Flesh (A Christmas Meditation)

Guest post by Trudy J. Morgan-Cole

At this time of year we celebrate Incarnation: God taking on human flesh. I dislike the word “flesh.” I try to avoid using it. It’s an unpleasant-sounding word, and I don’t like its connotations. “Flesh” sounds flabby, raw, unhealthy.

It also has negative connotations in the spiritual realm. “Incarnation” comes from the same root as “carnal,” the word St. Paul uses to describe the fallen, sinful tendencies of our human — fleshly — bodies.

The truth of Christmas is that Jesus came all this way to get a human body…but really, who the hell would want one? Human bodies are messy, flawed, fragile and inconvenient. They feel pain. Parts get injured and break. Human bodies overeat and get overweight … or they don’t get enough to eat and shrivel into starvation. Human bodies lead us into temptation. They get sexually aroused at inopportune times. Sometimes they fail to get aroused at opportune times. Human bodies inflict violence on other human bodies. We bleed. We make each other bleed. And if we somehow navigate all the pitfalls of the flesh, our bodies simply grow old and die.

Yet Christianity is not a dualistic religion in which “flesh” is simply bad and soul or spirit is simply good. The Bible teaches that God created our human bodies, cares for our human bodies, and will eventually resurrect and recreate our human bodies. Christianity goes a step farther than any other world religion and teaches that God not only values human bodies, God actually wears a human body. In the Incarnation Jesus took on our flesh — our sinful, fallible, flawed flesh.

Flesh brings us down; flesh also lifts us to our finest hours. Only in human bodies can we know the bliss of union between lovers. Only in a human body can a woman share for a few months the experience of the Creator as she grows another human life inside her womb, pushes out into the world, then sustains and nourishes it with milk from her breast. Only in human bodies can we hold a child, a parent, a lover in our arms. Only with human bodies can we laugh and cry and kiss and taste and touch and participate completely in the world God created for us. And in human bodies–transformed and glorified–we will someday be raised to live eternally.

In this human flesh, fragile and fallen, the Son of God deigned to meet us on our own ground: to become a helpless human infant suckling a mother’s breast; to be hungry and exhausted and weak; to bleed and to die.

 Christmas in the secular world sometimes seems an inappropriate time for Christians to celebrate Christ’s birth. It’s hard to ponder the mystery of Incarnation in the midst of holiday specials and the shopping-days countdown and the flashing lights and Santa and Rudolph and Frosty and the Grinch. At Christmas our carnal nature shows its best — the glowing face of a child opening a longed-for toy — and its worst — the vicious triumph of the mother who literally had to wrestle another shopper to the floor of Wal-Mart to rip the last Furby from her shaking fingers.

I have no doubt that the Christ who loves the poor and oppressed deplores the consumerism that runs rampant at Christmas. I have no doubt that He longs for each one of us to make this a simpler time, to lay aside stress and ridiculous expectations of the “perfect” holiday, to spend more time listening to Him and less time looking for replacement bulbs for the tree lights.

 But I also believe that the God who was not too proud to lie in an animal’s feed box in a barn, wrapped in the fragile flesh of an infant human body, is not too lofty to descend to meet us in the middle of our overpriced, overstressed, commercialized Christmas. He who did not refuse the company of cow and donkey does not exclaim, “Oh, how tacky!” when He sees His own image in the manger scene surrounded by Santa, Rudolph or Frosty. He descends into human flesh, into the carnality of Incarnation, and stoops to meet us in mangers and malls, in stables and supermarkets.

Christmas tells us that our God joins us in the experience of being human, having a human body. But Christmas is only Act I of the story. The grand finale, His resurrection, assures us that while He became truly human and experienced all humanity had to offer, the divine does not enter humanity and leave it unchanged. Jesus not only took on human flesh; He transformed human flesh. His resurrected body was recognizably human — He walked, talked, ate, cooked fish with His friends — but it was also far more than human, far more than the body that was born in the stable on Christmas Eve. God became human, and entirely transformed the experience of what it means to be human, to live within a human body.

