Hear the Angel Voices

Christmas has never caused any spiritual stirrings in my heart. This might be because I didn't grow up in a religious home. That isn't to say that I never went to church when I was a kid, but it wasn't part of my regular routine and I was never in church on Christmas.

For some this is a deeply emotional experience to reflect on how God, the supreme author of the universe, took on the body of human frailty in order to redeem his people who desperately need him. I can relate to that, but on December 25th I feel no stronger about this than on the other 364 days of the year. Don't get me wrong. I still get excited about Christmas, but it is frustrating because I want to connect with what is being discussed in church, and each year it is a struggle for me to do so.

That being said, I am enjoying Vintage's Advent series called The Invasion. The militaristic overtones are not accidental. The Jews of Jesus's time viewed the coming of the Christ, or the Messiah, in these terms. He would be the one to restore the kingdom of David and establish a kingdom without end. But the kingdom of God came in such unintuitive trappings: not in power but in weakness; not with military might, but with love and grace. So often we come to think of God's kingdom in these earthly terms.

I was driving home the other day and I was, somewhat shamefully, thinking about my Christmas list. I get really excited about the gifts I give people, but I also get excited about the ones I'm going to receive. I'm a game junky, and I asked for a lot of games that I am excited to play with my family and friends. But as I was thinking about these things that I would be getting, I saw a father and son walking in the cold. The father had a satchel and he held the child's hand as they walked across the street. It didn't look like they had anywhere to go. It was cold then, and it's even colder tonight.

Maybe Christmas is a good opportunity to realize how entrenched we can become in our own microcosms.

Time to Put the Beast to Rest

For a long time now it has stood mocking in the shadows--a huge, lurking, lumbering colossus. It's facade appears impregnable, daunting. With haughty, cocked eyebrows it challenges me, dares me, to approach. I have circled around it, held trophies before it (The Sound and the Fury, Brothers Karamazov, Dante's Inferno, the list goes on. Even Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, letting it know that I meant business), yet to no avail. I knew there would come a time, must come a time, when we entered the ring together and didn't leave until I was overcome or victorious, reeling with blood-stained hands, but finally thankfully free of this oppressive weight, this fetter that would not loosen nor let me wander, holding me locked in its incessant gaze. And always the ridicule, the insufferable hints that I would fail, would fall before its awful presence. But I will not retreat or cower any longer. I have grabbed this villain, this demonic plague, by the throat and I will drag it to the ground and silence it, and I will not leave until I see myself in its lifeless eyes...

I have started James Joyce's Ulysses, the towering giant universally acclaimed as the greatest literary production of the last century. Let the battle begin.