One size may NOT fit all... Something that I'm thinking about on Easter Saturday.

Like many Christian clerics on Easter Saturday, I am reviewing tomorrow’s sermon.  What do I say to the folks on Easter Sunday?  What challenge, what comfort, what truth do I strive to lay bare… what inspiration to Transformation dare I offer to the faithful who come every Sunday (or 3 Sundays a month, anyway) and how do I combine it with a message to those who will be there under duress  (you promised that you’d come to church with me this Easter!     

No Easter Egg hunt until after church!       

Maybe, I should go just to be safe…)?

Old School? New School? Out of School? 

This year, as with many years, I have some media features trying to shape my narrative – a national magazine wondering if Jesus really existed and another colleague featured in interviews decrying the stupidity of the “Old Man in the Sky” and professing to know that most clergy are in agreement with her position, just lacking in courage and support.

Allow me this confession – I am progressive.  I am personally persuaded by what most would call Process Theology.  I am in agreement with Gretta Vosper on many many points.  Not all – but many.  One might say that I am in “Essential Agreement” with her, but still end up in another place entirely.  (United Church clergy inside joke).  I have no reservation seeking personal wisdom or relying on the compassion of many of my Non-Theist and Atheist friends in a time of crisis.   But, I still want my Jesus.

I still adhere to a discreet Divine presence in the universe (throughout the universes, even) that inspires me toward justice and beauty, that loves me and persuades me in all aspects of my life.  I pray and I think that it matters; I hurt and I believe that I am not alone, even when nobody knows about my pain.  That’s me.  I also find that the teachings and the event of Jesus connect to me on all levels of my being: Intellectual, Spiritual, Emotional and even, Physical.   That’s me.  

Enough about me. 

   (egad! I barely know how to type that sentence)

Here are the two things that struck me today, as I was reviewing my notes for tomorrow.

1.      My Great Grandmother has a framed picture on her wall declaring that: “God couldn’t be everywhere, so He created mothers”.     It was likely a gift from one of her many children, but it also matched her theology:  A theology that wouldn’t have lasted 5 minutes in seminary.  She was the kind of woman who sang “In the Garden” quite happily and had no doubt that Jesus walked with her, talked with her and called her his own…. Rather like a boyfriend.

How arrogant would I need to be to run back from Seminary and tell her that her faith was wrong… that it couldn’t stand up to real critical thinking and that it would not be sufficient to carry her through her life? A life in which she raised 7 children and even more grandchildren; buried loved ones, both adult and child; created a life with her husband and community that touched more people than I have touched in 25 years of Easter Sermons.  Hers was a faith inspired her to be kind and compassionate, understanding of the failures of others and unafraid to live even to the very end of her life (and beyond). 

I read Tillich and Moltmann; reveled in Whitehead and Cobb; worked through Calvin and found light and joy in De Chardin, discovered Von Balthazar and rarely put down Hall… I could enumerate most (if not all) of the things that were wrong with her silly hymns and ridiculous wall hanging..  

And I haven’t lived a life half as loving or nearly as authentic as was hers.  

Faith is meant to embrace us, it fits us and inspires us… it is not a “once size fits all” reality and just because you may wear a size 2 is no reason to insist that my size 14 is unhealthy or wrong.   It just fits me better.

2.      Back in the late 18^th century, Residential Schools for “Indians” were opened in Canada.  We closed the last one in the late 20^th century.  For two centuries it was our policy to give these Native people what they needed to live in the world as we imagined the world.  We knew that their ideas were silly and not realistic (imagine living on the back of a Turtle)… we knew that their language would never say anything meaningful in world dominated by English and French. We knew that their faith wouldn’t be enough for the real challenges of the “modern” world… so, we insisted that they learn English or French for their own good;  that they accept Jesus Christ as their Saviour and come to know the God of Abraham, the one true God, for their own peace and salvation.   And because we were so convinced that this was the right thing to do, we took away their language and rituals, we forbid any talk of their out-dated faith… we insisted that they talk and believe as we did, we wrested them from their families so that there would be no going back – after all, they were wrong and in our superior thinking we were so very right.

