Happily Semi-Liturgical

I grew up in churches whose only nods to the Christian calendar were Christmas Day and Easter Day. What a great discovery were all the other feast days and seasons, especially Advent and Easter. Let me just say that it rocks my world to know that it's still Christmas. Everywhere around me people are saying, "Well, Christmas is over now." "Oh no," I reply, "It's Christmas until January 6. We still have a week and a half of celebration before us. How cool is that?"

I do, however, have a few modest suggestions for the liturgical year. First, as happy a color as green is, it's just way overused. How about a little more red? Last year our worshiping body extended Pentecost by a few weeks, mainly because we like the red better. And what about orange? It's way underutilized. And for those of us with Seasonal Affective Disorder, I think more bright yellow during Epiphany would work wonders.

Oh, and I think that instead of just different colored stoles for each season, pastors should wear different colored robes. With matching shoes.

Alright, now it's just getting late.

The Gift of Nightmares

This weekend, several of our staff at church had church related nightmares. They were your typical nightmares: Sunday morning arrives and the sermon isn't prepared, none of the musicians show up to worship, teens are critically hurt when something goes terribly wrong on the youth ski trip.

I've often wondered from where our nightmares come. Many books have been published on dreams and their interpretations, but I have a thought. Maybe because it's Christmas I'm preoccupied with gifts, but our nightmares may just be a gift from God.

It's not too far-fetched. Consider that, by definition, our nightmares are always worse than reality, whether it be the monster filled dreams of our childhood or the shame and disappointment dreams of our adult life. Who doesn't wake up from a nightmare with a sense of relief, at least after the disorientation wears off.

Our current reality may not be everything to which we aspired, but it is good. So we are grateful for prepared sermons, for faithful musicians, and for a family that is alive and present.

And now my little girl is begging to open presents, so I must go. Merry Christmas!

Armageddon in the Crayola Store

Our family headed out to Crown Center today, thinking the Saturday before Christmas was the perfect time to visit Santa. You'd think we were new parents or something. Anyway, Aliyah and I were checking out the Crayola Store while Dave was standing in line, and it was there that I saw it: a children's book entitled, "Who Can Open Michelangelo's Seven Seals?"

I laughed out loud, thinking that the author must not have ever read Revelation. Or, maybe he had, and this was evidence of a twisted sense of humor. So I picked up the book to see if it included a dragon (it did), or an evil villain (that too). Out of sheer curiosity, I almost bought the book, so maybe the title wasn't so ludicrous, after all.

Santa was great, by the way. He took time with each child, even complimenting Aliyah on her pink cowgirl boots. Our slices from De Bronx were good, too, so all in all it was a Merry day at Crown Center.

Magical Musical Chairs

I saw Christmas today. It was at my 4-year-old daughter's school Christmas party. While the adults were setting up the plates and food, the children played musical chairs, a fiercely competitive elimination game. One of the girls' little sister, who had just turned three, joined the game, though she was much smaller than the rest of the children. After a few rounds of following her sister around the circle, the inevitable happened. The music stopped, the children scrambled, and there was one empty chair left with just the two sisters still standing. Without hesitation, the older sister put her hands on her little sister's shoulders, guided her to the empty chair, and left the game with a smile on her face.

Would I so readily give up a place of safety and privilege for a brother or sister? Not just offer up the seat, but guide my sister to it, make sure that she takes her place, and leave the game smiling?

I consider God's promised reversal of power anticipated in Mary's song in Luke, and I hear the music of Christmas as it was meant to be. I like to think that my heart could someday be as pure as that little girl's. In the meantime, come, Lord Jesus, have mercy on us as we give it another shot tomorrow.

See you on Sunday

Already this week, I've said and heard this phrase countless times. It's only now occurring to me just how much is packed into this seemingly simple adieu. I've said it to a few of our trustees members, a choir member who manages the fair trade store where I was Christmas shopping, those in the young moms' small group, and many others from our congregation.

The statement implies more than I knew. It implies kinship. As we say good-bye, they return to their work and family, and I to mine, but we are acknowledging that we will meet again at our weekly family reunion. "See you on Sunday, my sister." Even if we share very little in common, we share what is most important and most sacred. We are bound together through one Father. Even if we bicker with or annoy each another, we will lift up our voices together, in one place, to worship the one who makes us one.

There is hope in the statement. It's rarely a question, "Will I see you on Sunday?" It is instead a statement made with simple assurance. We hold out this great hope, that whatever is waiting for us in the few days between now and our day of worship, we will be together again. Sometimes tragedy, crisis, or unforeseen events prevent one or the other from attending Sunday worship that week, but we know, in our deepest places, that next Sunday is always coming. Even if the worst should happen, we will meet again where everyday is Sunday.

So, see you on Sunday.