Christmas: The Untold Story

There is a story in the birth narrative of Jesus that we seldom tell. It doesn't fit well with "Silent Night, Holy Night," nor does it tell well when our sugar-plummed neighbors are dreaming of presents under the tree. We have, after all, done everything we can to clean up the manger scene with angels and magi, and cute little children playing the roles of Joseph and Mary.

Still, this might be the year to tell the story that we find in Matthew 2.

Not long after Jesus was born, Joseph had a dream that Herod would come to kill the child. So, Joseph and Mary gathered up the new-born son and headed south into Egypt. They wanted to protect him from the dangers of this world.

Just as the dream had predicted, King Herod became angry that he had been tricked by the Magi, so he sent his troops into the area surrounding Bethlehem. They went house to house, we assume, and they killed every child who was less than two years of age. Then we are told that a voice was heard in Ramah. It was not the voice of angels. It was not the report of shepherds declaring glad tidings. Rather, it was wailing and loud weeping. Every household had been touched by the deaths of their children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces, or neighbors. Across the land, the people refused to be consoled because their children were no more.

The people of Newtown, Connecticut, know the words to this story this Christmas. They have been teaching it to us as we watch their pain and translate it to our own families. The Biblical story leaves many unanswered questions: Why did God save Jesus, but not the other children? Couldn't God have stopped the evil king from his wicked ways? Why didn't God come in a dream to all the other fathers in Bethlehem? Was it really necessary for all those children to die just to give life to Jesus? Similarly, there are many unanswered questions in Newtown today, and they have a familiar ring to them.

So, we are left to tell our people that "Good news of great joy for all the people" is not as simple as it first sounds. It gets messy when God seeks to enter into the world we claim as our own. Evil does not give up its position of power easily. Even those of us who are Christian prefer to think that the little lord Jesus lays down his sweet head without crying. We want to hear of the easily converted shepherds rather than the death-dealing king.

Yet, reality visited us this year. The story that is for everyone is not well-received by many. Our task, it seems, is to protect the story of the Messiah so that it is not slain by temporary acts of evil. Whether we carry it to Egypt to protect it, or we shout it from the mountain-tops so that everyone can hear it, we are the keepers of the story that finally is the hope of the world. We know it isn't simple or naïve. Not everyone will accept it, and some will rail against it. Still, we dare to say, Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Pike's Peak: The Story Continues

                In the summer of 1929, my grandfather gathered up his wife and daughter and headed out to Colorado so that he could climb Pike’s Peak with a friend. The two 27-year-olds picked out a sunny day and made their way up the path of the cog rail from Manitou Springs to the summit of Pike’s Peak.

I heard that story several times while growing up, and I was always impressed by his achievement. Though I didn’t plan it that way, I also discovered the Rocky Mountains in the summer of my 27^th year, and, almost by accident, began to do some light hiking in the mountains that has continued every few years since. Somewhere along the line I began to tinker with the question of whether I could accomplish the same feat. It seemed like an idle dream since I had already passed the "age of athleticism."

At first it appears to be an unrelated story, but in the summer of 1976 (July 19), my father died very suddenly, and at the young age of 59. I was a young man at the time, but his early death caused me to think often about whether I would suffer the same fate. So, for many years I have lived with the dueling stories of being healthy enough to climb a 14,000 foot peak (a 14er as they call it in Colorado), or whether I was facing a death at an early age.

A few years ago, the two stories came together in my mind in a way similar to how dreams often can mix unrelated experiences and somehow make them feel logical—until we wake up. I decided that I should climb Pike’s Peak in the summer of my 59^th year. Never mind that I was more than twice the age of my grandfather when he had done it, it just seemed like a way to dash the demons of irrational fears. I decided to climb Pike’s Peak on July 19, 2011. Unfortunately, my third grandchild came due on July 21 of that year, so I had to lay the plans aside. Over the winter, though, my son, son-in-law, and I began planning to try it again this year.