So He is humble enough to meet us, this Christmas, in the check-out aisle of Canadian Tire as we realize with dread that the string of lights in our hand -the last string on the shelf –will not in fact connect to the three strings we already have at home. He will meet us in the overcrowded dining room as the uncle we haven’t seen in twenty years asks embarrassing and inappropriate personal questions over a plate of turkey and dressing. He will meet us amid the stress, the shopping, the crowds and the ornaments and yes, even the blinking lights. He will meet us there, enter into the experience of human flesh, and, if we allow Him, He will transform our Christmas, our flesh, our humanity.

He’s not too good for a stable; He’s not too good for a human body, and He’s not too good for Christmas. All He asks is that we meet Him there.

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A Dr Seuss Christmas

Guest post by Patty Froese

In our house, How the Grinch Stole Christmas is one of our favorite Christmas stories. I grew up watching the animated movie every Christmas, and I still sing "You're a bad one, Mr. Grinch" with rare enthusiasm. So when we bought the Dr. Seuss book, it filled me with warm fuzzies.

Dr. Seuss has a way of bringing out deeper thoughts in his children's tales, and as I read the book to my son for the thousandth time, something struck me anew:

"It came without ribbons! It came without tags!

It came without packages, boxes or bags!"

And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore.

Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!

"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store.

"Maybe Christmas... perhaps... means a little bit more."

~How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss

Christmas is a Christian holiday, but it's been taken over by the secular world with ease. Christmas is a glorious, sparkly, light-filled holiday, celebrated with gift-buying and huge feasts. It has become more about marketing and sales power than anything else, but underneath all the glitz and tinsel, there is a truth that can't be avoided. Christmas, whether you're celebrating it as a Christian or as a secular holiday, has a spirit beyond the trappings, beyond the store-bought decor.

Other cultures have festivals of lights. I'm reminded of Divali, an Indian festival that I learned to celebrate with friends in university. Human beings, no matter where they reside or what religion or non-religion they are affiliated with, long for light—pinpricks of hope in darkness.

Where there is light there is hope. Christmas trees, Divali lights, strings of multi-colored bulbs that ring the outside of houses, Chanukah candles... And for those of us who are Christian, we think of the birth of the Light of the World. A tiny, flickering flame that came in the form of a newborn baby, heralded by glowing angels and the light of a mysterious star.

From every culture and nation, we look towards light and we hope for more...

You can take away my ribbons, tinsel and tags, but Christmas is still about the night that God bent low and touched this planet, setting it ablaze with Hope. Is it any wonder that we feast, feast, feast, feast?

Merry Christmas! May your Christmas be filled with light, love and a "rare Who Roast Beast."

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It's not that I HATE Christmas...

Guest post by Kristina E. Smith

Everybody should recognize this picture: Ebenezer Scrooge is iconic. Known worldwide as the man who hated Christmas, he made the phrase "bah humbug" famous and every year, millions of people go to theatres around the world to listen to the tale of how he finds redemption in changing his mind about Christmas. Make the statement that you don't "do" Christmas and watch how many people start calling you by his name. I know...it happens to me every year right about this time of year.

Now, for the record, I do not HATE Christmas...not in its true, pure form. What I hate is the commercialism and the expectations of others because someone, somewhere decided that December 25th is the day we are supposed to celebrate the birth of Christ. (Y'all do realize that ain't His real birthday, right? He was born in the springtime, otherwise, why were the shepherds out watching their flocks by night?) And with retailers starting to push Christmas toys and sales and bargains in September, long before Halloween (another "holiday" I don't do) and Thanksgiving, it seems like all year long, all people do is talk about Christmas. Well, I say, BAH HUMBUG!!!

Sad thing is: I used to be such the Christmas holiday person - buying the cards and mailing them, putting up the lights, getting little trinkets all through the year for people because I thought they might enjoy this or that, planning holiday gatherings and marking the calendar for others' gatherings as well, buying and listening to holiday music - it was truly "the most wonderful time of the year"...but about 3 years ago, I'd had enough. Not that I'm into the "tit for tat" of it all, but I was mailing out over 300 cards each year and getting maybe 75 cards in return...giving gifts to EVERY secretary I worked with on my floor and it not being reciprocated - and yet hearing comments like, "Ooo, I cannot wait to see what she gives us this year, she always gives such good and thoughtful gifts." REALLY? And the running, running, running was wearing me out! So, I just decided one year I wasn't doing it anymore. I wrote up a little notice that I put in all my holiday cards stating, "next year I ain't doing this." and made up my mind that I wasn't.

