Samantha
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Samantha" by Argile Smith
"I'm Pregnant" by C. David McKirachan
"You'd Better Watch out..." by C. David McKirachan
"Terribly Vulnerable to Joy" by Scott Dalgarno
"The Great Christmas-Tree Battle" by Stan Purdum
What's Up This Week
At Christmas, we are surrounded by gifts. They can come in all shapes and sizes. Some are gifts that we have desired for a long time, while others can take us by surprise. Other gifts can change us forever, such as the gifts seen in Argile Smith's "Samantha" and C. David McKirachan's "I'm Pregnant." McKirachan also points out in "You'd Better Watch Out..." that just as this season of gifts ignites the imagination of children, inspiring them to reach for the unreachable, it can also encourage us to reach out to God for those unreachable gifts that only he can give us. Scott Dalgarno shows us how this season offers us the gift of child-like wonder in "Terribly Vulnerable to Joy." Finally, in "The Great Christmas-Tree Battle" by Stan Purdum, we are reminded that in this hectic season, it is important to remember the reason we celebrate is because God has already given us the greatest Gift of all.
Merry Christmas from CSS!
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Samantha
Argile Smith
Romans 1:1-7
Sam never considered himself much of a grandparent. In his mind, a grandfather would be someone who obsessed on his grandchildren and would talk incessantly about them at every opportunity. He would empty his wallet so he could make room for the pictures of them that he had taken himself with the camera that he would buy just for that purpose. Also, a good grandpa would most certainly be willing to take the cash out of his wallet and give some or all of it to his grandchild if he or she wanted it.
But Sam didn't think that he could fit that mold. A little introverted and unexpressive, he could not see himself doing what other men his age would do when a grandchild came along. Life had been hard for him growing up, and somewhere along the way he had learned how to think and to act, and he had not allowed himself to feel.
At home he had been an "old school" dad. He provided a good home for his daughter, Katie, and her two brothers, but he rarely ever touched them or talked to them when they were growing up at home. Although he talked with them about the routine matters of house, school, work, and play, he left the deeper issues to his wife. The strong, silent type, Sam typically sat in the shadows and watched quietly as his kids grew up and eventually left home.
Now Katie would be having her first baby within the hour, according to the attending nurse. She and Brian, her husband, had cloistered themselves in the delivery room at the hospital, but the nurse assured everyone in the waiting area that the parents-to-be were doing just fine and that in a little while she would return with some good news.
So everyone waited in anticipation, but Sam sat in silence, wondering how he would ever learn to be a grandfather. The sound of the door opening interrupted his preoccupation with his doubt, and soon the nurse appeared with the news everyone had been waiting to hear. Brian and Katie had given birth to a healthy daughter, whom they had named Samantha.
Sam didn't know what to think at first. Although Brian and Katie had told him that they would have a little girl, they never told him that they would name her after him. Not long after the nurse broke the news, Brian sent for Sam. Quickly he got suited up in hospital-approved garb and accessorized with gloves and mask, and he made his way to the room where Katie lay on the hospital bed with Samantha in her arms.
Brian gently took his new-born daughter from Katie and walked toward Sam with her in his arms. Then he told Sam to take her. Reluctant at first, Sam obliged, seeing that Brian wouldn't give him any other choice. Then Brain said, "Sam, meet your granddaughter, Samantha."
Sam quivered with emotion, and tears gushed from his eyes, a stream of tears from the reservoir of feelings long ignored in his heart. He held Samantha close to his face and kissed her on her forehead and whispered, "Good to meet you, little princess."
At that moment, Sam's life changed. His granddaughter had breathed something new into him. In a way, life started all over again for him that day, thanks to Samantha.
Little did Sam know the effect of the nurse's announcement in the waiting room. Her good news made him a new man. Likewise, the angel's announcement to the shepherds about Jesus turned out to make an eternal kind of difference in Paul's life.
Argile Smith is vice president for advancement at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He has been the pastor of several congregations in Louisiana and Mississippi, and has also served as a preaching professor, chairman of the Division of Pastoral Ministries, and director of the communications center at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary. While at NOTBS, Smith regularly hosted the Gateway to Truth program on the FamilyNet television network.
I'm Pregnant
C. David McKirachan
Matthew 1:18-25
I'd been married two months. I was working at a church in the inner city. My last pay check had to wait until they'd counted the change from the Coke machine. It was one of our best money makers. My new wife and I had plans. We were going to keep our present positions for a while. She received a pay check that did not depend on a Coke machine. Then we'd take our time finding a more beau colic environment, where muggings were not part of the commute. Then we'd work on kids. Good plan.
She came bouncing into the kitchen and announced with glee, "I'm pregnant."
Thank God she then danced out of the room and upstairs to inform the important people on her address list. I worked on getting a breath. Then I descended into the basement. I don't mean emotionally, I mean I went down the steps. The basement of the manse was rather scary. It flooded most times it rained. It was moldy and things tended to move when you turned off the lights. I was not a fan of the basement. I went there as little as possible. Today it seemed like the only place to go.
High on the moldy walls were windows about 18 inches from sill to top. I stood there looking at the one above the sink. I carefully reasoned that if I climbed up on the slimy gray edge and managed not to slip, I could probably yank out the nails that were our security system. Then I could squeeze through.
