The Lizard and the Snowball.

A snowball rolled down a hill and found himself an accidental tourist in downtown Phoenix, Arizona. As he’d passed over the arid desert ground, he’d picked up rocks and bits of sand, and a very disagreeable lizard. Now, the rocks irritated him and the sand scrubbed away at him. He started to shrink.

“Give up,” the lizard said. “Stop, and resign yourself to your fate. Just rest on those pebbles and they won’t poke you.”

But the snowball kept on, ignoring the jab of the rocks—not sure of his destination but determined to get there.

“Roll over to that soft patch of grass,” said the lizard, seeing his chance to jump ship. “Doesn’t it look peaceful and comfortable over there?”

But the snowball, now not much more than a white marble, kept to his course.

Finally, he felt himself worn down. The lizard wriggled free and ran off laughing at the fate of the snowball, who by then was just a wet spot on the sidewalk.

But in the snowball’s wake, flowers blossomed, birds bathed and children splashed, barefoot. And the snowball sighed contentedly and gave itself to the sun.

Our home is not this world. We’re just passing through, but this life jabs us and wears away at us anyway. We collect “rocks.” It would be safest to find a patch of peace and just rest there, in comfort.

But what chance do we have of fulfilling God’s purpose for us here, if we do that?  What chance of showing His love, of comforting and blessing the world He has sent us into if we shrink away into our own comfort and safety?

I’ll tell you.

A snowball’s chance.  

Have you ever built something with someone who was completely inept? Someone who kept dropping the hammer on your toe? Or worse, have you ever attempted to fix your roof while your neighbor pelted you with rocks and insults?

I’ll bet it’s hard. Nearly impossible.

What if it’s not just you? What if you have a crew—or several crews, for that matter? And they’re all family. Uncle John and Cousin Billy and his worthless brother James, who squandered all his parents’ hard-earned money on one semester of partying at Cal-Tech.

Can you see it?

You, in your supervisor’s hard hat, trying to coordinate feuding family into a unit…they, with one hand on the project and the other on garbage-can-lid-shields, fending off the neighbors’ stones.

“It can’t be done,” you say?

“Impossible,” you gasp?

Nehemiah would beg to differ. He’s been there repairing the walls of Jerusalem with a rag-tag crew of family members, holding hammers and swinging swords. God commissioned the work. And the walls got repaired good as new.

God commissioned work to us, too: build up the church so that you can feed the hungry. Comfort the mourning. Teach the young. Protect the old.

And the work is not easy. We’re not all accomplished laborers. We have differing views on the finished project. Our neighbors pelt us with discouragement.

But, just as in Nehemiah’s day, the work can be done.

It takes looking at the blueprints. Following the supervisor the Architect hired. Overlooking what separates us and building on what unites us.

Oh, and there’s one more thing. Perhaps the most important thing.

A thing that is as true now as it was for the crew of Nehemiah.

A thing without which the whole project will fail. A thing that brings together everything and everybody.

A thing that, as a church, we often shrug away.

Nehemiah 4:6 spells it out. There it is…we can read it for ourselves.

“For the people had a mind to work.”

I remember walking into Clarence’s home, seeing him sitting quietly in his chair. I would put my hand on his shoulder and he would jump. He always jumped. You could almost hear his heart pound.

He would reach into the air for my hand and I’d write the first few letters of my name.

He would curl his fingers around mine, smile and nod vehemently.

He kept his hands scrupulously clean because they were his windows to the world.

You talked to Clarence by writing words with your fingers onto his palm.

He could neither see, nor hear.

It didn’t matter to him if the lights were not turned on at six, or if his visitors came in rags…he couldn’t see them.  

He had no doorbell…he couldn’t have heard it.

And he never locked his doors—if he had, no one could have gotten in.

He trusted everyone.  

He depended on the world to come to him because he could not go to it, so he made himself completely vulnerable.

And come, it did.

Clarence corresponded with people all over the globe through typewritten letters. He’d been to tea with Helen Keller. He’d held to his friends’ hands as he’d climbed a mountain. He wrote a book.

In short, HE MATTERED.