I am not suggesting that Non-Theists, Atheists or A-Theists are running residential schools – that would be an incredible disservice to those whose lives were lost and devastated; whose culture was almost murdered… but I would remind myself and other progressive thinkers and preachers that our arrogance can sometimes takes us down paths that we may not have intended, or certainly would not have chosen had we the privilege of foresight, or the wisdom of hindsight. 

  Your faith might be perfect for you… it might even be objectively “right”; so, too, might your culture and language be perfect, even “right”… but before you insist that others abandon their rituals, language and beliefs; give up their comfort and familiarity... think about my Great Grandmother and consider he truth of the Residential Schools with which we now struggle to reconcile. 

Please, be ready for the questions and the growth as it comes to be – allow people to let go and hold on as they choose, strive to find a common language or at least a way that we can speak together without insisting that either side stop talking their native tongue... but don’t for a moment imagine that you’ve got it all figured out…because one day, you might realize that a size 8 is a way better fit than you imagined. 

Living in a world gone mad

For the moment, we’ll pretend that it hasn’t been over 7 months since I last wrote.  

Join the ranks of my parents, friends and earliest sweethearts to whom I have often provided the gift of opportunities for forgiveness.   Perhaps, in a later missive, I will explain myself.

For now… let us thank Donald Trump for motivating this current phillipic. 

 (we’ll wait while you google it…)  

Actually, I’m being somewhat misleading.  1.  This blog will not be particularly “fiery”.  

2.  There is NOTHING for which to thank Donald Trump.  

Ever. 

And Ever. (Amen).  

But he has got me thinking.  

What does one do when one discovers that he/she is living in a Reality Television show?  Because that’s how I feel as I watch the surrealist theatre and listen to the rhetoric of the Presidential Primaries in the U.S.    Can I simply swear at Gordon Ramsay and turn in my apron? Refuse to shower and get voted off Big Brother?  Is there any way that I can beg the Tribe to speak or simply dance away from the stars?

It seems not. 

This show will not turn off - like “Two Broke Girls” or “Saved by the Bell” no matter how poor the writing, acting or embarrassing the situations, it’s always on!

Living in a world where public figures re-write history on a whim (Donald Trump’s business acumen; Hillary Clinton’s lionizing of Nancy Reagan and her support for people with Aids; when Bewitched brought in a new Darren) I find myself wondering what to do when the nuts are in charge.  How does one live in the midst of evil, stupidity or just plain wrong-headedness?   I respect democracy and I have bought into the idea that the majority have the right to determine their shared future – but how does one live quietly in the midst of those who have been fooled or hoodwinked; lack the capacity or information to make an informed and just decision?  

Do I just grin and go along with it?

As teenagers, sitting in school cafeterias or basement recrooms we would often profess that, had we the ability to time travel, the first that thing that we would do is go back and assassinate Hitler before his rise to power.  We knew most assuredly that the best way to deal with evil was to kill it before it could spread.  However, with commitments to life, justice, the rule of law and the priority of democracy, I have to confess that I would be unlikely to assassinate anyone.  

(I had always believed that there we only two assassination attempts on Hitler, but having recently been informed that there were as many as 47, I’m beginning to wonder if some or my teen age friends haven’t figured out how to time travel and are simply bad a assassination) 

Of course, I could just bitch, moan and post constantly on Facebook how funny, stupid, useless or disappointing everything is.  But, much like my plans to assassinate Hitler, I would like leave my teenage attitudes and practices behind me.  

(Seriously… how ‘bout we give the new Prime Minister a little more than 6 months to fix everything that needs fixing and stop blaming him for looking good in a suit?)

So, what am I supposed to do?

I’ve ruled out assassination.

I’m trying to let go of whining.

I don’t want to live angry.

I’m not moving to Iceland.

French’s Ketchup aside, I’m not convinced that yelling and screaming at the Parliament Buildings, a Trump Rally or Loblaws is really going to affect much change in me or in the world.  But I can’t do nothing, can I?

This Sunday, the Sunday before Easter, most churches will be commemorating the Palm Sunday parade of Jesus.  And thinking about it, has inspired me and will help to inform how I will live in a Trump World… and you may live in a Trudeau world…. How we can live together in a world where we may not be entirely “at home” living with idiots. 

