At one-day old, did Jesus sleep soundly, nestled in strips of cloth while lying at his mother’s side? Or did he fuss, whimper, wail, and cry … like so many newborn human babies do?
At one-day old, did Jesus nurse easily, cradled at his mother’s breast while drinking deeply of her precious milk? Or did he struggle to attach, suckle, and swallow … like so many newborn human babies do?
At one-day old, did Jesus see clearly, held in the strong arms of his earthly father while gazing with wide-eyed wonder at those around him? Or did he blink with confusion, blear, and blur … like so many newborn human babies do?
At one-day old, did Jesus know who he was, that someday the earth would celebrate his birth as the miracle of history? Or did he know nothing beyond hunger, warmth, exhaustion, and comfort … like so many newborn human babies do?
At one-day past, is the awe of Emmanuel as stunning and breathtaking as it was on Christmas day? Or have you forgotten, moved on, and faded … like so many sidetracked and busy humans do?
Emmanuel, still. God with us, still. Christ the Savior is born, still.
Be still. Savor, remember, and rejoice, still. Still and always.
‘Tis the first night of Christmas. The heavens proclaim:
Emmanuel.
God with us.
Deity made flesh.
Lord sent to earth.
Christ the Savior is born.
This story of Jesus’ birth (and all it portends) is foolish in all worldly ways. Collective humanity is far more wont to desire:
Myself.
Us as God.
Flesh made divine.
Earth bereft of Lordship.
Death of salvation doctrine.
This list of worldly desires (and all it portends) is a fools’ game, leading to nothing but empty souls full of self.
Surely the arrival of humanity’s Savior indicates this, at the very least: humanity is in desperate need of saving.
Surely the Savior of humanity deserves this at his arrival, at the very least: a crown, a robe, a throne. These are signs worthy of God made flesh, Christ the Savior, Lord of all, Creator of heaven and earth.
As so often happens in the Real Story, things do not progress as one might expect, for the actual signs of Christ’s arrival are shockingly unspectacular and superlatively unpowerful.
And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.
No crown. No robe. No throne. Not a single thing that speaks of royalty or divinity in even the smallest degree.
Sign One: “You will find.” The finding itself is a sign, for without a specific roadmap or address, how is one to find the Savior of the world, especially a Savior who on the first night of his life was hidden among the vast masses of lowly ordinary folk?
Simply by looking. “Let us go and seethis thing which the Lord has told us about.”
It really is that simple.
Sign Two: “A baby, wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.”
A baby. A baby.
This is the sign of Christ’s arrival? This is the proclaimed Savior and Lord of all? This is God among us?
“Sign” (sēmeion – σημειον) means this:
a mark, a token, by which a person or a thing is distinguished from others and is known; transcending the common course of nature.
The grown Jesus was often asked for miraculous signs that would prove his identity, that would distinguish him from others, that would transcend the common course of nature. As a general rule, he refused such requests. He knew that signs, spectacular as they may be, can be misused and finicky things.
Still, the grown Jesus, at the most inopportune and unexpected times, displayed sign after sign after sign – most often to the benefit of the vast lowly masses among whom he was born rather than for the morbid curiosity of those who would deny and disown him.
But the newborn Jesus did not display any signs that would qualify as signs, per se. There was no crown. There was no robe. There was no throne. There was no blinking neon sign splattering the peaceful night with its urgent message: MESSIAH ON TAP! OPEN!
The signs, rather than distinguishing Jesus from others, identified him with others. He arrived as a helpless babe, just as we all do.
The signs, rather than proclaiming Jesus as one who transcends the common course of nature, identified him as one who descendsto the common course of nature. Humanity. Suffering. Rejection. Death.
If you expect God to give you a sign that Christ IS, perhaps you must do as the shepherds did:
Go and look for this thing that has happened, this Person who has arrived.
Look in the least likely of places, where worldly power is absent and heavenly humility reigns.
The shepherds hurried to the village and found it … the baby, lying in the manger. After seeing him, they told everyone what had happened and what the angel had said about the baby. Then they went back to work, praising and glorifying God.