It took me a few minutes to find the tracks of sanity in the swamp of craziness. The first indication that I was thinking again, was the realization that it would be a lot easier to walk out the front door. There, next to the slimy sink was one of the most insane bits of my life. It was hard to breathe in the dank and moldy dimness. But I managed a few deep breaths, and came to the conclusion that plan or no plan, I was going to be a father. Wow! After the basement moment, the rest of it was rather cool. Fathers don't have to deal with morning sickness or labor. That's why we can say that.
We all cruise through the Christmas story forgetting that these people were real. I realize Joseph probably didn't have a basement. I realize the social dynamics were different. But, who with a brain in their head is ever totally prepared to hear those two words, "I'm pregnant"? I betcha he had to breathe deeply more than a couple of times before he could get himself wrapped around that one--especially with the whole Holy Spirit thing. Being a father is enough. Being a father of a child of the Holy Spirit... I'd say he needed a basement.
I'm not embarrassed about my basement moment. It was very honest and decisional. Down there in the nastiest place I could find, I got a grip on the most important thing I'd ever have to lift. I also realized, I couldn't lift it by myself. None of us can. All kids are children of the Holy Spirit. They come into our lives from somewhere else and alter our existence forever. They change us. They change the world. We can't take credit for them. They belong to themselves, and to God. Our job is to listen to the whisper of dreams, to the angels who say improbable things to us. Our job is to believe that in spite of all our limitations and fears, we've got something to give to this unknown person who is coming, soon.
I named him Jonathan, "Gift of God." His middle name is David, "Beloved." He's my son. I know Joseph was proud. Just like I was, after I came out of the basement.
"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given."
A Merry Christmas to you all.
You'd Better Watch out...
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19
When I hear Bruce and the E Street Band doing "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," I feel like the season has officially started. So call me names. It works.
I get into Santa. The whole giving and receiving thing, nailed down into specific material incarnations, shared with the pageantry of wrapping paper and bows is a joy that is hard to reproduce or replace with more reasonable and enlightened sharing with the needy. At Christmas we all get to be on the receiving end. And even better, we all get to be on the giving end. If somebody gives a donation in my name to Habitat or Church World Service, great. But I like it even better if they thought to get some dollar store doodad to go along with the charitable wish. I want something to open in their presence that I can ooh and ahh about. Something that I can put up with all the other useless pieces of chatchki that adorn my bookcases and windowsills. At Christmas we're all kids. Somewhere in the middle of the pushes and pulls of our desires and disappointments, underneath all the high falluting theological ideals are the simple wishes that yearn and lick their lips and stop us in front of glitzy displays at the mall.
When I was a kid, my parents never told me to stop being what I was. They offered high ideals and pointed beyond the tangled web of selfishness with every breath they took. But they never told me to stop dreaming of beauty and grace. They never tried to grind the shiny patina off my childhood fantasies. Don't get me wrong, I got the hungry-kids-in-Africa speech on a regular basis, but they never said it was wrong to google at the goodies. It was very clear that most of the presents under the tree would be underwear and socks. And if I was willing to be excited about the event rather than the bits and pieces wrapped in carefully reused paper, I'd have a much better time than if I expected something I didn't have. But they never said to stop hoping for the jackpot. The possibility of being wowed was always hanging there like some magical ornament, sparkling high on the tree.
I see now that this was so much more than a tease. It was the bedrock that their life was built on. It was the truth that was more powerful than all the years of loss and self-denial and tears. It was part and parcel of the best and most beautiful in their faith. It was the Christmas Story in short. If you give God a chance, anything can happen. You just never know.
I love Christmas. But it's not the things we can depend on that makes it so amazing. It's the forms that move and dance just beyond our clear line of sight. It's the crazy dreams of people who have the courage of children. It's the willingness to risk everything for a smile and an intake of breath as someone is surprised in the midst of their drab living.
We all have lists. The Psalmist had his. Maybe it's not wrong to send our lists to God. Especially at this time of year. But you'd better watch out. You just might get what you ask for, "cause, Santa Claus is comin' to town"--along with a lot of other starry-eyed dudes. The gift is given.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Terribly Vulnerable to Joy
By Scott Dalgarno
''... all the boots of the trampling warriors and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire, for a child has been born to us.''
-- Isaiah 9:5-6
I want to begin with a short memoir of Christmas written by a friend Lorraine, who has agreed to let me share it. It's called, "Grace."
It was about two weeks before Christmas. Four-year-old David and his twin sister Christy fairly twinkled with anticipation. Christmas tree lights strung around the ceiling made the inside of our small mountain cabin look like a Christmas card. The smell of wood smoke and persimmon bread filled the air while John Denver sang our favorite carols. The children saw magic in everything -- lumps of dough turned into Christmas cookies when you sprinkled on red and green sugar, tin cans became pencil holders to surprise Grandma and Grandpa with just a little mess of felt and glue. But their favorite pastime was playing with the manger scene we had made on a small table in the living room. They would carefully walk Mary and Joseph and their donkey up and down the pebble-lined path that wound its way up round the dark blue satin cloth covering the table. My husband had built a pocket-sized manger, which the children filled with bits of straw. At least once a day I'd find all the characters of the Christmas story -- shepherds, lambs, camels, wise men and angels -- gathered round the manger in a circle expectantly waiting for the baby as eagerly as my children awaited Christmas.