Historically, it is likely that Jesus' little parade happened on the day of or very close to the time of larger parades.  Parades that celebrated the Roman Empire; a least one parade that would have been notable for horses, chariots, loud noises, big crowds and raucous cheers in the name of Rome.  A reason for celebration, but also a reminder to the local folks as to who was in charge, and how they would deal with unrest and disobedience.  It’s all cheers and balloons, unless you step out of line and then these same horses, chariots and soldiers could be turned on you.  

Having been born and raised in Southern Ontario, I’ve never been to parade that frightened me or carried any undertones of violence in my mind – but go to the Airshow with some Refugees some time and you may see a very different reaction to the spectacle of military jets flying overhead in formation.

In the face of this militaristic, double speak world of violence and Empire, Jesus cannot remain silent.  However, he does not go to the parade and throw tomatoes… he does not scream “Fascist” and speculate as to the size of Pilate’s penis (thank you Republican Presidential hopefuls for raising the bar so high…)  He simply lives and presents an alternative.   He puts on another parade at the other end of the city… one with a donkey (or two) and people throwing clothes and waving palms.  There are no clowns, no banners,  no horses, no chariots or soldiers; there is no military or commercial might on display whatsoever.., instead, a parade of people cheering and crying out “Hosanna”.  An alternative to Empire; an appeal to God and peace, hope and love… a simple act that doesn’t dazzle or manipulate, but provides another way.  Kind of like the first the best of Pride Parades. 

images may appear whiter than likely... or even, possible.

I think that this will be my best way forward should I find myself a minority awash in a sea of idiots… or a morally responsible person in the midst of a world gone mad.  I will live and demonstrate an alternative to corrupt privilege of those who rule. I work diligently at loving the stranger, opening my hands and heart to those in need, I will seek peace rather than victory, I will pray rather than deride, I will keep doing what it right and trust God… and I will have a parade - many parades! I will make visible my choices, so that others may be inspired to come out of the shadows and live authentically, even if it is not endorsed by the majority;  I will live and parade in loving opposition to the “common sense” choices of the masses.   And maybe, just maybe… someone will recognize that “Hosanna” actually means “save us”… and our daring to hold true to what is just and loving will eventually be enough to change "common sense" and save us all.

Or we all move to Iceland. http://www.iceland.is/

Jesus Calms the Storm, David takes on Goliath and I try to figure out what to do after the murders at Emmanuel AME Church.

I don't often blog sermons.  (it makes it impossible to repeat them!)  But this is an exception.  On Sunday with Baptisms, Father's Day, Summer Solstice,  Pride Week and Aboriginal Sunday all deserving liturgical attention, it was the murder of nine men and women at Emmanuel AME Church in South Carolina that could not be ignored...   So, I spoke about racism and my part and complicity in it at the beginning of the service and I preached.   I publish because on Monday morning, I found 11 requests for the text of my sermon.  I don't know if it's any good... I can see many "preaching" flaws, but it is sincere and it's the best that I had to offer yesterday. 

To put this in context -  I began the sermon by putting on a kettle… in the early part of the sermon, as I spoke the water heated… and then came to a boil, even as I was coming to a boil.  I then stopped and  made a cup of tea.   I was inspired by some words that Brian Nicholson shared from Joyce Rupp about cups, warmth and tea, at a meeting earlier in the week.

The Gospel and the Hebrew Scriptures that were read will be obvious as my words unfold – but for reference they were Mark 4:35-41; 1Samuel 17:32-49

Here is close to what was preached

It’s been a tough week… and a busy day.  If you don’t mind, I’m going to put the kettle on – I feel like tea.

So Jesus was on the boat.  And there was a storm… a big storm… wind blowing, waves crashing against the side of the boat… the Apostles were hanging one for dear life… sure that at any moment they would capsize;  like any of us would be, they were terrified.

Jesus was napping.

As if he wasn’t worried at all.

Finally, they wake him… and they plead with him… Help us!

Although he will chide them for their lack of faith,  he still calms the storm.   Whoosh!  It’s over.   The wind is gone, the waves have disappeared;  the sea is calm and still.

