrill was that Gloria's grandson, Austin, gave the boys a ride in a tractor. I couldn't get a picture of them, but they loved it (especially when S finally realized we weren't leaving him. Because parents abandon their kids by putting them in tractors). We shivered (well, more like tried not to freeze) as we watched the tractor lights glow and descend over the dusky winter fields. It was beautiful. 

**

Ever since our little visit, I've been thinking about Joseph and Mary and Jesus in the stable. All the pictures we see of the holy creche look cozy, even downright comfortable. But the real deal was--had to be--the pits. It's likely Joseph and Mary had been in the stable for days before Jesus' birth; there's no indication that Mary bore him immediately. And who's to say that they left the stable after the first twenty-four hours? If Bethlehem was bustling, even stuffed with people, all waiting to be counted and taxed, where else could they go? If no one had room for a woman on the brink of labor and delivery, who'd have room for a mother and a newborn?

So we're nine days into Christmas, and while much of the world has already packed away their Christmas trees and moved on, in their ninth day postpartum, Joseph and Mary and Jesus probably were living in the warmth and the hay and the refuse of the animals that witnessed the birth of our Lord. I can't quite wrap my mind around what that must have been like, let alone that the begotten Son of God likely spent his first days, even weeks, sharing space with livestock.

So let's all, ahem, chew on that for awhile, and merry Christmas.

ChrisTmas

Week of Second Sunday in Advent 12/12/12, Sermon ~ Rev. J.C. Olson

Often the Season of Advent becomes merely pre-Christmas, a time to prepare to meet the Baby Jesus in the manger. Of course, we all know that we cannot travel back in time to meet him. This would be like saying during the four weeks prior to Martin Luther’s birthday, “now is the time to prepare to meet the great theologian Martin Luther”. Everybody knows that we cannot prepare for an event that has already occurred.

A better way to understand the first coming of the Messiah, the incarnation, is that it enables us to look forward with joy to Christ’s second coming in judgment. Because of Jesus’ path from the manger to the cross to the grave and to His glorious resurrection, we can lift up our heads to see the kingdom of Christ coming to its fulfillment among us now today.

The Lord through His speaking brings judgment upon His people. His Law crushes our claims of righteousness. No greater burden could be placed on the human heart than to face the judging and powerful word of God’s Law. When God speaks His Law against our sins are revealed. “Out of Zion shall go the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem”. (Is. 2:3)

Judgment falls on us each and every day. The goal of such judgment is to produce repentant hearts, willing and wanting to hear and receive the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It is through the Word made Flesh that God chose to judge His people. In Christ, God graciously grants us pardon and forgiveness. In Christ, God graciously gives to us a perfect life, suffering and death that satisfies God’s wrath and demands for justice because of our sinfulness.

The Christian Church exists on earth to proclaim and send forth the message of forgiveness in Christ. For it is the Word of God alone that creates and sustains faith in the hearts of people. Holy men of God were moved by the Holy Spirit to write down that the Lord comes to judge His children not guilty through the incarnate Christ. This is what, or rather WHO the Bible is all about.

The Lord will use His shepherds, His pastors, to instruct you in the Word of God. Christ commissions men to speak on His behalf, telling us that in His first coming there is Spirit and life that will stand at His second coming in Judgment.

Christ’s second coming on the Last Day holds no terror for us Christians because Christ’s first coming in the incarnation tells us the meaning of His ultimate return. In these last days, through His speaking, we will be declared blameless, and there will be peace on earth and good will from God toward man. Christ paid the ultimate price that we may have peace now and at the last.

Christ comes to bring peace with God, a peace that remains forever a gift of God. If left to figure out our own plan of salvation, we would be forever sharpening our swords to kill this God who demands holiness and righteousness. Like a child who pitches a temper tantrum when he doesn’t get his fruit snacks when he demands them for breakfast at 7 in the morning, we are born on a warpath against our gracious God. And like a parent who holds tightly to a child who is raging out of control, our God smothers us in His Son’s weak body offered for us upon the cross.

