Remember Ralphie Parker in A Christmas Story? Ralphie’s dream gift was a Red Ryder 200-shot Carbine Action Range Model Air Rifle. I loved the scene where Ralphie imagines that he saves his family from the bad guys who try to storm the house from the back yard. The family cringes under the table in the kitchen as Ralphie with his sharp-shooter eyes takes out the desperadoes.

As I ponder that little pardner, I think Ralphie is onto something deeply profound about cowboy stuff and boys…and men. I suggest something on the scale of Jungian archetypal, if you catch my drift. Because what happened to Ralphie’s imagination happened to mine after I bought myself a pair of  Justin genuine leather, pointy-toed cowboy boots. I bought them in, get this, Justin, TX, where they were made.

Something strangely dusty and smelling of the open range came over me as I slipped them on. I squinted my eyes and felt the urge to spit and talk with a deep Western drawl. “Yee haaa! These y’here are some mighty fine boots, y’all. Somebody rustle up some grub for this old cowhand while I go unsaddle and bed down Lightning, my horse. Then I’m gonna mosey on over to the Shady Gulch and quench my thirst. I hope none of them boys in thar is hankering for a fight ’cause I got myself an itchy trigger finger tonight. I’ll be back shortly for the grub, y’hear, Darlin’ ?”I walked away suddenly wanting to  whistle the haunting theme music to “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly…wha wha whaaaaaaa; doodle, doodle, dooooo…”.

I reached down and took the boots off and instantly I was myself wanting to parse the Greek verb apostello. I thought of brie and white wine and Starbuck’s lattes. I wanted to ride in my Pontiac and wear comfortable things like my PJ’s. Being dusty with a dry throat seemed revolting. And grub? What the heck is grub? I was stunned witless. What sort of massive electro-magnetic field exists in those boots?

Looking around to see if anyone was watching I shakily slipped the boots back on. A harmonica began to play and I heard a horse whinny. I had the urge to blurt out, “Now you git! I’m the law in this town, and this town ain’t big enough for the two of us.” And spit while I stared, all squinty-eyed, the vermin down.

Carl Jung would probably say that there is a Ralphie in all of us. Ralphie never goes away no matter how old we get.  What brings our inner Ralphie out is anything cowboy. That is the fun of a bb gun or a pair of boots. Y’all.

When we got there, Jake, our insider, gave us a brief tour of the Mission. I felt like I was in a nice hotel; it had the feel of a well-organized, friendly, resident-centered Christian ministry. We shot a little pool and played a little foosball. After a tour of the recycling building, we reported for duty.

We had to wear special attire–baseball-style caps and/or hair nets, aprons and rubber gloves.  You can imagine the masculine humor as we snapped on our rubber gloves. Ray looked like a doctor: “Paging Dr. Minnema; paging Dr. Minnema.”

We served “left-overs” since it was Saturday.  After the residents were served, we were free to make our own plates of food. I enjoyed chicken cacciatore over rice, a pork chop, lasagna and a pizza bread stick. The best “left overs” I’ve had in a while. I also took a chocolate-covered doughnut the size of Montana and ended up giving it away I was so stuffed.

Ray, Dan and I sat with a resident named Chris. He’d been in the Army and recently got cross ways with the law. He was a temporary resident waiting to get into the Veterans Facility in Grand Rapids.  Eager to befriend Chris, we asked questions about his life and he told us some of his story. What I thought was memorable was Chris’ time as a restaurant cook at a honky tonk in Miami, FL called “The Out House.” One time a show was booked called “A Taste of Key West.” Chris laughed as he told us, “We had ‘a taste of Key West’ at ‘the out house’.” Chris came from what sounded like a dysfunctional family, but still had a sense of hope about him. His court hearing is next Tuesday.

With our duties accomplished, we piled in the van and headed East. We might go back to the Mission on a week night (a non-left overs meal). We might go on a Sunday for the dinner meal when the eating is mighty fine we’re told. I kept thinking about Chris and what his future holds. Bless him, God, and guide him.

“Are you still there?” Ray asked suddenly and quietly.

“Yes, I am still here,” I said. There was a pause.

“I love you,” he said.

God’s grace and unseen angels kept me from falling to the floor in tears. Ray is my friend, my brother in the Jesus family. We’ve shared some moments together over the last two and a half years. A bond has been forged.

“I love you, too, Ray,” I finally responded.

How do I explain this knitting of hearts? Why do I care for Ray and others in my parish who can’t hear so well, or can’t see without surgery or don’t, even can’t, rush in and out of their homes and get in and out of their cars quickly like “we” do?