Can we talk about the resistance I received? You woulda thought I was crucifying Jesus on the cross all over again all by myself! I was questioned about my Christianity and faith in Jesus - I was called unAmerican - and I was definitely called Scrooge - over and over and over again. But I held firm and now, 3 years later, most of my friends have either joined me in my protest of the day or really really wish they could. This year especially, with the hard economic times and job losses, people tell me that they are finding it harder and harder to have the "Christmas spirit". I would propose it is because we have lost the true focus and meaning of the season.

Samaritan's Purse recipients

So, here is my suggestion if you are not quite ready to give up the lights, cards, presents, and all the other busyness of the holiday: take some time to just reflect on the true reason for the season. Jesus and what He might do in today's trying times. Hmmm...how 'bout going to the nursing home and visiting with an older person who may not have any family or friends to visit them? How 'bout inviting a single person or parent over to your house for dinner? How 'bout giving your child one toy and not the entire toy store? Or better yet, have them pick a favorite toy and then take the rest of the stuff they receive (and probably do not need) to a local shelter to bless another child or children who might not receive any toys at all? Participate in a feeding program at a church or other outreach center. Make the holiday about someone else other than yourself. Just a few suggestions. (and I'm talking to myself as I write). We need to step outside our boxes of comfort and touch the lives of others in tangible ways. Why not start this Christmas? Baby steps...baby steps.

Be blessed. 

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But Why? Why Do We Celebrate Christmas?

Guest post by Don Keele Jr.

When was the last time you really thought about why you celebrate Christmas? Oh, we celebrate… buy why do we? In this season where it seems the whole world jumps on board to decorate and sing songs of cheer and give gifts, doesn’t it seem a bit odd that though many can mouth the words, “to celebrate the birth of Christ”, they have no idea what they are really saying?

Doesn’t it strike you as a bit curious that when you ask people on the street what the true meaning of Christmas is they respond: revenue to get the end of the year sales up. Or, a time to celebrate with family and friends. Or, it’s where you get a lot of stuff in one day. And if you were to push that idea and ask why we get lots of stuff in one day, you would get, “because that’s what Christmas is all about.” Yeah, but why?

When was the last time you slowed down to really reflect on the why of Christmas?

There is a one verse in scripture that puts it rather succinctly: For God so loved the world that he gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.

There it is. Wrapped up in a single line. For God so loved the world that He gave….

Ponder that. God loved…He gave… Not just a little love… He so loved… One version says: God loved the world so much that He sent His only Son.

God was way before Hallmark…but He cared enough to send the very best!!!

That’s good news in itself. God loved us enough to send the very best. Himself. That would be enough to celebrate right there. God comes to town!

Just His coming would be reason enough to celebrate!  But that’s not the end of the verse.  God had a purpose in coming.  He was on a mission.  He loved…and that prompted action.  He saw His newest planet go awry.  He watched as His youngest creation walked away from Him, following another of His wayward children into outright rebellion.

He cried as he heard the words, “We heard your voice and we were afraid…”

He knew, as every parent of a defiant teen knows, that unless drastic action was taken, this young world would be forever lost.  And so He came…  why?

…that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”

Ponder that.  I know you’ve heard the words a million times, but slow down a minute and reflect on what that means. Stop your conversation with your neighbor.  Stop trying to impress her.  Stop worrying about lunch. Stop your racing mind.  Just stop. //  And ponder the words that are as familiar as Christmas commercialism.

…that whoever believes in Him, should not perish…  What?  Perish from what?  What do you mean perish?  That’s such an ugly word…perish.  According to the dictionary it means to die, for example, because of harsh conditions or accident.  To come to an end or cease to exist.  Perish.

It is both of these definitions that John was trying to encapsulate with that one word.  Without help, you and I will die because of harsh conditions.  Sin created such harsh conditions, that you and I cannot endure it.  We will perish.  Which means that we will come to an end and cease to exist.  Bottom line…there was no hope of getting out alive.