David and Christy went to nursery school two days a week and even there the Christmas magic followed them. Their teacher told them about the European tradition of welcoming Father Christmas on December 5. According to the legend, Father Christmas would bring presents for the children who had been good and a lump of coal for those who hadn''t. Apparently David was concerned at this point in his young life about sorting out the bad from the good, and this particular part of the Father Christmas story rooted itself firmly in his awareness.
One afternoon the children and I took our daily half-mile walk in the fading winter sunlight down the driveway to the mailbox. Among the usual letters and bills we found a well-worn packet with foreign stamps. I recognized the writing as that of close friend who lived in a cloistered spiritual community in Holland. The children had never met Lauri but they had often heard her story. She had been my friend for many years and the maid of honor at my wedding. A few years before the twins were born, she had decided to dedicate her life to meditation and went to join a group of women whose purpose it was to collectively honor and express the unconditional love of Mother Divine. Though I didn''t hear from Lauri often, when I did, her letters were full of questions about the children. She asked me to send photos of David and Christy for her to share with her sisters who seemed to take particular delight in the children of their more worldly-occupied friends.
Once David, Christy, and I got back to the cabin with the mail, I opened Lauri's packet with great curiosity. In spite of her extremely limited budget she always surprised me with her ingenuity at creating delightful presents from practically nothing. This Christmas she sent a delicate lace bookmark for me, some poems for my husband, a magazine cut-out of a panda bear and two colorful Italian beads for Christy, and, at the very bottom of the packet, a tiny parcel about the size of a walnut, tightly wrapped in paper and tape with a tag that said, ''For David.''
As I pulled it out and looked it over David was standing at my elbow. ''This is for you, '' I said. ''It's from our friend Mother Divine Lauri.''
His eyes lit up like stars. ''For me?'' he asked incredulously, all bright and shiny with anticipation.
Then suddenly his face fell. ''What if it's a lump of coal?'' He choked. My mind raced to see the connection. Lauri as Mother Divine sounded like she must be related to the Father Christmas he'd heard about at nursery school. Maybe she had the same awesome powers of knowing the state of one's soul.
''Have you been bad?'' I asked gently, sensing myself suddenly in the presence of complete honesty. ''Yes!'' he declared as fervently as any truly repentant sinner. ''Well,'' I paused, ''You better open it now and see.''
He carefully pulled at the tape and tore the paper. The tiny object, whatever it was, had to be turned over and over to unwind the tissue which protected it. At last into David's round brown fist fell a perfect Baby Jesus with his arms outstretched as if waiting for a big hug. David's face transformed in an instant from the pain of expecting the worst to gloriously unexpected joy.
''Baby Jesus!'' he crowed, waving the tiny Redeemer in the air like a flag of victory. ''I'l go put him in the manger!'' He nearly flew out of the room to announce the arrival of the long-awaited One to his sister and to the tiny crowd gathered round the manger.
Here we are. We''ve been flying around so much this week -- doing more than anybody should, trying to control so many things; juggling a dozen balls at once, and, ironically, what is at the heart of this season is something so very different -- something small and vulnerable: a child with little sense of time, whose needs are a simple as eating, sleeping, and a loving touch.
The theological idea anchoring this season is that God, looking for a brand new way to get the world's attention, chose to come to us as a tiny, helpless baby.
It was looked for from Old Testament times by the war-weary prophet, Isaiah. Here is his word of hope -- ''all the boots of the trampling warriors and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire. For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; and authority will rest upon his [tiny] shoulders.''
I don''t care if you listen to FOX News day and night or Pacifica Radio; we all are becoming as war-weary as the prophet who longed for a new way. We'd all like to warm ourselves on a night like this in that kind of bonfire.
You know, when that baby grew up he told those who would be his disciples, ''If you want to be with me, you have to turn and become like a little child again.'' Child-likeness (not childishness) has always been the litmus test for Christians.
Christianity is totally unique among the world's religions because the entrance to it has such a very small door. Those of you who have enjoyed J.R.R. Tolkien's, The Lord of the Rings books and movies, think now of the tall wizard, Gandalf, coming to visit his Hobbit friend, Bilbo Baggins, at Bag End. Remember the little circle of a door, nestled in the hillside. He had to crouch way down, just like God, who first crouched down in the manger at Bethlehem, so we could all know that we could do it, too.
That's important because as we get older, our eyes become less elastic; the colors not as vivid. Our sense of wonder loses its edge and we don''t even notice. Christmas comes along and tries very hard to jump-start our senses. Our sense of wonder, the wonderland of lights that fills this town, the music of the season, and the stories are all meant to do just that.
All this flies in the face of a world that says that the only way to get smart, and become wise is to grow up, become big, throw your weight around, be self-sufficient, detached, objective... old.
At the heart of the Christian faith is the story that the only way to really become wise is to shrink down, be small, return to a state of vulnerability, and embrace dependency. The baby in the stable, in fact, reminds us that we are, NONE OF US, as big and smart and self-sufficient and liberated as we'd like to think we are.
Too bad it takes a war that threatens to go on forever to confirm that fact for us.
Isaiah ached for something for Christmas. He wanted to begin again from scratch.
What is it we want for Christmas? I mean, what is it we REALLY want for Christmas?
