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Psalm 2

The recent unrest in the Arab world is challenging the autocratic vice grip on millions of people who have lived with its pressure and restriction for decades, some would say centuries. Autocrats have no esteem for change. As Joe Klein said in Time Magazine, “They [autocrats] have an unrealistic view of their own indispensability.” The media revolution of recent years has changed the rules that have worked so well for so long. Suddenly people who protest cannot be separated from the herd and suddenly disappear in the night. They cannot be intimidated because they out number the intimidators. And they know a watching world is aware of them at every turn. Yet the rulers of this present age seem to think that in spite of all the changes, the old rules will work. They are surprised, defensive, aghast that these upstarts would dare to demand something as outrageous as rights, a say in what happens, freedom.

At the core of much of this unrest is not a technology of weapons or terror, but the ability to communicate with others, even millions at the touch of a key or a screen. Most of the time it’s put to trivial use, listing condiments as often as hopes and fears. But in this case the social media have become pathways toward connections between people never dreamed of by the generations that lived under the thumbs of rulers with less imagination than the willingness to insist that the past be the only reality available.

We see ourselves as beyond all this. We are people with a history of liberty and justice for all. Yet as the Psalmist contemplated the patterns of political power-broking of his day and lifted up the transcendent power of the living God and the useless posturing of the wielders of earthly power, he saw the distance between their sense of authority and the truth of their vulnerability.

If we as the people of God are to be anything but silly in a false security because of our slogans and our flags, if we are to have something other than an unrealistic view of our own indispensability, then we need be humble and willing to make room for the new among us, however strange it might seem. We must learn to honor each other as the autocrats obviously refuse to. For that is God’s will. All else will fall.

Fear

At the end of one of my classes at the university some kids wanted to talk about fear. I told them there's nothing wrong with fear. It's normal to be afraid of some things. If you aren't, you're a little off. Fear is a response connected with self preservation and an acknowledgement of our limits. But fear that immobilizes us, that creeps over into our capability, that prevents us from action is anxiety. That is something we have to work on.
I quoted Frank Herbert. In his book 'Dune,' Herbert creates a mantra about fear that characterizes that kind of immobilizing fear. "Fear is the mind killer, fear is the little death. I will face my fear and let it pass through me and over me and beyond me and I will turn to see where it has gone and there will be nothing left in its path but myself."
They liked that. I told them I'd give them extra credit if they memorized it. That really scared them.

I found Jesus, I hope

One morning at an ungodly hour, we and a mob of other crazy people traipsed through the streets of Asbury Park to watch a demolition company blow down a building. Demolition party!! Never been to one? Ought to try it. 3-2-1 CRACK-CRACK- CRACK- RUMBLE-BOOM! Yeah! Whoopie! “Let’s go home for breakfast.” Kind of reminded me of Christmas. Anticipation, ungodly hour, BOOM! ‘Let’s eat.’
As we traipsed back to the food I spied a bumper sticker. “I found Jesus! He was behind the sofa all the time.” It was another thing to giggle about on that brisk morning. But lately this bit of a giggle has come back to me in a more ominous fashion, a ghost of Christmas past.
My way of putting together manger scenes for the season is really geeky. It’s a process that unfolds throughout Advent, four weeks before Christmas. Mary and Joseph are on the road with the donkey. Angels flock around them. The shepherds are out in the hills with the sheep. A few of the angels are over there, keeping track of developments. The Magi are somewhere to the East. They don’t arrive until Epiphany, that is January 6th. By that time the shepherds are back in the hills. The baby Jesus is nowhere to be found until Christmas morning. Then He shows up in the manger. I know. Who’s got the time or energy to go through all of that? Hey, I’m a Christmas freak. You got a problem with that?
This year I’m taking care of four manger scenes, two in the church and two here at home. The same rules apply. So I set up Mary’s and Joseph’s on the road with the donkey’s, gathered the angels, etc. The babyies got hidden. Everything’s honkey-dorey. Then this week, Christmas week, I went to find the babies I’d stashed three weeks ago. I found one where I’d left it and then drew a blank. Somewhere in the singed and melted corners of my mind there is a memory of the other three hiding places. Uhhhh….
Now you see why the bumper sticker came back to me? It stopped being so funny. My father did that one year with a few Easter eggs. He forgot where he hid them. We found one in June. Whew! The smell led us to it. But the poor kid wouldn’t even offer that clue. By the time I tripped over the baby, he’d be a teenager. This would be a cute antic dote, adding to the Christmas lore of our family, ‘Somewhere in the house there rests a baby Jesus, waiting to be found.’ But the church manger scenes were going to look kind of weird without their focal point.
So I started the search. And in the process realized this is a very appropriate thing for us all to be doing. The shepherds did it. How many garage doors did they pound on looking for the kid in the manger? The Magi did it. It took them a while. Pretty poor intelligence work for the Persian NSA, if you ask me. So, now there was another player in the mix, the Shrewsberian Pastor, searching for the babe.
So far I found three of them. I’ve still got two days. Yes, I’ve already looked behind the sofa. But there’s no way I’m getting a camel.