But God wanted us to live.  In the middle of that cold hard reality, stop.  Stop and listen to what God says. 

God is saying—I LOVE YOU!!!  Ponder that.  I LOVE you.  I love YOU!

Let’s look at that whole verse:  For God (the greatest good) so loved (the greatest action) the world (the greatest need) that He gave (the greatest example) His only Son (the greatest sacrifice) that whoever (the greatest invitation) believes in Him (the greatest response) should not perish (the greatest fate) but have everlasting life (the greatest gift).

That’s the reality of the Christmas season.  To find the Christmas you’ve always longed for, you have to slow down for reflection.  Stop in the middle of the madness and reflect.  Ponder the love behind the greatest gift.  Think about the meaning of God coming down to this little speck in the universe.  Reflect on His invitation to you.  Step out of the rush and do some unhurried contemplation.   Reread the story.  Put yourself there.  Look and see the baby.  Smell the smells.  Hear the sounds.  Feel God’s love surround you.  Slow down for reflection.

And celebrate. Celebrate the Christ in Christmas.

_______

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Advent and Christmas inspiration

The links below are posts I've written about Christmas and its season. If you'd like to read them for a devotional at a holiday gathering, you're most welcome to do so. If you intend to re-publish them in any way (print or internet), you may NOT, because they are copyrighted. Social media sharing is permissible if you link to this blogsite.

During December 2012, I'm posting a variety of articles on love at Christmas, written by my friends and colleagues. I pray that you'll not only enjoy the stories, but be blessed and uplifted by them. Bookmark this link so you can return each day. Happy Advent and Christmas to you!

The Hanging of the Greens

An Old-Fashioned Christmas

The Best Part of Waking Up 

Eternal Life and Hannukah

Incarnation: Made Himself Nothing

Unto Us is Given

God With Us. Always. 

Immanuel, Full Circle

Word and Wordlets

Life sketch in memory of my father

Ken Robinson life sketch

1935-2012

By Christy K. Robinson

Kenneth L. Robinson, 77, died Monday, Oct. 1, 2012, at Christ the King Manor's clinic in DuBois, Pennsylvania, with his wife Susanne and their pastors at his side.

Born Feb. 11, 1935, in a log house on a farm in northern Minnesota, he was the fifth child of the late Leonard Robinson and Lorna Opal Carter Robinson. He was the direct descendant of Rev. John Robinson, pastor to the Mayflower Pilgrims, and many of his ancestors were Revolutionary and Civil War veterans. His father served in World War I. On his mother’s side, he had a 200-year history of ancestors in the Seventh-day Baptist denomination.

Kenneth Robinson was married to his first wife, Judith Anson Robinson, for 38 years until her death in January 1993. They met at the Covenant Church youth group in International Falls, Minnesota, in 1953, were married in 1955, and moved to Phoenix, Arizona in late 1956 for Judith's health. They bought a house in 1958 and lived there for 25 years, enjoying the suburban American dream.

In 1964, Ken and Judith joined the Glendale Adventist church by profession of faith, and enrolled their children, Christy and Brian, in the Christian school there. Ken and Judith were active in the church and school social activities. In 1974, the family joined the Phoenix Central church and stayed there for two decades. After Judith died from severe asthma complications, he moved his church membership to Paradise Valley, near his home. He was very appreciative of the fellowship and the music program at Paradise Valley church, and loved the pastors dearly.

While taking night classes in business at Phoenix College, Ken had worked as a salesman for Pepsico, Montgomery Ward, and a dairy co-op. He was so efficient and effective at Pepsico that the company sent time and motion study experts to track him on his route.

Ken was owner of Robinson Distributing Co. of Phoenix, Ariz., for 40 years. Judith set up the corporation and did the accounting and business details, including the personal and corporate taxes (as did Christy for several years), while Ken and his independent contractors provided dairy and frozen foods deliveries to restaurants, institutions, and small markets from Tonopah to Apache Junction. He trained his son Brian to the business, and they worked together for several years before Brian started up for himself.