Chia pets, salad shooters, a dazzling MP3, or maybe the latest Guitar Hero whatever?
What is it we really, really want ?
Robert Fulghum put his finger on it years ago and no one has improved on it --
We want to be five years old again for an hour.
We want to laugh a lot and cry a lot.
We want to be picked up and rocked to sleep in someone's arms.
And we want to be carried up to bed just one more time.
Christmas, at its best, is all about reclaiming that in some wonderfully temporary way.
It's all about a child of long ago and far away.
And it's about the child of now.
Who is still waiting behind the door of our hearts for
Something wonderful to happen.
A child who is impractical, unrealistic, simpleminded, and terribly vulnerable to joy.
Amen.
Scott Dalgarno is pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Ashland, Oregon. He is also an adjunct professor at Southern Oregon University, where he teaches Film and Ethics. His poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Christian Century, America: The National Catholic Weekly, The Antioch Review, and Alive Now.
The Great Christmas-Tree Battle
by Stan Purdum
Luke 2:1-14
On a particular Saturday, just nine days before their first Christmas together, Archie was at his desk working on one of his grad school assignments when Annie came home from Christmas shopping.
Annie's greeting to her husband was "When are we going to put up the tree?"
Ah yes, the tree, Archie thought. Some weeks earlier Annie had suggested purchasing an artificial tree, but he'd made a big fuss about having a real tree. So Annie gave in and the couple bought a real tree. It was leaning against the side of their house at that very moment. It had been leaning there for a week already.
But now Archie regretted his insistence. He made some sounds about his homework not going well and suggested putting off dealing with the tree until some indefinite "later."
"Such as when?" Annie asked. "You go to school all week. We need to do it today."
Knowing that in marital impasses of this sort, discretion is indeed the better part of valor, Archie reluctantly abandoned his assignment and donned old clothes. He armed myself with gloves, a hatchet, saw, hammer, spikes, wire and wire cutters, and then retrieved the tree. Annie brought out a little tree stand she'd picked up while shopping.
Looking at the tree, it all seemed easy enough. The stand slipped easily onto the base of the tree without Archie even having to lop of any branches. Triumphantly, he carried the whole business into the house and stood it in front of the picture window.
It looked pretty nice -- until it fell over a moment later.
The next 45 minutes were spent in a desperate struggle involving branch trimming, readjusting of the stand and the assembling of a network of wires, which, if electrified, would have provided power for the entire community. The battle ended with Archie driving a spike right through the bottom of the stand into the base of the tree -- but to no avail. The blasted thing still wouldn't remain upright. (And at that point, Archie began to have some very unkind thoughts about Martin Luther, who, according to legend, began the entire Christmas tree practice.)
In disgust, Archie finally drove to a hardware store and explained his problem to the proprietor. The proprietor showed Archie a few stands, but they were all similar to the one he already had. Then the man said, "Actually, I've got just the thing in the storeroom," and he motioned Archie to follow him. There he picked up a monstrous contraption consisting of a huge pan with grappling hooks and turnbuckles attached. "This," he said, "is the tree stand we used to use ourselves. We switched to an artificial tree a few years ago so we don't need this anymore. It will hold up any tree." Then he gave the stand to Archie for nothing.
Back home, Archie first had to remove from the tree the stand Annie had bought, no simple task because of the spike he'd pounded through it. In fact, Archie had to destroy the stand to get it off and worse, he had to leave the large nail imbedded in the bottom of the tree. This nail, in turn, meant that he had to place the tree off-center in the new stand. Thus, it took Archie fully another hour of fierce combat to get the tree situated in the new stand, but he finally succeeded. Gingerly, he placed the tree in the designed spot, and then he called Annie in to see it.
"That looks pretty nice," Annie said, "but this side needs to go toward the window." Obligingly, Archie turned the tree and was horrified to see the stand come off. (At that point, Archie began to have some very unkind thoughts about Annie.)
Another hour's work, and Archie finally got the darn thing up again, this time facing the direction Annie wanted. The tree remained staunchly upright for the remainder of the holiday season.
A couple of days after his great battle with the Christmas tree, Archie ran into the hardware store proprietor on the street. The man asked Archie if the stand had worked. Archie indicated that he'd had "a little difficulty," but admitted that in the end, it did the job.
The man chuckled and then said, "By the way, I remember now why we switched to an artificial tree. It was because of the big fight my wife and I had every year when we tried to put up a real tree using that stand."
"Thanks a lot!" Archie said.
The man replied, "Yeah, that stand is kind of tough to use, but the main reason I switched to an artificial tree is because in the struggle with the real tree, I forgot that the reason we decorate our homes is for a birthday party for Someone special. So I wanted to celebrate it without resentment over some darn tree. I wanted what I did to get the house ready to be an act of appreciation for the Birthday Boy.
Stan Purdum is the pastor of Centenary United Methodist Church in Waynesburg, Ohio. He has served as the editor for the preaching journals Emphasis and Homiletics, and he has written extensively for both the religious and secular press. Purdum is the author of New Mercies I See (CSS) and He Walked in Galilee (Abingdon Press), as well as two accounts of his long-distance bicycle journeys, Roll Around Heaven All Day and Playing in Traffic.