There’s a lot of shouting these days. Also marching, crying, worrying, reflecting, considering, thinking, wondering, praying, celebrating, spewing, planning, mourning, hating, hoping – all kinds of “ing” going on in the heads and hearts of people, “ing” from every hidden nook and cranny of the emotional landscape.
I’m processing the previous months’ events and all the current “ing” privately. There’s much I could say, but there’s far more that I need to hear, contemplate, and think on.
In the meantime, I find great reason to hope – and the reason lies far outside the realm of most of the current rhetoric.
It lies – to be precise – in the back of my church where on Sunday morning, a group of dads were wearing their babies. The picture’s a bit fuzzy, I know – maybe because it’s not often that a dad wearing a baby snaps a selfie with other dads also wearing babies. It’s not the standard fare of Virtual Stardom. Nor does it jive with the current discursive landscape.
Notice they are all smiling –
Gracious, it surely does make my heart sing, my soul hope, my spirit rejoice, my mind relax, and my face break into a grin.
Dads in the back with their babies – not just with their babies, but wearing their babies. That’s an “ing” I’m going to dance about all week long. That’s an “ing” I’m all for.
[Coda: We closed the Sunday service reciting the well-known prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, everyone holding hands, across the seats and across the aisles – a room of people who assuredly have different views about all the recent “ing”s. We did it with full hearts, deep trust, abiding hope, and utter faith in the Father of us all, who not only made us and knows us but also wears us tightly bound to his chest. Even when all seems not well, all that matters is very well indeed. Amen.]
There are only three hours left of 9/11 here in Indiana, and there in New York, and there at the Pentagon, and also there in Pennsylvania.
Except for those who were present, or whose loved ones were lost, I suspect that most of the remembering is over for today and this year.
Remembering is an exhausting task. In a world where we hear and know about a million lives beyond our own, how much remembering can a single person handle?
And yet remembering is vital to our survival – not primarily our bodily survival, but our inner soul survival.
The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is a remembering God.
“Remember when I brought you out of Egypt. Remember when I comforted your sorrow. Remember when I called you my own. Remember when I calmed your distress. Remember when I met your needs. Remember these words of mine.”
The incarnate Lord Jesus Christ is a remembering God.
“Eat this bread. Drink this cup. Do this in remembrance of me.”
He tells us to remember. Over and over and over again.
Just as importantly, He listens as we lament and ask Him to remember. Over and over and over again.
“Remember your compassion and unfailing love. Remember your covenant promises. Remember me, LORD.”
Remembering what happened on 9/11 is important and significant to each of us in different ways and degrees. We must not forget.
But it is infinitely more important that we remember God’s love (lavished on us), God’s majesty (visible in creation), God’s forgiveness (available because of the cross), God’s grace (shared with His children), and a thousand other things flowing from the heart of God.
Remembering is a discipline. Remembering takes practice. Remembering takes patience.
Regardless of the circumstances, like the Psalmist we can (and must) say:
I suffer. I ache. I cry. I weep. I break.
But I remember….
And because we remember, we can live. Regardless. In the midst of the darkness. Today and tomorrow. The joy, hope, grace, and peace that come from remembering are there for all; we can drink their sweetness – today, tomorrow, forever – straight from the heart of the God who himself remembers.
Amen.
[15 years ago – before the blogging era – I was a newspaper columnist. My original thoughts, written while I watched the events of 9/11 unfold on my television, can be read here.]
I suppose that on this day, and last week, and next week, and all throughout this summer, tens of thousands of people will at some point go home from having worked and served at camp.
Substitute “mission trip” or “service project” for “camp” and add tens of thousands more to the tally.
Re-entry into real life for campers can be tricky to navigate – metaphorically speaking, anyway. Thanks to Siri and smart phones, it’s been ages since I’ve heard of anyone actually getting lost going to or leaving from camp, which is a good thing, but also has eliminated some of the camp adventure factor. I’m nostalgic about the lack of atlases on long road trips.
But re-entry for camp workers and servers is often even trickier to navigate, for at least several reasons: we were at camp for a long time; we lived in a large community of fellow workers/servers; we are going home to a family that doesn’t understand or buy into similar beliefs and motivations; we face challenges and difficulties at home that will make ‘living out my faith’ less normative and less, well, let’s say ‘glamorous’ for lack of a better term.