In 1984, Judith and Ken put their first home up for rent and bought a larger home in Dreamy Draw, where Judith continued to teach piano lessons and paint award-winning portraits, and, with Christy, managed the business affairs for the home and business.

In the same year that Judith died, 1993, Ken was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and it was treated unsuccessfully for the next 15 years, after which it metastasized. He met Susanne Wilson Prontock at a home Bible study, and married her in October 1993, in the back yard of his home.

In 2006, Ken and Susanne sold the Phoenix home and purchased a condo in her home town of DuBois, Pennsylvania, where they lived for seven months of each year, but wintered for five months back in Phoenix in Susanne’s patio house. In Pennsylvania, they had many friends, and attended the Treasure Lake Interdenominational Church in DuBois, as well as the Laurel Lake Adventist Church. He belonged to a men's prayer group, the Phoenix Art Museum, and the Kaiser-Frazer Car Club. He was an avid reader and loved flower gardening, as well as restoration and parade-showing of his 1954 Kaiser Manhattan car.

Ken began writing a historical novel, "Dough Boy," the fictional adventures of his father and uncles as young men in early-twentieth-century Iowa and Minnesota. He enjoyed reading about history, and loved talking with his friends from his youth in Minnesota. Christy tracked down his Covenant Church pastor and set up a telephone reunion for them, a few months before Ken died.

Ken had several surgeries and procedures to place radiation seeds, to remove a colon cancer tumor, to remove melanoma lesions from his face and arms, and other surgeries he refused to discuss. When his bone cancer worsened, he was offered hospice care but Susanne believed it better to keep him in the nursing center. He died there on October 1, 2012.

He is survived by a daughter, Christy Robinson, a son and daughter-in-law, Brian and Stacey Robinson of Phoenix, Ariz.; and three grandchildren, Erica, Jacob, and Rachel Robinson. Brian's son, Jacob Kenneth Robinson, is the father of a year-old boy, making Ken a great-grandfather. 

Ken is also survived by one brother, Donald Robinson, of Spooner, Wisconsin.  He was preceded in death by two sisters, Audrey and Carolyn, and an infant brother Dale. His second wife, Susanne Wilson Robinson, of DuBois, Penn., also survives him.

There was an October 6 memorial service for Ken in DuBois, and cremains burial was in Beechwoods Cemetery in Falls Creek, PA. His children were unable to attend that hastily arranged service for distance and financial reasons, but they held a memorial in Phoenix, where Ken had lived for 56 years, and several hundred friends gathered to honor him.

Mom-Spit baths

© 2012 Christy K Robinson

When my brother and I were little kids, our parents took us on the road every summer. They packed up the green Rambler station wagon, with our suitcases on the top carrier, and an air mattress with sheets and pillows in the cargo area, along with a Styrofoam ice chest. I had a stack of library books, and my little brother played games or drove me crazy. It took two and a half days of round-the-clock driving to get from Phoenix, Arizona, to our grandparents’ homes in northern Minnesota.

We didn’t stay in motels or eat at restaurants along the way. Dad stopped for gas station restrooms (usually—unless we had to go potty between the car doors on the side of the road), and just long enough for Mom to make sandwiches and cut up fruit for us at a roadside picnic table.

Since we weren’t stopping at motels, we couldn’t take baths for three days. That meant washcloths and soap, and water from a bucket or the gas station restroom sink. So about 20 miles from our destination, Mom brought out the paper towels and the Mom Spit. My brother and I squirmed and shrank away, but in a Rambler, there wasn’t much space to hide.

“Ewww, Mom. Noooooooooo, not the spit!”

“It’s just the same as a mama cat, cleaning her kittens. Now hold still. That apple butter will come off your cheeks before we get there.” To get the process started, we'd stick our own tongues waaaay out and try to lick off our own chops. And then she'd spit on the paper towel and proceed to scrub off the schmutz.

It’s not really like a mama cat, you know. I watch my two cats grooming each other.  Mali is fast asleep on a chair, when Smetana, the younger one, jumps up and walks on Mali, who awakes. Smetana licks Mali’s forehead for maybe 30 seconds before she puts her head down for reciprocal grooming. Then she gets what she came for: at least 10 minutes of washing on her face, neck, chin, ears, and eyes, before they both fall asleep in bliss, a blur of fur.