The Christ child leads us in the way of peace. He alone rescues those who desire to make war on God and His Word. So why did He come? He came to “give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace”. (Luke 1:79) Christ has defeated all our enemies of sin, death and the power of the devil and even war itself. By His blood of the New Testament, give and shed for you, for the forgiveness of all your sins, Christ declares all hostility between Himself and you to be over.

In the end, instruments of war will become signs of peace. After WWII, all the naval scrap iron was converted into raw materials to be reused by cruise ships, skyscrapers, and cars. Material once used to wage war was recycled and used to produce things that were symbols of peace and prosperity. The ultimate sign of warfare with God is the cross of Christ. God converted that which had been our weapon against His Son into the sign of our new life in Christ, who died to save us and give us life.

Though God’s plan of salvation began in a feeding trough for animals, thankfully it did not end there. For what did He come? Jesus went on in his short earthly life to keep the Law of God in your place, die upon the cross for your sins, and be raised from the dead for your justification. All of the seasons of the Church year find their fulfillment in the Cross of Christ.

Merciful God, Your Son, Jesus Christ, was lifted high upon the cross that He might bear the sins of the world and draw all people to Himself. Grant that we, who glory in His death for our redemption, may faithfully heed His call to bear the cross and follow Him, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

Some Uses for Tools Require No Words

On the Twelfth Day

In the car today, in an effort to distract from an impending meltdown, I asked the boys if we should sing "The Twelve Days of Christmas," which has been one of their favorite Christmas songs this season (along with the hymns "Joy to the World," "O Come All Ye Faithful," "Of the Father's Love Begotten"--also known as "Evermore and Evermore" to P--and their favorite, "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing"--also known as the "Mommy, Mommy! They Sing This on Charlie Brown Christmas!" ditty). Anyway, after the first verse, P decided we needed to change the words.

So we did, just for fun.

Apart from the third day, which was my contribution, and the twelfth, which was S's--always thinking about food, that one--P came up with the rest. And you'll notice that in his version, your true love ends up with a lot fewer birds.


Kudos to Grandpa E for introducing P to this phrase, which made the cut, as P thinks saying this is just hilarious!

Hope your twelve days of Christmas have been lovely!

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me...

12 Pretzels

 

 11 Bulldozers

 

 

10 Barns

9 Ramones

8 Yummy Brownies

7 Chocolate Bars

6 Tow Maters

5 Doggy Cash*

4 Vacuum Cleaners

3 Olson Kids

 2 Vietnamese Dong

1 Partridge in a Pear Tree

*This is P's phrase, which I think is a combination of Dong and cash. He thinks it's hilarious, and he usually follows it up with "I need some Vietnamese Dong." But this is what he says, so I had to get creative with the pic.

Dancing Shoes and The Nutcracker

About a month ago, while I was going through basement boxes, I found my pointe shoes. Pointe shoes, for the uninitiated, are the fabric, leather, and glue-constructed, box-toed shoes that older ballet dancers wear that enable them to dance, literally, on the tops of their toes. I took a picture for posterity's sake.

I'd kept these old, worn shoes, I suppose, as sort of relics of a cherished time. I'd left sticky notes on the undersides of a few:


"First Pair--
9 years old
June Conn School of Dance"

"1996 Nutcracker
Baker School
Martzipan & Flower
(Later, Mom chalaced [sic] these & another pair 3 times! They shrunk!)"

I kept only one of my first pair, and I obviously was proud of the fact that by the time I performed in my last Nutcracker, I had to rotate pairs to get the best wear out of them, and even then my mom added a clear shellac to the shank to preserve their life. (All pointe shoes wear out after extensive use, and shellacking them can keep the shanks--the part that extends across the bottom of the foot--and the box--the flat part that dancers stand upon when in full relevé--from weakening more quickly. Evidently the shellac also ended up shrinking the fabric on my shoes, too.)