Working at camp and serving campers is a thousand times more exciting, motivating, and satisfying than being at home and serving family, friends, and neighbors.
For one thing, there is always music playing in the background.Loudly. (Unless it’s time for reflection, in which case it’s perfectly subdued.)
For another, there is a large cadre of fellow workers/servers to carry you forward, pump you up, and cheer you on. (And sometimes one who gets under your skin and you secretly wish would decide to give up, throw in the towel, call it quits, and get on out of there.)
Throw in some daily devos, adventurous movie-set-ish surroundings, and some regular one-on-one mentoring from a cool and winsome young adult (or a formerly cool, winsome-ish older adult), and it’s easy to see why the thought of ‘going home’ doesn’t always lead to a song and dance.
But home is real. Home is where life happens. Home is where Jesus is, lives, and waits to walk through life with us. Home is sacred. Home is real. Home is blessed (even when it’s not). Home is where the biggest miracles of all happen.
Home is where we are challenged and learn to do the most difficult things of all.
Yes, getting up at 6:00 a.m. every morning to cook for 5oo people is challenging and difficult. But learning to be gracious and kind, every single morning regardless of how early or late it is, to the person in your family that regularly drives you to the edge of rationality — thatis a miracle of home.
Yes, learning to work as a unified group with 8 other distinct people (read: love some, could take or leave some, can’t stand some) every day for a month or a summer is challenging and difficult and requires you to ask for the Lord’s grace and patience each and every morning (for a month or a summer, that is). But learning to work and live as a unified group with however many other people are in your household or dorm for the rest of your time living there —that is a miracle of home.
Yes, pushing through the days when you are tired and frustrated and just want to give up or slow down or push off is challenging and difficult and requires you to dig deep down into your soul’s reserves of strength and commitment. But learning to push through the days when you are tired and frustrated with the everyday, mundane, boring, non-camp-ish, adventure-less (we think), pointless (we assume), blahblahblah (we snivel) details of life for the rest of your life — that is a miracle of home.
It’s not hard to be changed at camp. It happens all the time.
Being changed for life – that’s the point. That’s what God wants for us. That’s what Jesus does for us…if we are willing to surrender and serve and listen and obey when we get back home, just like we did when we were at camp.
Big things happen at camp. People are transformed. People meet Jesus. People fall in love with God. People work harder than they ever worked before.
But really big things happen at home. We learn to obey. We learn to listen. We learn to exercise patience. We learn to extend grace. We learn to love, deeply, truly, impossibly, faithfully, and without end.
Do not miss the miracles of home once you’ve left camp. If you do, you will also lose all the miracles of camp, and that would be a tragedy indeed.
They pulled out of camp this morning, all of those precious mamas and babies with their faithful and loving mentors.
Our hearts are full – full of joy for all those we met and loved; full of sadness for having to say goodbye; full of thanks for having been part of this amazing week; full of sorrow for the many young mamas and babies in this world who are not surrounded by a circle of loving and caring people; full of laughter for the fun and games and play we shared this week; full of tears for the broken world in which we live; full of hope because of Jesus.
We packed it all up today – all those highchairs and booster seats and pack-n-plays and swings and tricycles and changing pads and napping mats and carpets and blocks and sippy cups and dolls and trucks and playhouses and kiddie pools and blankets and toys and strollers.
It feels like just yesterday – and last year – that we were first staging the strollers for their arrival.
And already today we lined them up, washed them down, and stored them away for another year.
Those strollers rolled many miles this week, ’round and ’round the lake, up and down the walkways, back and forth across the halls.
We cleared off the clotheslines, which looked different than most other weeks at a Young Life camp what with all the tiny little bodies creeping, crawling, and toddling hereabouts.
Photo: Crystal Kirgiss, 2016
We took our final walks through the silent prayer labyrinth of trees, soaking up the beauty of God’s creation, considering what He would speak to our hearts this week as we served – which was, in truth, a secondary task (such a difficult reality for those who “feel called to serve”) to hearing from and listening intently to His voice.
Photo: Crystal Kirgiss, 2016
We waved goodbye (and sometimes…often…hugged and held and cradled and cooed and said, “Gracious, you are a beautiful creation of God, you and your mama both, indeed you are!) to the many faces and fingers and hearts we met and loved this week.