And if you went to Sunday School or Seminary with me, you know that this moment in scripture shows that Jesus and God are one with all of Creation.  God is not separate or divorced from the elements; from creation… it’s not just we who are in communion or relationship with God:  All of creation is in relationship with God- because even the storm obeys Jesus. Get it?

Cool.   Jesus is like one of the Xmen or an Avenger… an awesome superhero who has great power and is clearly worthy of my cheers and adulation.  Probably a lot better than your non- Christian God. 

But, here’s the thing.    I had a friend who got sick and he died…it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right…  why didn’t Jesus stop that?   Nine people were praying together in church – they were nice, good people… and they were shot and killed… why didn’t he stop that?  

I love the story… but I don’t need a Jesus who can stop the storm – I need one who can stop bullets… I need a God who can stop racism… put an end to hatred… stop me when I’m being part of the problem and refusing to be part of the solution…. 

I get so angry… and upset… and hurt… and angry again… and it all begins to storm inside me…  Mother Emanuel Church… Residential Schools… War in Afghanistan, Nigeria…  injustice  in Ferguson, in Baltimore, in my own city… teenage victims of violence, child criminals…    It boils up inside of me…it roils up…  it becomes a storm…

{STOP and pour boiling water for tea.}

Did you ever have a friend who would offer you tea when the world makes no sense?  I don’t even like tea all that much… but sometimes… I need a cup.

A cup of tea… slows me down… warms me up…brings calm…  and suddenly the story of Jesus in the boat begins to make sense.  It’s not about a superhero who controls the weather… it’s the observation that the presence of God, that deep abiding faith can calm storms…  like a cup of tea…  faith warms you… right  - to the core…And it really does slow things down (you can’t have instant tea).

When I think of the storms of my life and I have had a couple… it was my faith that warmed me, slowed me down and carried me through.  My faith in God… God’s presence in my struggle…. God’s presence in the struggles of the world…   My trust that Jesus doesn’t do party tricks, he speaks, reveals and embodies truth.  So when I’m lost or confused, I stop and listen for the words of Jesus… I pray and I wonder, “What do I do next?  Where is God leading me?”

Those moments when my hurt was so profound that it made my whole body ache and my mind and heart were just swirling and making no sense… I remind myself that I believe in God…that I am beloved… that I am  enmeshed  in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ… and I can almost hear God speaking to me:  Be still… I am with you… you are not alone… I love you.  And in the next moment, I know that I will survive…. the storm inside and around me is calmed.

{STOP take tea out… and sip from here on…}

You know the thing about tea?  When you put it in a cup, you don’t have grab the handle…you can grab the cup itself and feel the warmth … and  you can hold the cup and offer the handle to someone else.  And you can give them calm…  give them perspective… it’s not just your faith that gets you through the storms… it can also be the faith of another.

I don’t know about you but as the news broke and the media followed the story of the murders at Emmanuel Church in Charleston,  I was storming… I was angry and I was devastated,  I cried;  I got more angry.   I started to feel hopeless:  Because this will never end; things will never improve… racism and violence will always a find a way to destroy what is beautiful.  My faith just wasn’t carrying me this time, the storm raged and I could do nothing about it…   and then I heard the families of the victims speak to the man who had murdered their loved ones  (you likely heard it, too)  and they prayed for him; they spoke words of forgiveness, they refused to give into the anger that was storming in me.  And their faith began to calm my storm.  In their faith – not mine  - I recognized the presence of God… I heard the hope… and I began to believe that we can be better… we can come through this…  In their faith, mine was restored.  

This morning, I come to you with my faith restored… and also aware  that at times, I have been that cup of tea for someone else…it’s been my faith that others have relied on to get through the struggle and the storm:  At the death of a loved one; in the midst of destruction; in the absence of hope… some people have asked me directly- How can you believe? How can I believe?? Others have silently implored with their eyes, their tears, their shaky hands: How can I have faith when everything has fallen apart?   I’ve never had great words of theology or philosophy… but I have held some hands… I have sat and cried… I have hugged…I have prayed… I remember once just sitting and singing old hymns…  and I have shown my faith more than explained ed.  I have been told later how important my presence was… how it calmed the storm.