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StoryShare, December 23, 24, 25, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to theStoryShareservice may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"Samantha" by Argile Smith
"I'm Pregnant" by C. David McKirachan
"You'd Better Watch out..." by C. David McKirachan
"Terribly Vulnerable to Joy" by Scott Dalgarno
"The Great Christmas-Tree Battle" by Stan Purdum
What's Up This Week
At Christmas, we are surrounded by gifts. They can come in all shapes and sizes. Some are gifts that we have desired for a long time, while others can take us by surprise. Other gifts can change us forever, such as the gifts seen in Argile Smith's "Samantha" and C. David McKirachan's "I'm Pregnant." McKirachan also points out in "You'd Better Watch Out..." that just as this season of gifts ignites the imagination of children, inspiring them to reach for the unreachable, it can also encourage us to reach out to God for those unreachable gifts that only he can give us. Scott Dalgarno shows us how this season offers us the gift of child-like wonder in "Terribly Vulnerable to Joy." Finally, in "The Great Christmas-Tree Battle" by Stan Purdum, we are reminded that in this hectic season, it is important to remember the reason we celebrate is because God has already given us the greatest Gift of all.
Merry Christmas from CSS!
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Samantha
Argile Smith
Romans 1:1-7
Sam never considered himself much of a grandparent. In his mind, a grandfather would be someone who obsessed on his grandchildren and would talk incessantly about them at every opportunity. He would empty his wallet so he could make room for the pictures of them that he had taken himself with the camera that he would buy just for that purpose. Also, a good grandpa would most certainly be willing to take the cash out of his wallet and give some or all of it to his grandchild if he or she wanted it.
But Sam didn't think that he could fit that mold. A little introverted and unexpressive, he could not see himself doing what other men his age would do when a grandchild came along. Life had been hard for him growing up, and somewhere along the way he had learned how to think and to act, and he had not allowed himself to feel.
At home he had been an "old school" dad. He provided a good home for his daughter, Katie, and her two brothers, but he rarely ever touched them or talked to them when they were growing up at home. Although he talked with them about the routine matters of house, school, work, and play, he left the deeper issues to his wife. The strong, silent type, Sam typically sat in the shadows and watched quietly as his kids grew up and eventually left home.
Now Katie would be having her first baby within the hour, according to the attending nurse. She and Brian, her husband, had cloistered themselves in the delivery room at the hospital, but the nurse assured everyone in the waiting area that the parents-to-be were doing just fine and that in a little while she would return with some good news.
So everyone waited in anticipation, but Sam sat in silence, wondering how he would ever learn to be a grandfather. The sound of the door opening interrupted his preoccupation with his doubt, and soon the nurse appeared with the news everyone had been waiting to hear. Brian and Katie had given birth to a healthy daughter, whom they had named Samantha.
Sam didn't know what to think at first. Although Brian and Katie had told him that they would have a little girl, they never told him that they would name her after him. Not long after the nurse broke the news, Brian sent for Sam. Quickly he got suited up in hospital-approved garb and accessorized with gloves and mask, and he made his way to the room where Katie lay on the hospital bed with Samantha in her arms.
Brian gently took his new-born daughter from Katie and walked toward Sam with her in his arms. Then he told Sam to take her. Reluctant at first, Sam obliged, seeing that Brian wouldn't give him any other choice. Then Brain said, "Sam, meet your granddaughter, Samantha."
Sam quivered with emotion, and tears gushed from his eyes, a stream of tears from the reservoir of feelings long ignored in his heart. He held Samantha close to his face and kissed her on her forehead and whispered, "Good to meet you, little princess."
At that moment, Sam's life changed. His granddaughter had breathed something new into him. In a way, life started all over again for him that day, thanks to Samantha.
Little did Sam know the effect of the nurse's announcement in the waiting room. Her good news made him a new man. Likewise, the angel's announcement to the shepherds about Jesus turned out to make an eternal kind of difference in Paul's life.
Argile Smith is vice president for advancement at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He has been the pastor of several congregations in Louisiana and Mississippi, and has also served as a preaching professor, chairman of the Division of Pastoral Ministries, and director of the communications center at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary. While at NOTBS, Smith regularly hosted the Gateway to Truth program on the FamilyNet television network.
I'm Pregnant
C. David McKirachan
Matthew 1:18-25
I'd been married two months. I was working at a church in the inner city. My last pay check had to wait until they'd counted the change from the Coke machine. It was one of our best money makers. My new wife and I had plans. We were going to keep our present positions for a while. She received a pay check that did not depend on a Coke machine. Then we'd take our time finding a more beau colic environment, where muggings were not part of the commute. Then we'd work on kids. Good plan.
She came bouncing into the kitchen and announced with glee, "I'm pregnant."
Thank God she then danced out of the room and upstairs to inform the important people on her address list. I worked on getting a breath. Then I descended into the basement. I don't mean emotionally, I mean I went down the steps. The basement of the manse was rather scary. It flooded most times it rained. It was moldy and things tended to move when you turned off the lights. I was not a fan of the basement. I went there as little as possible. Today it seemed like the only place to go.
High on the moldy walls were windows about 18 inches from sill to top. I stood there looking at the one above the sink. I carefully reasoned that if I climbed up on the slimy gray edge and managed not to slip, I could probably yank out the nails that were our security system. Then I could squeeze through.