And we felt a little piece of our own hearts pull out of camp this morning with all those mamas and babies and mentors – because how could it be otherwise? When the Lord sends love and grace into a person’s life, how can we do anything but respond with surprise, wonder, and a breathtaking gasp of joy?
The Lord was here this week. And He did mighty things.
But the Lord is also on busses, and in vans, and in cars, and back home, and absolutely everywhere.
We would do well to remember this as we ourselves pull out of camp today and tonight and tomorrow. We were privileged enough to watch – and even be a very tiny small part of God’s big amazing work here this week. Like the disciples thousands of years ago, we were invited to distribute the abundance of his love and mercy to a hungry crowd. He did the work – we simply passed it around, as faithfully and lovingly as we know how.
And now, when the week is done, we – like the disciples thousands of year ago – have been instructed to get back in the boat and go back…back home, back to the other side, back to where we came from, back to work, back to school, back to responsibility, back to daily life.
This was a powerful and amazing week indeed… because God was here. Let’s not forget that God is also here and there and everywhere, and so our service and love and kindness and caring must continue long past the moment we pull away from this place.
Young Lives is a bright and brilliant reflection of God’s love, as so many other things are.
Thank you, childcare workers, for serving so well this week.
Thank you, mentors, for loving your girls and their babies for such long and faithful weeks, months, and years.
Thank you, work staff for pulling out all the stops during this final week of your assignment.
Thank you, camp staff, for once again laying the table for the rest of us to both feast at and serve from. It took everyone to make this week happen.
But it took only God to make it real and sacred.
Bless the Lord, oh my soul – and may He bless the mamas and babies, wherever they are right now.
It feels like a year has passed since the childcare workers first arrived and made nametags –
like months have passed since we first unloaded the storage closet –
Photo: Mark Kirgiss, 2016
and like weeks have passed since we first met mamas and babies.
Photo: Crystal Kirgiss, 2016
Indeed, a week of Young Lives camp cannot be measured in real time. There are too many joys, too many tears, too much laughter, too much crying, too much playing, too much resting, and too much life to measure in days, hours, or minutes.
A week of Young Lives contains a lifetime of love, hope, friendship, and in the end, family.
Photo: Mark Kirgiss, 2016
The childcare workers (gracious, yes) do indeed fall in love with each and every baby, toddler, and child they care for – not as deeply in love as the mamas (gracious, no), but in love nonetheless.
There are countless circles of love here at Young Lives camp: mamas for the babies, babies for the mamas, mentors for the mamas, work staff for the campers, childcare workers for the babies, childcare workers for each other. Each circle is a community of belonging and a family of hope.
All of these circles matter deeply. It is not just the love for babies that carries the day here at Young Lives – though that love is glorious indeed.
But it is primarily – solely and only, in fact – God’s love for fallen, broken, sorry, and undeserving humanity (each and every one of us) that carries the day. His love is why we care. His love is why we have hope. His love is why we wake each day. His love is why we are here. His love is why we live.
They arrived today – cars and vans and busses of young mamas, babies, and mentors (who are women of courage, strength, and faith that none can describe fully or faithfully).
We are off and running, and the race is going to be exhilarating as these young women are introduced to love, grace, joy, and eternal reconciliation.
This week happens, in large part, because of things that are seen by only a few people, things that are astoundingly and breathtakingly beautiful –
things like moving over 100 strollers from under the rainy skies to under the dry porch to wait for their first passenger to arrive … sometimes the weather is drizzly, you see
things like stacking highchairs and patiently vacuuming a dining hall where 100 tinies and littles just ate dinner with their mamas … sometimes the food flies, you see
things like wiping down sticky booster chairs in which 50 toddlers just ate dinner with their mamas … sometimes the food spills, you see
things like holding a little for the very first time while her mama heads off for an evening of laughter, fun, and whimsical play … sometimes the littles need some encouragement, you see
things like letting a tiny snuggle in close so she can sleep peacefully, safely, and contentedly until her mama returns with a wide embrace … sometimes the tinies just need a safe and warm place, you see
things like comforting a little while he rests in a new place for the very first time … sometimes everyone needs a reassuring presence, you see.