And I bet you have, too.   (it’s not something for which  I have a unique ability)

Each of us has the ability to share the love and presence of God… each of us can calm the storms for others… And in fact, in our baptism, we have taken on the responsibility of allowing that Divine Presence to flow through us to those in need… we have committed to being cups of tea.   But there is a trick… or a precondition to doing properly. 

To be the one who shares that cup of tea… the one who calms the storm… we have to be who we are authentically.  We have to be truly ourselves… which means that I will share and BE God’s presence differently from you… I may use humour… I will hug… I will sigh and probably cry…I will share my kind of wisdom and compassion… that’s me.  Given my privilege in this time and space,  I will try to make things better in this world by letting go of some of my privilege and making space for others to grow and lead, to find space at the table where decisions are made and all people are fed… I can do that and I can do it authentically.

You see that’s what David and Goliath is all about for me… or at least part of what it is all about. 

Goliath is a Giant.   He terrifies all of the armies of Israel.  He cannot be defeated.  David is small… like me in the face of great evil or darkness.    But David’s faith brings him to volunteer to take on the Goliath... he somehow believes that he can vanquish the giant …win the battle and calm the storm for the Israelites.  Eventually he wins the approval of King Saul (not like there was anybody else eager to go into battle).  Naturally, the King is appreciative, if dubious, and  wants to show David how to do it; equip him for the battle.  And so,  he dresses him in his armour.  The King is larger than the boy shepherd, so his helmet engulfs David’s head… his breast plate hangs low on the youth’s body… his sword all but tips David over… it’s good armour, but it doesn’t fit and it ISN’T DAVID!    David is a shepherd…  he has his own way of doing things; ways that may not be familiar to the King or the rest of the army, but ways that can be effective.  David refuses to be somebody that he is not; refuses to wear the armour that is not authentically his… he puts them aside and claims his own authentic self and is then able to win the battle… to reveal God’s presence powerfully for Israel.

You have to be you.  I have to be me.  If we can all be who God created us to be… who we are joyously destined to be… then God’s presence; God’s love can abound… literally flow through us all.  But we have to be who we truly are.

That’s why we celebrate Pride Week and our identity as an Affirming Church – to encourage all members of the LGBTQ community and beyond to be authentically who they are… to affirm that their love and their lives are sacred and God’s love and presence flows through them…

That’s why we repent and need to work at making reparations for our role in the Residential Schools, where children were taught, coerced and forced to be other than they were created to be.  We forced them to give up their culture, their identity and personhood… and in doing so, we precluded them from being able to fully share God’s love and presence… even with the best of intentions, we tried to stop God from shining through these precious lives.

That’s one of the great tragedies of racism… we try to force people to be other than who they are created to be… we refuse to recognize them for who they are… and we shut down God.   We pour that precious cup of tea into the sink…

But it needn’t always be so.   I heard words of love and hope spoken through tears this week; I recognized the presence of God in what I thought was utter darkness.  And if that can happen in Charleston, South Carolina,  it can happen here.  If I can hear and feel the presence of God in the words of another then I can be the presence of God to others… and so can you.

I can release my privilege and make room at the table for others… I can love all of my brothers and sisters; confront my own racism and bigotry – be it large or small…. I can confront it lovingly with my neighbours and family…   and I can… you can… actually change the world, so that all people can who they were created to be: authentic, loving and unafraid.

But along the way…I’m going to need a few more cups of tea… a few more storms will need to be calmed… but right now, I have no doubt that someone will hand me a cup of tea..  and Jesus will wake up and calm the storm

Thanks be to God.  

Please, Pray for your Pastor. Or Don't.

So, I got one of those messages on Social Media the other day… they come around from time to time:  Pray for Your Pastor.

And then it goes on to list some terrible statistics (without attribution).

97% of pastors have been betrayed, falsely accused or hurt by their friends

70% of pastors battle depression

7,000 churches close each year

1,500 pastors quit each month

10% will retire a pastor

80% of pastors feel discouraged

94% of pastor’s families feel the pressure of  ministry

78%  of pastor’s have no close friends

90% of pastors report working 55-75 hours per week.