Why do I believe that the holiest part of my day today was not teaching a seminary class, or preparing for Palm Sunday and Good Friday, or reading my Bible, or finishing up Shelby’s confirmation process, but sitting silently next to Ray as he waited his turn for a synthetic lens for his eye?

Why, after his surgery, did I feel proud when the intercom announced, “Would the family of Ray M. please come to recovery”? Family? Yes, family.

Jesus said, “Who are my mother and my brothers? Anyone who does the will of my Father is my mother, my sister, my brother.” New family.

What if silent waiting in love is more a pastor’s calling than giftedly extolling to whoever will listen what the Bible says? I think many USAmerican pastors love a book, yes, even a holy one, more than they love their people. I could be wrong. And I’ll tell you one thing: when a person out of the sky blue says from his or her heart, “I love you,” it is worth more than 10,000 obligatory “nice sermon, pastor.”

Because he is the father of daughters, I have an immediate affinity with Volodya. We have spent this day discussing the church, Bible teachings, politics, economy and a myriad of other things. His girls, as you can see, are beautiful and the oldest, Ilonka, serves as interpreter for the family and me. She hopes to come to the U.S. and spend 6 months learning English in a special school in New York. She is a talented and sweet girl. Susan was born in Poland and is 14 and Danka is 11.

I have “adopted” them as my Ukrainian daughters

Danka                     Susan                  Ilonka

 

              MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!

 May the Presence of God in Jesus be your greatest hope!

               (snowman created by Julie)

You and I see the Christmas Story through lens not available to Mary. We experience Christmas backwards. We know the exalted Christ of Revelation 1, the Jesus of the four Gospels who grew up and walked the earth spinning out intriguing “kingdom of God” stories, healing the sick, delivering the possessed, feeding the hungry and irritating the daylights out of the religious machine controlling his people. We’re so familiar with his death, burial and resurrection. So, when we read the beginning, we know the ending. Mary didn’t.

Mary did not know. Ponder that.

There is a contemporary Christmas song titled “Mary, Did You Know?” (lyrics by Reba McEntire). The questions in the song get us closer to the unknowing Mary; to the Mary full of anticipation voiced in her Magnificat (Luke 1), but still uncertain of Jesus’ future. The story line for her was being written every day of Jesus’ life. At one point even Jesus asked, “Who do the people say I am?” People, do you know? 

Does this idea of experiencing Christmas backwards dilute its intensity and wonder for us? I, for one, think so. We know too much. Just as the second Person of the Trinity “emptied himself” in becoming a human being (Philippians 2), so we must empty ourselves at this season and attempt to live the Christmas Story again for the first time. “John, did you know?” “Julie, did you know?”  

Human history, vast and turbulent as it is, came to a tiny, sharp point: Immanuel-God is with us. The Center of all reality wiggles in straw in a cave near Bethlehem. “Mary, did you know…when you kissed your little boy, you kissed the face of God?”

Last Christmas our granddaughter, Lily, was one and a half. She got a doll house that was almost as tall as she was. Our daughter, Elisha, sent us a short video of sleepy, little Lily walking in and seeing the gift for the first time. Her expressions were to die for…so pure, so amazed…it was for her. That’s the Mary of the first Christmas. “O, how can it be?”

Jackson and Trevor

On Friday after Thanksgiving Day, my son-in-law, Andy, and my two grandsons, Jackson and Trevor, and I decided to play laser tag. We went on the computer to find some amusement centers that featured laser tag in the Ft. Worth, TX area. We kept getting notice that Trevor who is five and only 41″ tall was too short to play. Trevor’s excitement would build up and then be dashed. Andy finally talked with someone at Alley Kats who said that if Trevor was strong enough to carry the laser pack with the gun, he could play even though he was technically not tall enough. A roar of joy erupted! We were on our way. Trevor, nicknamed Teggy, was the essence of hope.

On the way to Alley Kats, Teggy fell asleep in the car. When we pulled up to the building Andy said, “Let’s act like we just finished playing laser tag. We’ll talk about how fun it was. Teg’ will wake up thinking he missed out.”

I know it sounds mean, but you know how boys are. Jackson, Andy and I quietly got out of car and then opened the doors, saying loudly,

“Wow! That was fun!”

What a great time. Laser tag is great!”

“Let’s play again!”

Trevor woke up and saw and heard us. “Too bad, Teg’, we had to put you in the nap room while we played laser tag. You slept through it.”