So with my shoes in mind, and in this the season of The Nutcracker, I'm indulging in a little walk down memory lane as I remember with fondness my years in ballet and the many productions in which I participated. A little history: when my family lived in southeastern Kentucky in the late 1980s, my sister and I, then first or second graders, began taking ballet lessons from dancers with the Lexington Ballet who would drive to our rural area once a week. We'd meet in an upstairs room above the fire station. I can still remember sitting in a circle with a bunch of little girls, my feet palm to palm, so to speak, gently flapping my knees, trying to be flexible enough to get them to touch the floor. The teacher would ask us what stickers we imagined we had on our heels. I dimly remember talking about butterflies and rainbows and fairies on mine. The incongruity of our setting belied the fine instruction we received; in retrospect, my parents and I were prepared only for classical, extremely high-quality ballet instruction after that.

We went to a production of Cinderella in Lexington at some point, and I will never forget how entranced I was--the music, the costumes, the loveliness. I wanted to be a dancer after that. Angelina Ballerina was a favorite (new back then!) book, as was one I found a few years later at our local library called A Very Young Dancer. That book, more than anything, made me want to visit New York, see Balanchine's production, and participate myself in The Nutcracker (but probably not at the New York City Ballet). Interestingly, this recent article on A Very Young Dancer includes this tidbit: “As a girl from Kentucky,” Ms. Whelan said, “this book literally opened the door to my fascination with New York City, ballet and Balanchine." That's how I reacted, too.

We moved several times, and I was blessed to take lessons for about seven years, including at the now-closed Lancaster Ballet and a short stint at BalletMet in Columbus, Ohio. I participated in countless Nutcrackers, in nearly every divertissement in the second act. My favorite was dancing as a Flower in The Waltz of the Flowers.  By the time I finished junior high school, though, I realized that I didn't want to be a professional dancer, and other interests--singing, mostly--were crowding out my time. I had to stop abruptly when I was fifteen due to continuing knee problems, and at the time, though I'd already decided I'd want to stop eventually, the rift between my pre-ballet life and my post-ballet life was stark. In some ways I had to figure out what made me unique outside of that ballet descriptor. (As a side note, Stephanie's experience after A Very Young Dancer was sad but common, I think. So many dancers don't "make it." I'm thankful  that my memories are good.)

 It truly seems like another life to me when I think about it now. At my peak participation, I attended three three-hour classes a week, from six until nine o'clock at night. (My wonderful parents were, needless to say, extremely supportive.) The slightly pungent air of big, open studios; the piano accompaniment keeping time and moving us; the feel of the wood or steel barre under fingers; the laughter of camaraderie between aching dancers; the tiny, quiet, authoritative ballet mistresses showing us movements that we learned instantly--tiny moments, snapshots in my mind, are what I remember now. I learned countless lessons from my time as a young dancer--an appreciation for beautiful music, for performance, for precision, for the effort seeming effortlessness requires. For smiling through pain. For how transformative and--I don't like this word, but it fits here--empowering dancing can be for children, even awkward teenagers (boys and girls). If my children ever express an interest in dance, particularly ballet, I hope we can provide that experience for them.

Lots of sweat, pain, and joy in these shoes.

So back to The Nutcracker. Over our first Thanksgiving of our married life, Papa and I--who were living in Connecticut at the time--went to New York City for the weekend. We saw the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, walked the streets of downtown (but decided against the three hour wait to get to the top of the Empire State Building), did some shopping, ate a 9 p.m. Thanksgiving feast at the Waldorf-Astoria (because we figured this would never happen again), and generally had a great time. Papa, in all of his kindness, agreed that the one show we would see was George Balanchine's The Nutcracker performed by the New York City Ballet at Lincoln Center. What a great guy. This had been a dream of mine, obviously, since childhood. And it was magic. Though I have no pictures of that visit, I have the 50th anniversary commemorative book of Balanchine's production (which was the season we saw it). And when I pulled it out the other day, I couldn't stop smiling. I hope you all can see a local production sometime, particularly if it's a traditional staging. So happy, happy visions of sugarplums!