It took me a few minutes to find the tracks of sanity in the swamp of craziness. The first indication that I was thinking again, was the realization that it would be a lot easier to walk out the front door. There, next to the slimy sink was one of the most insane bits of my life. It was hard to breathe in the dank and moldy dimness. But I managed a few deep breaths, and came to the conclusion that plan or no plan, I was going to be a father. Wow! After the basement moment, the rest of it was rather cool. Fathers don't have to deal with morning sickness or labor. That's why we can say that.
We all cruise through the Christmas story forgetting that these people were real. I realize Joseph probably didn't have a basement. I realize the social dynamics were different. But, who with a brain in their head is ever totally prepared to hear those two words, "I'm pregnant"? I betcha he had to breathe deeply more than a couple of times before he could get himself wrapped around that one--especially with the whole Holy Spirit thing. Being a father is enough. Being a father of a child of the Holy Spirit... I'd say he needed a basement.
I'm not embarrassed about my basement moment. It was very honest and decisional. Down there in the nastiest place I could find, I got a grip on the most important thing I'd ever have to lift. I also realized, I couldn't lift it by myself. None of us can. All kids are children of the Holy Spirit. They come into our lives from somewhere else and alter our existence forever. They change us. They change the world. We can't take credit for them. They belong to themselves, and to God. Our job is to listen to the whisper of dreams, to the angels who say improbable things to us. Our job is to believe that in spite of all our limitations and fears, we've got something to give to this unknown person who is coming, soon.
I named him Jonathan, "Gift of God." His middle name is David, "Beloved." He's my son. I know Joseph was proud. Just like I was, after I came out of the basement.
"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given."
A Merry Christmas to you all.
You'd Better Watch out...
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19
When I hear Bruce and the E Street Band doing "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," I feel like the season has officially started. So call me names. It works.
I get into Santa. The whole giving and receiving thing, nailed down into specific material incarnations, shared with the pageantry of wrapping paper and bows is a joy that is hard to reproduce or replace with more reasonable and enlightened sharing with the needy. At Christmas we all get to be on the receiving end. And even better, we all get to be on the giving end. If somebody gives a donation in my name to Habitat or Church World Service, great. But I like it even better if they thought to get some dollar store doodad to go along with the charitable wish. I want something to open in their presence that I can ooh and ahh about. Something that I can put up with all the other useless pieces of chatchki that adorn my bookcases and windowsills. At Christmas we're all kids. Somewhere in the middle of the pushes and pulls of our desires and disappointments, underneath all the high falluting theological ideals are the simple wishes that yearn and lick their lips and stop us in front of glitzy displays at the mall.
When I was a kid, my parents never told me to stop being what I was. They offered high ideals and pointed beyond the tangled web of selfishness with every breath they took. But they never told me to stop dreaming of beauty and grace. They never tried to grind the shiny patina off my childhood fantasies. Don't get me wrong, I got the hungry-kids-in-Africa speech on a regular basis, but they never said it was wrong to google at the goodies. It was very clear that most of the presents under the tree would be underwear and socks. And if I was willing to be excited about the event rather than the bits and pieces wrapped in carefully reused paper, I'd have a much better time than if I expected something I didn't have. But they never said to stop hoping for the jackpot. The possibility of being wowed was always hanging there like some magical ornament, sparkling high on the tree.
I see now that this was so much more than a tease. It was the bedrock that their life was built on. It was the truth that was more powerful than all the years of loss and self-denial and tears. It was part and parcel of the best and most beautiful in their faith. It was the Christmas Story in short. If you give God a chance, anything can happen. You just never know.
I love Christmas. But it's not the things we can depend on that makes it so amazing. It's the forms that move and dance just beyond our clear line of sight. It's the crazy dreams of people who have the courage of children. It's the willingness to risk everything for a smile and an intake of breath as someone is surprised in the midst of their drab living.
We all have lists. The Psalmist had his. Maybe it's not wrong to send our lists to God. Especially at this time of year. But you'd better watch out. You just might get what you ask for, "cause, Santa Claus is comin' to town"--along with a lot of other starry-eyed dudes. The gift is given.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Terribly Vulnerable to Joy
By Scott Dalgarno
''... all the boots of the trampling warriors and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire, for a child has been born to us.''
-- Isaiah 9:5-6
I want to begin with a short memoir of Christmas written by a friend Lorraine, who has agreed to let me share it. It's called, "Grace."
It was about two weeks before Christmas. Four-year-old David and his twin sister Christy fairly twinkled with anticipation. Christmas tree lights strung around the ceiling made the inside of our small mountain cabin look like a Christmas card. The smell of wood smoke and persimmon bread filled the air while John Denver sang our favorite carols. The children saw magic in everything -- lumps of dough turned into Christmas cookies when you sprinkled on red and green sugar, tin cans became pencil holders to surprise Grandma and Grandpa with just a little mess of felt and glue. But their favorite pastime was playing with the manger scene we had made on a small table in the living room. They would carefully walk Mary and Joseph and their donkey up and down the pebble-lined path that wound its way up round the dark blue satin cloth covering the table. My husband had built a pocket-sized manger, which the children filled with bits of straw. At least once a day I'd find all the characters of the Christmas story -- shepherds, lambs, camels, wise men and angels -- gathered round the manger in a circle expectantly waiting for the baby as eagerly as my children awaited Christmas.