Though he’s been gone for some time, I think of Clarence often. He made a real impact on his part of the world. But I don’t see him seated at his typewriter. I think of him fluttering his hands over his Braile Bible, oblivious to my presence. I see him moving his lips in prayer. And I see a man so wholly open and trusting in God that he dared to be vulnerable to man.

And I wonder, in those moments of remembering Clarence, which of us is really blind.

 A Star Hung Too High.

They knew it was coming…Had known for ages about the star that would guide them to the King.  Numbers 24:17 says "I see him, but I don't see him now. I view him, but he isn't near. A star will come from among the people of Jacob. A king will rise up out of Israel. NIRV

And the wise men got onto their camels and headed across the desert.

The star guided them, we’re told, until it stood over the manger.

I’ll bet they scratched their heads.

Checked their maps.

Tapped their GPS systems to make sure they were working.

The star was so high…maybe too high. They’d set their sights on a king and they found

a drooling, cooing toddler. He wasn’t what they expected.

But the Bible says they worshipped. And left their expensive gifts.

Would you have bowed? Would I? Would we have left our presents there and gone our way, satisfied?

We want a king that’s more…well…kingly.

Not one whose cradle was a feeding trough. Whose father was a carpenter.

Bethlehem’s star had a higher calling. It was destined for greatness.

But if the star had stopped over a drafty old house, would we have gone in?

If it had stood over a hospital, would we have entered?

If the star had stalled out over a soup kitchen, would we have looked for God in the desolate faces there? Maybe not.

God’s Son doesn’t hang out in places like that just waiting to be born into the hearts of man, does He?

You bet He does. Every day…and not just on Christmas.

That star isn’t so high it can’t go before you. And if it stops over an unexpected place, go in.

You just might find The King.

The Christmas War

We’ve seen the picture so many times, we know it by heart. Mary kneels before the manger, Joseph stands guard behind her and an angel—a beautiful woman in a flowing gown with outspread wings hovers overhead.

The annunciation shows the same sweet messenger announcing that Mary has been chosen by God to bear His son.

Hogwash.

The day that Jesus was Born, Satan’s forces massed to prevent His coming.

God sent an army of angels.

Don’t believe it?

Heavenly Host means an army. A multitude of supernatural soldiers.

The shepherds saw them that day in the field outside Bethlehem. “And suddenly, there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host…”  Not a flock of flitting, fawning  bird-like beings. An army appeared, backing up the angel who stood before the shepherds, and praised God. They meant business. They were on patrol.

And they still are.

A battle is still raging in the supernatural world. The war is over, Jesus has won…but, in spite of the outcome, the battle goes on.

Don’t be deluded. There are no “neutral states.”

This is all-out altercation. Mortal combat. And Jesus’ birth was the first salvo in a major offensive.

Tonight, there’s Peace On Earth” everywhere, Satan assures.

Santa is coming. Sweet dreams to all.

Don’t be caught off guard.

“Joy to the World” is a battle hymn.

Rainbows and Promises

It was a trick of lighting, of course.

A crystal dangle on the ceiling fan diffused the light and a small rainbow arched over the tiny wooden manger in the nativity scene.

The cows bathed in it. The shepherds had red-streaked robes.

Mary and Joseph glowed as if in some neon new-age crèche.

And it was gone as soon as the sun shifted positions.

It was out of place. What belonged was a starry night.

Angels’ glow. Lanterns and torches illuminating a stable.

But not a rainbow.

The rainbow belonged in Genesis, not in Luke.

It wreathed the ark. It colored the leaden skies over Ararat and sealed God’s promise to Noah.

There would still be soggy, impossible days.

But the sun would follow.

Waves would still toss him on life’s sea.

But The Son would calm them.

The downpour of Genesis would become the Life spring of Luke. God promised. And He sealed his promise with his rainbow.

Jesus was God’s promise. The Messiah. The spotless Lamb to take away the sins of the world.

The Light to banish dark, soggy days.

The Hand extended to calm troubled waters.

So, I watch for the sun to again hit the crystal and spread the rainbow over the manger scene.

God promised he’d send His Light.

And a promise is a promise.