Mitzvah

On the third Sunday in Advent my wife and I have the congregation over to our home for coffee hour. The Deacons do the cookies and the serving. We just do the house. Now, you need to understand that I’ve been collecting angels for years, decades. Somehow Santa’s got thrown into the mix, so the process of decorating for Christmas at the McKirachan house is a little over the top. Hundreds of God’s emissaries in every attitude and function adorn every nook and most crannies in our home. The Santa’s from all over the world take up any space left over and lately nutcrackers of all sizes and genres are infesting the den. Christmas is a tsunami around here. We always get a live tree, nine feet tall, not including the golden angel atop. This year I put 1200 lights on it before the ornaments. Yup, I’m nuts. But that’s Christmas.
We usually get a jump on the whole thing from Thanksgiving on. It’s part of my Advent meditation. This year, no such luck. The church is very busy, for all the best reasons. All of a sudden it was deadline city. We had to get it done, now. So we did.
By morning of the Joy Sunday, I was patrolling to make sure none of the Magi had left the radiator to the east of the cresh. Wise guys have a way of getting ahead of themselves. I went out on the front porch to make sure the lights were on and there lay a Styrofoam coffin, about five feet long and two and a half wide. There was a simple note on the lid. “For David.”
“Chris!” She came to see if I’d broken something. “Look.” Her response was less than illuminating, “What is it?” Mine was equally insightful, “I don’t have a clue.” “Looks like somebody sent us steaks.” With that she retreated into the house, leaving me to figure out what to do. I carry a pocket knife for such moments. I split the packing tape sealing the box. The lid creaked as I opened it.
There lay, face down in the packing an angel, a very large angel. I lifted it out. No light weight this one. Plaster by the heft. I staggered through the house carrying it, again yelling for my poor wife. Her eyes mirrored mine. “Who? What? How?” My sentiments exactly.
I doubt we’ll ever know how this winged messenger made it to our porch or who lugged it there. It’s a mitzvah, a gift given without letting the recipient know who the giver is. It’s a grace. “For David,” is all they left of their sentiment. The gift stands for itself, right inside our front door. The angel’s hands are extended palms up. Giving? Receiving? Welcoming? It is now part of our Christmas story.
“And the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shown around them… And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.’” God bless us every one.

Advent

Somewhere between dark and light there is a time
Made of shadows, where night holds fast to most
And all is painted with dim, less a color than a lack
Of all that allows diversity and joy.

Here dreams, ragged from waking, cobweb across our minds
Blunting moments with drifting tides of sense and nonsense
Flotsam left from what might have been, fears and hopes drowned
In sleep’s seas and washed to grate upon these indefinite shores

Awash in these tides we are drawn to a window, painted
By something new, from another place than night’s drifting currents
Dawn comes, not here yet, but there, out there where clouds awash
With pink and gold become other than shadow’s emissaries.

Oh, to live there, where color cuts with edges tinged with clarity
Where hope is not an illusion already torn, where shadows flee.
Oh to see, to be seen, to know and be known, to believe and claim myself
For better and for worse, whole and real, part of more than dreams.

Yes, we live in shadow. But the dawn is coming, from beyond our tiny control
Comes color with sound and song. Weep and laugh and celebrate.
Sleepers awake and leave the night to its own musty dreams.
Look beyond the shadows, there, there. Darkness’ hold is broken.

For unto us a child is born.

Big Blue

I like to think of myself as a peaceable man. But I have to confess. I’m a Giant’s fan. Football is not a peaceable sport. People get hurt. I should not enjoy this kind of thing. But watching the Dallas game last Monday, I began realizing I was considering the game in teleological terms. Eli Manning’s mistakes in the beginning of the game were the mistakes of youth, as he grew he demonstrated balance and wisdom as he picked apart the Dallas defense. I caught myself. When we become philosophic about our ism’s, national, sex, race, or any of the other horrors that run Lucifer’s agenda among us, we are finding ways of excusing the terrors we promulgate upon the universe.
Perhaps the only way of making any sense of my joy at Dallas’ defeat is to admit that I am a human being. That cannot be an excuse, but it can be an edge for growth. Perhaps somehow I can be a more peaceable Giant’s fan. Maybe I can grieve at the way the Giant’s defense stops their run and runs over their quarterback. Maybe I can affirm their attempts at finding a ray of hope in the brutal onslaught of BLUE.
Oh well, I could say I was trying that, but I’d be a hypocrite. I enjoy the game. I enjoy the competition. I love cheering for Big Blue.
Does that make me a bad man? Well, there’s one thing about being a Presbyterian. We accept the reality that we are broken beings. And we accept the truth that without God’s forgiveness we are all up the creek.
OK, got that covered. Whew! Now I can get back to the game. Go Giants!
You got a problem with that?