These are the unseen things that make this week possible – these and a thousand others like them.
Our God is a God of grace, and He has surely filled this place and these people with grace unbounding. He has breathed Himself into this air and into these lives.
[*note: Young Lives is the a Young Life ministry for teen mothers]
This week in Michigan, in a little tiny corner of the world known as Timberwolf Lake, a group of people are getting ready for the arrival of 100-plus teen mamas … and their babies.
Yesterday, one little tiny spot in this little tiny corner of the world looked like this:
It’s a lovely place indeed, a place where many people hear the beautiful truth about Jesus Christ and God’s love.
But this week, it’s especially beautiful, because this week, it looks like this:
In one short day, this place – intended primarily for teenagers without babies – has been transformed into a place absolutely and perfectly and completely intended for teenagers with babies.
I wish I could describe the transformation. Pack-n-Plays, high-chairs, booster seats, napping cots, tricycles, bouncy chairs, swings, kiddie pools, blocks, toys, toys, toys, blankets, sheets, diapers, snacks, juice, rocking chairs, and so much more. It all must be unloaded, unpacked, sorted, washed, organized, and delivered to twelve – yes, twelve different nursery spaces.
But it’s always the strollers that get me – those colorful, joyful, inviting, ready-to-roll strollers. They are the first thing the mamas will see when they climb out of a car, van, or bus. The strollers, saying, “We are ready for you. We’ve been waiting for you. We welcome you. We love you.”
Those are powerful words for a young mama to hear.
But they are not the most important worlds they will hear this week. These are: you are loved by a God who is not just a father but also a mother, like –
an eagle who hovers over its young
a hen who gathers her chicks under her wings
a comforting mother
one who gives birth to the dew and the frost.
Most breathtaking of all, when in the very beginning God breathed the breath of life into humans and made them living creatures, he was like a mother, for that breath (neshamah) is derived from an older word nasham, a verb that means “to pant, especially of a woman in travail or labour.” It shows up in Isaiah 42:14 where the LORD, marching forth like a mighty hero, will say:
I have long been silent; yes, I have restrained myself. But now, like a woman in labor, I will cry and groan and pant.
The LORD – our father God – like a woman in labor.
Gracious. Mercy. Astounding.
This week, 100-plus young mamas are going to learn about that God – the God who loves them, the God who became human to demonstrate that love, the God who offers new life, the God who created all life, the God who breathes life into us, the God who hovers, gathers, comforts, and gives birth to all that is.
Bless the LORD, oh my soul, for being just exactly what and who each one of us needs.
In less than 24 hours, several hundred middle school students and leaders will descend on a sacred place in the Ozarks for the very first week of summer camp at Young Life’s Clearwater Cove.
Most of the world knows absolutely nothing about this.
But a very small sliver of the world – and all of God himself – knows very well what is about to happen here: fun, love, Jesus, grace, hope, and real life.
While much of society is bemoaning the current trends and behaviors of teenagers, twenty high school students have given up a month of their summer to willingly, enthusiastically, and joyfully serve middle school students at this sacred place nestled atop a mountain of rock. No joke. These people right here are people you should know. They are going to change the world – while they are still in HS – because they are serving the very God who made the world.
In the midst of depressing headlines, deadly conflicts, and desperate situations, these twenty high schoolers (and 36 college students, and so many others) are choosing hope, life, love, joy, forgiveness, and transformation.
God does that. He gets hold of a person’s heart, flips it upside down and inside out, remakes it into something alive, and sends it out into the wide world to be light and love, salt and sweet aromas, in order to draw others into his infinitely welcoming arms.
I don’t know what you’re doing this summer. But these folks here, and countless others like them across the US and the world, are doing something big and bold and beautiful: they are being obedient, they are being humble, they are serving, they are giving, they are considering others as more important than themselves – and because of that, God is going to do mighty things. I have no doubt.
Clearwater Cove, tucked away in a corner of God’s overwhelmingly breathtaking creation, is ready to fling wide open its doors and welcome teenagers to a week they will never forget. Gracious sakes – the work of celebration and the celebration of work have just begun, and for many people, life will never be the same again.
‘Tis the first night of Christmas. The heavens proclaim:
Breathe 