And so apparently, we need your prayers.

Let me begin by commenting on how much I am bothered by statistics without attribution.  Was this survey done in 2014 or 1345? How large was the sample?  Was it across Denominations or were only the leaders of the Latvian Orthodox Church included?  But enough of that... let's assume that the numbers reflect a reality for many pastors/leaders in the mainline churches of North America

Let me also say that there are pastors, ministers, priest and other clergy who have been badly treated by systems that often seem un-caring, congregations that are fickle, and some generally rotten people out there in the world.   

But to claim a special burden because we are pastors only serves to exacerbate the problem of clergy isolation as it encourages us to believe that the world is out to get us.

Look at the numbers closely and wonder how many of  those same numbers might also apply to teachers… betrayed, depressed, under pressure, working 55 hours a week or more… given a degree but no job, made redundant every year because cut backs don’t allow more hiring, shown little respect by the public and targets of the hostility of many a parent who just doesn't understand  that their kid is nasty and not that bright.

Let’s wonder about accountants who get called at home by clients who need answers, audits and forms done right now!!  Never mind dealing with an uncaring CRA that changes rules and regulations at whim.

Nurses who face cuts backs, depression, long hours and unsympathetic work places.

Retail workers whose place of employment folds without warning.  

I have friends with PhDs who can’t get full time appropriately remunerated work – I’ll bet that  leads to discouragement, depression, pressure on the family and makes it hard to keep close friends.

Let’s take almost any profession… and  recognize that there is very little job security in 2015.  Very few people will retire in the job that they started in their thirties; very few people will avoid “betrayal” in life or work; everybody feels discouraged from time to time and the families of nearly all working adults feel the pressure of the work/career of the parent or spouse.

No close friends?  Is that really the churches fault?  Maybe the problem is that you’re working 75 hours a week… Don’t!

You see many of us, in a desire to be everything to everybody; to feel valued and loved ,will bend over backwards to please everybody in our ministry… and that is a formula for burn-out and self-destruction, whether you are in ministry or shoe sales; a cleric or an office worker.  At least pastors get to talk about setting boundaries, even if they don't or find it difficult to apply them. 

Let me suggest a few other things peculiar to pastors that others might wish they could include in their work/call/vocation/contract

1.       People line up every week to tell you what a good job you did – even if you didn’t.

2.      When someone dies, you know what to do… you actually have a role to play while others are stuck in their grief with nothing to do

3.      You get invited to a lot of wedding receptions: Free Food and Bar!

4.      You are invited into fascinating conversations on a regular basis and don’t have continually comment on the performance of the Blue Jays or new season of House of Cards

5.      You can take a break to play the piano during the work day and people respect  that you are being creative.

6.      During the work week you get to help the homeless, visit the sick, support young people and engage in Social Justice… while everybody else has to do those things in whatever time they can spare away from work and family obligations.

7.      People think that you work about 75 hours a week so usually leave you alone the weeks before and after Easter and Christmas (that’s almost a whole month).

8.      You get 7 weeks away from work every year and your employer pays for it.

9.      The church pays your phone bill.

10.   As you remind others, you are reminded daily that God is with you and that you are not in any of this alone.

11.  Every week your efforts are made real in music, word and art.  For me, that sure beats selling cars.

12.  Pension.  Yeah… we may complain about it – but we get one… I know millions who wish that they did, too.

For me, all in all, being a pastor is a pretty good deal.   It is hard at times and I suspect that most people couldn't do what I do on a full time basis – but I knew that when I responded to my sense of call.  I knew that my weekends would be forever ruined, I would not often get to go away to the cottage spontaneously; I knew that I would often see people at their worst and not be protected from pettiness and power mongering; I knew that strangers would occasionally blame me for God and all of the church’s failings; I knew that I would spend a great deal of time with people who are dying and/or grieving;  and I knew that I would change jobs half a dozen times before I got my pension  (apparently the generation just entering the work force now can expect to have no fewer than 15 jobs before they retire… in keeping with the inspiration for this post, I will offer NO attribution.)