So, nearly a year late, July 15, 2012, the three of us gathered at a trailhead at about 10,000 feet in elevation and climbed a trail that took us all the way to the summit 4,000 feet above us. I had increased my walking in preparation for the hike, but there is nothing you can do at 1,000 feet above sea level and in an area that has rolling hills that can prepare you for similar distances up a mountain at much higher elevations.

The first three miles felt as if they were straight up along a rocky path with each step sucking a little more oxygen out of our bodies. I seriously considered stopping and turning around. If I could do no better than this in the first three miles, how would I ever complete what was supposed to be a more than 13 mile round-trip? Once over a ridge at about 12,500 feet, though, the path leveled out for a while as a tease to keep us on the hike. Soon I began trying to figure out a way to get to the top and hitch a ride down. After all, my son and son-in-law could finish it up and come pick me up later. Finally the trail headed up a more significant incline again until the last three-quarters mile was a rock-climbing adventure. The trail was only marked by rocks on top of other rocks. There was no path, just multiple ways to sprain an ankle or go for a major tumble, pin-balling from boulder to boulder.

I have to admit that many times on the way up I was taking steps so slowly that it was hard for anyone else to tell whether I was moving. I stopped for more breaks than a person committed to stopping at every Starbucks in the city. I am very grateful that there was no video rolling to capture the comedy of the old flatlander trying to scale the heights. Yet, by the grace of God, I made it to the top, and tried to act as if it was no big deal. Within minutes of our celebration however, I quickly realized that that only real option was to go down the way I came up.

Finally, after a full day of hiking, my son, my son-in-law, and I arrived back at our car with jelly legs, a few blisters, and a sense that we had just accomplished something that was at the extreme end of our capacity. On the one hand, I kept asking, “What was I thinking?” On the other hand, I realized that by sticking with it to the end, I had accomplished more than I thought possible. There we stood at our car, my grandfather’s story honored and passed to the next generation, and the demons of death vanquished. Coincidentally, we not only did it the week of my youngest granddaughter’s first birthday, but it was also the same week she took her first real steps (standing on her own, taking a few steps, and not falling down). Now she and her brother and sister will have to determine whether they will follow the footsteps of their father, grandfather, and great-great grandfather.

Interestingly, the morning we left for Colorado, I awakened to a song on the radio that concluded with a child reading a Scripture from Isaiah 40. The quoted words were, “He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall run and not be weary. They shall walk and not faint.” Apparently, it does not matter whether we are one, or 27, or 60. What matters is whether we walk with Almighty beside us.

May your path be blessed by the presence of the One who does not grow weary, the One who gives power to the faint, and strength to the powerless.

Pray for us, Lord

Do you ever pray
For us, Lord?
Not the “We’re praying for you”
But never get around to it prayers;
Not the “Here’s the laundry list of things I want you to do for me” prayers;
Not the “Please forgive me
For what I am going to keep doing” prayers;
Not the full of more words than thoughts,
Get it done quickly prayers.

We want to know if you ever offer
The down on your knees,
Blood sweating,
Tear producing,
Guttural uttering,
Too deep for words
Prayers.

In the midst of our
My kingdom come,
My will be done,
Give me more than my daily bread
Lifestyles,
Do you at least try
To get our attention
Away from ourselves?

When we Hollow your kingdom
By hallowing our freedom,
And we ask your forgiveness
For us,
And your vengeance
For others,
Do you enter into your
Quiet place to light a candle
With the hope that
We will see its light?

If only, Lord,
We trusted in your power,
And dreamed of your glory
More than our own,
Perhaps we would hear
You praying for us:

Just like when you prayed for Abraham
And the lamb appeared in the thicket,
Or when you prayed for Moses
And the burning bush refused to wilt,
Or when you prayed for Jesus
And the cross emptied,
The stone rolled,
The angels sang,
And the night was turned to day.

Pray for us, Lord.
Take the chance that we
Might somehow begin to listen.