Deontologize the Principle of Parsimony

I had a hard time determining a major in college. I vacillated between History, Anthropology, English Lit., and Geology. I like field trips. There was one professor who fascinated me. He was older than the norm, played the cello, rode an ancient but shinny three speed bike around the campus, enjoyed good sherry, chuckled around his pipe, and faced the tirades of adolescent arrogance with the aplomb of calm courage. His questions bothered me like fleas. I itched at them long after class. Dr Strodach was a Philosophy professor. I took any class that had his name on it. I learned. He’s why I majored in Philosophy. My fathers Phd from Princeton in Metaphysical Philosophy had absolutely nothing to do with it. Congenital disorders often go unnoticed.
Dr Strodach gently goaded us toward a consideration of our own place in the world by inviting us to consider the monsters of the contemplative discipline. He refused to accept rote repetition of Plato. He wanted us to wrestle with the shadows on the wall of our own lives. What were our ideals? He poked holes in each and every balloon I lofted. And in the grand deflation I discovered how the defense of my own foolishness limited my journey. He taught me not to tolerate fools. But he taught me how to have enough manners to not make myself one by considering myself far separated from their foolishness. This guy was the real deal. He reminded me of my father without all the Oedipal baggage.
In my Senior year he got sick. Not the flue kind, the hospital surgery kind. We had just started a year long trek through the metaphysicians. I was devastated. His replacement was a teacher who shall not be named here. The guy made me nuts. He loved to demonstrate his superior knowledge and use it like a lash to move us through the material. He was boring in lecture and did not deal well with questions no matter how insightful or desperate they were. The day we dealt with Occum’s razor was the final straw. This philosophic principle came from a Scottish monk, naturally. He said, the simplest construction is best, the KISS principle comes from him. Keep it simple stupid. The not-so-esteemed professor held forth on the metaphysical chaos that swirls about our heads, calling forth Occum as the shining knight of logic to wield his razor in our defense. He then announced just what that razor was. “Deontologize the principle of parsimony.” It was like getting a garbage compactor for a romantic gift(that’s another story). It was like… This…boob(and that’s generous) just cut himself with the razor he was showing us how to use. So much for keeping it simple.
In my stunned bewilderment, I suddenly heard Dr Strodach chuckling. He never took his pipe out of his mouth. He just chuckled around it. I calmly held up my hand. Our ranting boob of a professor ground to a halt and glared at me. Raising his chin as to consider what kind of bug was presuming to disturb him, he pontificated, “Yes?” He made it a three syllable word.
The bug humbly asked, “Sir, what does ‘deontologize’ mean?”
The boob stared at me, considering exactly what would be the best way to squash me. But realizing this gave him another moment to demonstrate his mental superiority he launched into a tirade of multisylabic baulderdash. Finally considering me sufficiently squashed he checked his notes and rebooted his destruction of Occum. I raised my hand again. He shuddered to another halt. He again addressed me with all the scorn of a Phd to a fool. “Yes?” This time it was a four syllable word.
The bug humbly begged, “Sir, what does ‘parsimony’ mean?
Now to you this may not seem like a horribly offensive set of questions. You may have been wondering yourself. But to the class who had become numb under his lash it was clear there was a ray of Strodach sunshine beaming into our darkness. The boob stared at me for a good thirty seconds, looked at his notes and dismissed the class.
Small victories mean a lot to slaves. We had to pass the class with a B if we were Philosophy majors. Small victory or not, we were still bugs in the amber of multisylabic baulderdash. I considered this as I plodded into the boob’s room for the next class. I was waiting to pay for my small victory. I was late. The class was silent as I closed the door. I was afraid to turn around. As I came into the room I had seen Dr Strodach sitting on the window sill smiling around his pipe. I was terrified that I would turn around and realize I was still in the boob’s hell.
Dr Strodach said to my back, “What’s the matter Mr. McKirachan? I thought you believed in the resurrection of the body.”
That good humored master teacher gave me a gift, ‘sweeter than honey.’ He taught me the validity of grace under fire, and demonstrated the courage to claim it. He also taught me that the truth will make us free.
God bless you Dr Strodach.