David and Christy went to nursery school two days a week and even there the Christmas magic followed them. Their teacher told them about the European tradition of welcoming Father Christmas on December 5. According to the legend, Father Christmas would bring presents for the children who had been good and a lump of coal for those who hadn''t. Apparently David was concerned at this point in his young life about sorting out the bad from the good, and this particular part of the Father Christmas story rooted itself firmly in his awareness.
One afternoon the children and I took our daily half-mile walk in the fading winter sunlight down the driveway to the mailbox. Among the usual letters and bills we found a well-worn packet with foreign stamps. I recognized the writing as that of close friend who lived in a cloistered spiritual community in Holland. The children had never met Lauri but they had often heard her story. She had been my friend for many years and the maid of honor at my wedding. A few years before the twins were born, she had decided to dedicate her life to meditation and went to join a group of women whose purpose it was to collectively honor and express the unconditional love of Mother Divine. Though I didn''t hear from Lauri often, when I did, her letters were full of questions about the children. She asked me to send photos of David and Christy for her to share with her sisters who seemed to take particular delight in the children of their more worldly-occupied friends.
Once David, Christy, and I got back to the cabin with the mail, I opened Lauri's packet with great curiosity. In spite of her extremely limited budget she always surprised me with her ingenuity at creating delightful presents from practically nothing. This Christmas she sent a delicate lace bookmark for me, some poems for my husband, a magazine cut-out of a panda bear and two colorful Italian beads for Christy, and, at the very bottom of the packet, a tiny parcel about the size of a walnut, tightly wrapped in paper and tape with a tag that said, ''For David.''
As I pulled it out and looked it over David was standing at my elbow. ''This is for you, '' I said. ''It's from our friend Mother Divine Lauri.''
His eyes lit up like stars. ''For me?'' he asked incredulously, all bright and shiny with anticipation.
Then suddenly his face fell. ''What if it's a lump of coal?'' He choked. My mind raced to see the connection. Lauri as Mother Divine sounded like she must be related to the Father Christmas he'd heard about at nursery school. Maybe she had the same awesome powers of knowing the state of one's soul.
''Have you been bad?'' I asked gently, sensing myself suddenly in the presence of complete honesty. ''Yes!'' he declared as fervently as any truly repentant sinner. ''Well,'' I paused, ''You better open it now and see.''
He carefully pulled at the tape and tore the paper. The tiny object, whatever it was, had to be turned over and over to unwind the tissue which protected it. At last into David's round brown fist fell a perfect Baby Jesus with his arms outstretched as if waiting for a big hug. David's face transformed in an instant from the pain of expecting the worst to gloriously unexpected joy.
''Baby Jesus!'' he crowed, waving the tiny Redeemer in the air like a flag of victory. ''I'l go put him in the manger!'' He nearly flew out of the room to announce the arrival of the long-awaited One to his sister and to the tiny crowd gathered round the manger.
Here we are. We''ve been flying around so much this week -- doing more than anybody should, trying to control so many things; juggling a dozen balls at once, and, ironically, what is at the heart of this season is something so very different -- something small and vulnerable: a child with little sense of time, whose needs are a simple as eating, sleeping, and a loving touch.
The theological idea anchoring this season is that God, looking for a brand new way to get the world's attention, chose to come to us as a tiny, helpless baby.
It was looked for from Old Testament times by the war-weary prophet, Isaiah. Here is his word of hope -- ''all the boots of the trampling warriors and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire. For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; and authority will rest upon his [tiny] shoulders.''
I don''t care if you listen to FOX News day and night or Pacifica Radio; we all are becoming as war-weary as the prophet who longed for a new way. We'd all like to warm ourselves on a night like this in that kind of bonfire.
You know, when that baby grew up he told those who would be his disciples, ''If you want to be with me, you have to turn and become like a little child again.'' Child-likeness (not childishness) has always been the litmus test for Christians.
Christianity is totally unique among the world's religions because the entrance to it has such a very small door. Those of you who have enjoyed J.R.R. Tolkien's, The Lord of the Rings books and movies, think now of the tall wizard, Gandalf, coming to visit his Hobbit friend, Bilbo Baggins, at Bag End. Remember the little circle of a door, nestled in the hillside. He had to crouch way down, just like God, who first crouched down in the manger at Bethlehem, so we could all know that we could do it, too.
That's important because as we get older, our eyes become less elastic; the colors not as vivid. Our sense of wonder loses its edge and we don''t even notice. Christmas comes along and tries very hard to jump-start our senses. Our sense of wonder, the wonderland of lights that fills this town, the music of the season, and the stories are all meant to do just that.
All this flies in the face of a world that says that the only way to get smart, and become wise is to grow up, become big, throw your weight around, be self-sufficient, detached, objective... old.
At the heart of the Christian faith is the story that the only way to really become wise is to shrink down, be small, return to a state of vulnerability, and embrace dependency. The baby in the stable, in fact, reminds us that we are, NONE OF US, as big and smart and self-sufficient and liberated as we'd like to think we are.
Too bad it takes a war that threatens to go on forever to confirm that fact for us.
Isaiah ached for something for Christmas. He wanted to begin again from scratch.
What is it we want for Christmas? I mean, what is it we REALLY want for Christmas?