Mom Spit is a universal experience, a timeless experience. Certainly my friends were on the receiving end, and have imposed it on their own young. And when I looked for an image to accompany this article, and typed in “mom spit,” wouldn’t you know, there’s actually a commercial product by that name! (Not the image I’m posting here.)

Moms would never use their own saliva to clean someone else's child. Mom Spit is intimate. It's a family matter. It shows a loving attention to detail.

Before Purel, before baby wipes,
before the Tide pen, there was:
Mom Spit.

It takes a lot of spit to wet a napkin or paper towel, even if it’s just a corner. It must have taken a lot of spit for Jesus to make mud out of dust, to heal the blind beggar—but just think of the royal and divine DNA mixed in with the dust of which we’re made! You know, Jesus probably knew a thing or two about Mom Spit when he was a little boy playing with friends, or that last minute before the caravan arrived in Jerusalem for the Passover.

When Jesus offers to wash us, it’s not something to squirm away from. For him, it meant the shedding of his blood, but for us, it’s a declaration that we’re as clean as he is, and that he has officially forgotten that we were ever dirty.  “And I will forgive their wickedness, and I will never again remember their sins.” Hebrews 8:11

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you. And thanks for spit-washing me so I’d look clean and angelic for Grandma.

Postscript: When I posted this in Facebook, the women commented on the experience of giving and receiving Mom Spit. The men commented on the picture of the car.

**********  

Christy K Robinson is author of these sites:

• Discovering Love (inspiration)
• Rooting for Ancestors (history and genealogy)
• William and Mary Barrett Dyer (17th century culture and history of England and New England)

and of these books:

·          We Shall Be Changed (2010)
·          Mary Dyer Illuminated (2013)
·          Mary Dyer: For Such a Time as This (2014)
·          The Dyers of London, Boston, & Newport (2014)
·          Effigy Hunter (2015)
·          Anne Marbury Hutchinson: American Founding Mother (2018)

Turning water into wine

© Christy K Robinson
 

Looks like Jesus has been in Tesco again!

Jesus visited all the towns and villages in Galilee during his three-year ministry, and the Bible says that he healed everyone. The blind could see, the lame and paralyzed could walk, the poor-in-spirit (literally, asthmatics and those with breathing problems) could talk and sing and shout and climb stairs, the lepers sentenced to death were made whole and healthy as a chubby baby, the crazy people or those tormented by spirits could think and act rationally, the depressed were filled with energy and joy.

Jesus could turn a few baguettes or pita pockets with dried fish, into a satisfying sandwich for thousands, with baskets of leftovers to be collected for animal food.

His first recorded miracle happened when a days-long wedding celebration went overtime, the guests were flagging, and the beverages ran dry. His mother was confident that he could redeem the life of the party. So he had the huge water jars, used for ceremonial hand-washing or ritual bath water, filled with well water. When the jars were poured out, the best, most delicious wine of the week flowed into their goblets, and the wedding celebrations took on a second life. More dancing, more laughter, more family bonding, more friendships formed, more happy memories to take into the future. Story here.

When I saw the signage mistake in the image of the wine, I laughed. Maybe there was some guilt attached to my laughter, the fear of being sacrilegious. But it made me wonder: What if Jesus walked through the supermarket, and the bottled water spontaneously turned into wine? What if he walked past the meat coolers, and the meat became living creatures?  What if he went to the ice cream freezer, and made toffee-coated Klondike bars actually good for us, with negative 400 calories each, so they’re now weight-loss must-haves? He could! (I wish he would.)

What if you allowed Jesus to do something nice for another person, using your hands, feet, and heart? What if he inspired you to leave a random compliment on someone’s Facebook wall, or you called a friend or relative and invited them out for a coffee and a chat? What if you didn’t even state your intention, but you began regular prayer for someone? What if something powerful and positive came of your small act?

Endless what-ifs, and infinite answers—if they’re in the right hands. Miracles still happen.

Shelter from the storm

Male orange-breasted green pigeon

He will cover you with his feathers.
He will shelter you with his wings.
His faithful promises are your armor and protection. Psalm 91:4