I still am heartbroken and feeling a little guilty as I picture Trevor’s cute, little face. He looked so confused, then so sad and his bottom lip began to quiver and his eyes glistened.

I said, “Andy, I think we’d better quit. We’re going to lose the little guy.”

“Just kidding, Trev! We were playing a joke on you. We just arrived.”

Trevor’s face lit up like a firework. Hope lost was hope restored. He wore the face of hope. We all played laser tag. Trevor got more points than his big brother Jackson. (I got the most points I might add.)

Ancient Israel, too, had such high hope. Hope of a God-promised, glorious future, but that hope was ground into the hot dust of exile and life under successive oppressive powers. ”O come, O come, Immanuel and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here…” Immanuel came. Hope had a face. The face of Jesus. Jesus fell asleep, too. But woke up Easter morning. He is now our living hope. “Even so come quickly, Lord Jesus.”

Like seeing a flash of lightning from the corner of our eye, it’s easy to miss. So much thunder and wind in Romans 1 that we pay scant attention to this quick little burst: “…nor gave thanks to him…” (Romans 1:21). Its brevity does not diminish its impact. I don’t want to ever get struck by lightning.

Right out of the shute when human rebellion occurred, thanksgiving ceased with its twin “glorifying God.” Here it is: For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened (Romans 1:21). No glory, no gratitude. These two are joined at the heart.

In our increasingly entitlement culture, thanksgiving is fading fast. “You owe me” is quickly replacing “Thank you.” Even towards God. Just learn the magic “health and wealth” prayer words and, cha-ching! God (allegedly) spits money like the slots at Vegas. And repeatedly shouting “GLOW-REE! in the name of Jeeeezzzus!” with all this idiocy going on doesn’t redeem it one bit. Frankly, it’s sickening.

Ingratitude: the new cool

Nor gave thanks to him. We think, “No big whoop.” Ingratitude seems to be the new cool. Did you see the America’s Funniest Videos when the little kid opened his Christmas present and got really angry because it wasn’t what he wanted? That’s a clear snapshot of all of us at times.

Nor gave thanks to him. Somehow I imagine the heart of God breaking and deeply aching when Paul penned those few words. Rebellious humans marginalized God by not glorifying him. That is sheer human lunacy. And then we add insult to injury, we trample on him and his gifts which sustain us. Nor gave thanks to him. Who created the air we breathe, the water we drink, the food we eat, the people we love, the very life we live? God did. With just a wink of his watchful eye, we could cease to be. Out of God’s mind, out of existence. So, how arrogant, how prideful is ingratitude?

Thanks be to God

Thanks be to God. Can we say it too much? I imagine God delights in a gracious, thankful human life. Perhaps to glorify God is a choice and to give God thanks is the expression of that choice. Without that prior choice, it’s like hearing a mother saying to her trick-or-treating child, “Now, what do you say to the nice person? C’mon, what do you say?” Forced gratitude is an oxymoron.

I am looking forward to being with family and friends this Thanksgiving. Surrounded by so those I love and a life to enjoy–all of it traceable ultimately to God with every heartbeat being a gift and every breath a bonus–my only right, dare I say, sane, response is “Thanks be to God!”

Happy Thanksgiving!

IMPORTANT UPDATE!

My friend and very capable web master, Jeremy Bouma, found and fixed a computer glitch in the OUT OF PRINT: A NOVEL website.

You may have tried to purchase the book on-line and the system failed. I am sorry that happened. All is in good order now.  All is in, good…order now.

You can purchase this book for $10.00 online. In bookstores it is $12.99.

Julie and I and Julie’s mother, Lois, just returned from a short trip to the great State of Tennessee. We visited Julie’s sister, Diane, and her family in Nashville. Diane is the Administrative Assistant to Mike Glenn, the pastor of Brentwood Baptist Church. Diane’s husband, Larry Mayfield, is known for his many original contributions to Christian music. One evening we ate and laughed with the growing Mayfield clan–Jonathan and Grace, Jeff and Kristin and Austin and Zachary, and Shelley, the VW bug-driving diva.  

Julie and I also visited my mother and step-father, Margaret and Neal Parrish, in Linden, TN. We kicked back and enjoyed good country food, some of which we got right out of the garden. We launched into many leisurely conversations, reminiscing about life together. Neal’s recipe for grilled short ribs is out of this world. I learned the secret…and I’m not telling. We drove part of the Natchez Trace, one of the most beautiful partk highways in the continental United States.  

Tennessee overall is a beautiful state with a rich history and breath-taking terrain.

We’re back in Michigan. Whoopee.