Chia pets, salad shooters, a dazzling MP3, or maybe the latest Guitar Hero whatever?
What is it we really, really want ?
Robert Fulghum put his finger on it years ago and no one has improved on it --
We want to be five years old again for an hour.
We want to laugh a lot and cry a lot.
We want to be picked up and rocked to sleep in someone's arms.
And we want to be carried up to bed just one more time.
Christmas, at its best, is all about reclaiming that in some wonderfully temporary way.
It's all about a child of long ago and far away.
And it's about the child of now.
Who is still waiting behind the door of our hearts for
Something wonderful to happen.
A child who is impractical, unrealistic, simpleminded, and terribly vulnerable to joy.
Amen.
Scott Dalgarno is pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Ashland, Oregon. He is also an adjunct professor at Southern Oregon University, where he teaches Film and Ethics. His poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Christian Century, America: The National Catholic Weekly, The Antioch Review, and Alive Now.
The Great Christmas-Tree Battle
by Stan Purdum
Luke 2:1-14
On a particular Saturday, just nine days before their first Christmas together, Archie was at his desk working on one of his grad school assignments when Annie came home from Christmas shopping.
Annie's greeting to her husband was "When are we going to put up the tree?"
Ah yes, the tree, Archie thought. Some weeks earlier Annie had suggested purchasing an artificial tree, but he'd made a big fuss about having a real tree. So Annie gave in and the couple bought a real tree. It was leaning against the side of their house at that very moment. It had been leaning there for a week already.
But now Archie regretted his insistence. He made some sounds about his homework not going well and suggested putting off dealing with the tree until some indefinite "later."
"Such as when?" Annie asked. "You go to school all week. We need to do it today."
Knowing that in marital impasses of this sort, discretion is indeed the better part of valor, Archie reluctantly abandoned his assignment and donned old clothes. He armed myself with gloves, a hatchet, saw, hammer, spikes, wire and wire cutters, and then retrieved the tree. Annie brought out a little tree stand she'd picked up while shopping.
Looking at the tree, it all seemed easy enough. The stand slipped easily onto the base of the tree without Archie even having to lop of any branches. Triumphantly, he carried the whole business into the house and stood it in front of the picture window.
It looked pretty nice -- until it fell over a moment later.
The next 45 minutes were spent in a desperate struggle involving branch trimming, readjusting of the stand and the assembling of a network of wires, which, if electrified, would have provided power for the entire community. The battle ended with Archie driving a spike right through the bottom of the stand into the base of the tree -- but to no avail. The blasted thing still wouldn't remain upright. (And at that point, Archie began to have some very unkind thoughts about Martin Luther, who, according to legend, began the entire Christmas tree practice.)
In disgust, Archie finally drove to a hardware store and explained his problem to the proprietor. The proprietor showed Archie a few stands, but they were all similar to the one he already had. Then the man said, "Actually, I've got just the thing in the storeroom," and he motioned Archie to follow him. There he picked up a monstrous contraption consisting of a huge pan with grappling hooks and turnbuckles attached. "This," he said, "is the tree stand we used to use ourselves. We switched to an artificial tree a few years ago so we don't need this anymore. It will hold up any tree." Then he gave the stand to Archie for nothing.
Back home, Archie first had to remove from the tree the stand Annie had bought, no simple task because of the spike he'd pounded through it. In fact, Archie had to destroy the stand to get it off and worse, he had to leave the large nail imbedded in the bottom of the tree. This nail, in turn, meant that he had to place the tree off-center in the new stand. Thus, it took Archie fully another hour of fierce combat to get the tree situated in the new stand, but he finally succeeded. Gingerly, he placed the tree in the designed spot, and then he called Annie in to see it.
"That looks pretty nice," Annie said, "but this side needs to go toward the window." Obligingly, Archie turned the tree and was horrified to see the stand come off. (At that point, Archie began to have some very unkind thoughts about Annie.)
Another hour's work, and Archie finally got the darn thing up again, this time facing the direction Annie wanted. The tree remained staunchly upright for the remainder of the holiday season.
A couple of days after his great battle with the Christmas tree, Archie ran into the hardware store proprietor on the street. The man asked Archie if the stand had worked. Archie indicated that he'd had "a little difficulty," but admitted that in the end, it did the job.
The man chuckled and then said, "By the way, I remember now why we switched to an artificial tree. It was because of the big fight my wife and I had every year when we tried to put up a real tree using that stand."
"Thanks a lot!" Archie said.
The man replied, "Yeah, that stand is kind of tough to use, but the main reason I switched to an artificial tree is because in the struggle with the real tree, I forgot that the reason we decorate our homes is for a birthday party for Someone special. So I wanted to celebrate it without resentment over some darn tree. I wanted what I did to get the house ready to be an act of appreciation for the Birthday Boy.
Stan Purdum is the pastor of Centenary United Methodist Church in Waynesburg, Ohio. He has served as the editor for the preaching journals Emphasis and Homiletics, and he has written extensively for both the religious and secular press. Purdum is the author of New Mercies I See (CSS) and He Walked in Galilee (Abingdon Press), as well as two accounts of his long-distance bicycle journeys, Roll Around Heaven All Day and Playing in Traffic.
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StoryShare, December 23, 24, 25, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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