I’m not saying that pastors don’t have a right to complain, many of them do, but insecurity, difficulty and struggle are not unique features to the pastors role… they are the realities for many (even most) people.  

So, please, pray for you pastor…

and your  Check Out Clerk

Store Manager

Assistant Manager

Officer Worker

Restaurant server

Teacher

Principal

Mechanic

Nurse

Paramedic

Police officer

Firefighter

Accountant

Retailer

Small business owner

IBM Project Manager

Musician

Actor

GM Worker

Social worker

Politician

Aesthetician

Butter and Egg man  (there’s a profession that’s disappearing)

You get the picture:  Pray for us all. 

I'm a Racist

I’m a racist.

I know that I haven’t written anything in ages (busy church, busy life) and that such a statement is a bit of a harsh way back into conversation with folks… but it needed to be said.

I am a racist.

I don’t want to be.

I don’t mean to be.

But the truth is that  words sound wiser in my ears when they come from a voice that sounds like my Grandfather.  

I listen more closely when the face sharing the message reminds me of my Grandmother.  

I tend towards foods that remind me of my Great Grandmother or the culinary heritage of my ancestors. 

I dance better to the rhythms of my childhood.  

My favourite games are the ones that I played with my parents.

Things that remind me of my childhood make me feel safe and comfortable.  

And all of these things make me tend toward my “Tribe” and similar “Tribes”.   I laugh at Irish jokes because I recognize the references and I will often think that other jokes aren't as funny because I am less familiar with their references and rhythms.   

I understand and support solutions that come from my cultural heritage and sound familiar to me.  I know that the best way to fix something is to find a good clever and strong man who will enforce his will for justice on the bad man.  I've learned that from my cultural reading list that begins with the Odyssey, carries on through our “Victory” in World War II and is found in movies like Dirty Harry and The Avengers.   I've been taught by well-meaning people that I should aspire to being good, clever and strong so that I can apply my solution to people’s problems and in that way, love them and make the world better.

That kind of tribalism makes me a racist and a bigot.

Not because I think that other races, cultures or groups are lesser – but because I simply do not give them equal weight when it comes time to listening, embracing or acting.  “Their” way just seems so backward. I give power and privilege to the familiar... sort of an "old boys network" of procedures and ethics. 

I am a cisgendered, heterosexual, man in his early fifties, descended from Irish and Scottish immigrants,  employed full time, and in a stable domestic relationship.  All of which speaks of privilege. (just to be clear, I also cheer for Toronto Sports teams, so it’s not like I’ve got everything going my way).  There are some in the same or similar cohort who want to deny the privilege that we have – but I suspect that much like climate change, we say we don’t believe it simply because we don’t know how to deal with the implications or how to make things better.  One cannot look at the evidence and rationally deny the existence of Climate Change or Racism.

 Yes, I have heard that “white men” can’t get jobs because they all go to “minorities.  (Please note, those who crow this sentiment and include women in the group “minorities” – women are actually in majority, so you are the minority seeking work.)  I have never experienced my person as a liability in finding employment.  I did lose an election once because, apparently, they were looking for a younger voice. That’s not unfair… that was a preference expressed by an informed majority.

I have the privilege of travelling and I have never been held up by airport officials with the exception of one extra baggage check during which the security officers were polite and apologized for taking up my time.

I have been questioned, detained investigated by police.  They have always taken my word when asked to explain myself, always treated me with polite respect, even when one officer thought that I was trying to be uncooperative. 

When I offer assistance to a stranger in the street, it is nearly always accepted and received with thanks.

When I am confused or lost in public, people are always helpful.

Now, all of this could be because of my striking good looks and obviously winning personality… 

or, more likely, it could be that in Toronto 2015, my cohort is in very good standing.  We are not terrorists, anarchists, bitches, immigrants, freeloader, petty criminals, violent thugs, or stupid outsiders – as least as far as public perception goes.

So, why am I dumping this on you, gentle reader?

For the past week or so, I've been stunned into shocked silence by the Earthquake that has devastated Katmandu and I have been equally stunned and shocked by the death of Freddie Gray and the ensuing public demonstrations.  I've sent some money to Nepal to aid in the relief… but I’m not sure what to do for Baltimore.

Except recognize the deep problem and try to at least be less of a contributor. 

What happened in Baltimore and continues to happen in cities and towns across North America is a result of racism. Like Climate Change: I know it, you know it… we just don’t know what to do, so we deny it, or simply shut up.

So, I may not be in time to stop the next black man or child from being assaulted, abused or murdered by the authoritarian system that I support (at least tacitly) – but maybe, I can start to do something that might save the somebody 150 people down the line.  I've

got to start somewhere.

I start by acknowledging that I tend to the familiar and I am most comfortable in my “tribe” – be it defined by race, culture, economics, gender, sexuality, age or something else.  And I commit myself to broadening – to opening up my tribe.  I do that by listening… by following… by praying…

I commit to not so much using my privilege as letting it go.  The world keeps offering me privilege and every time that I fix things “my way”, I get to be the hero and the power and privilege stay with me. Others are invited to look on in gratitude.   I need to let that go and NOT fix everything, but listen to other voices, support solutions that may not make immediate sense to me… I need to hear the voices and respect the opinions of those who are oppressed – rather than comparing their oppression to mine or denying their painful reality.   

And in this, I will begin to open my eyes, my ears and my heart to others.. I will open up my tribe so that one day, I just might recognize everyone as a brother or sister; might agree, disagree, struggle, collaborate in active love, not privileged charity… and maybe, I will recognize that a revolution is possible (as soon as we stop calling them all rioters).

Maybe one day, I will help my government take the needs of First Nations seriously.

Maybe one day, I will help my community be open to immigration.

Maybe one day, I will help my neighbour recognize that brilliant and free people do wear a hijab.

Maybe one day, I will be against violence without having to choose sides. 

Maybe one day, a bad police officer will be arrested immediately and we won't need to consider his or her colour

Maybe one day, I will be informed by the wisdom of elders that weren't at family dinners.

Maybe one day, I will be changed by you...

These thoughts are far from complete… but then, so am I.   But I’m working on it… And for those who might wonder if there’s anything religious in this… it is Jesus, who eats with tax collectors and Samaritans, who reminds me that I need to open up my understanding of tribe and it is a loving God who give me hope that we might all recognize our shared humanity and truly be brothers and sisters to one another. 

No Sex Ed, please... we're from Ontario!

Just thinking off the top of my head… about a new sex education curriculum in Ontario.

7 points...  Which are not necessarily the views of my Church, my congregation or even the majority of my friends (although they might be).  Just me thinking with a keyboard in front of me...

1.      It is the duty of the opposition to “oppose” programs and policies put forth by the Government, so I have no problem with the Tories pushing back.  However, opposition should be free of personal attacks.  I will note that the most blatant bit of attack innuendo blew up in MPP McNaughton’s face.  McNaughton:  “it’s not the premier of Ontario’s job — especially Kathleen Wynne — to tell parents what is age-appropriate for their children.”  

Wynne: “What is it that especially disqualifies me for the job that I’m doing? Is it that I’m a woman? Is it that I’m a mother? Is it that I have a master’s of education? Is it that I was a school council chair? Is it that I was the minister of education?” Wynne said in the house, staring down the Tory MPP.

2.       Families should be consulted on changes in curriculum.  However, there is also a time for experts to weigh in and be respected for their expertise.   I have heard more than one person talk about the “Gay Agenda” and the power of suggestion that will make our children “choose” to be gay.  These people are not experts.  I refuse to believe in a “Gay Agenda” mostly because most of my friends in the LGBTQ community can’t agree on anything… from whom to vote for, to theology, public transportation and whether or not Neil Patrick Harris was a good or terrible Oscar Host.   

      And as for sexuality and expression of self, how is that we are still talking about choice?  You do not choose to be a Lesbian, you simply are… it might take time for you to authentically express yourself because of the pressure put on you to conform to a certain “norm” within the community (or family), but you don’t choose to be gay.  Personally, with my love of Musical Theatre, women’s shoes, Judy Garland and Cher, my long association with the Antique business and career in the United Church, do you think that I CHOSE to be heterosexual?   It is who I am, and no amount of "persuasion" is going to change that.  We are who we are… and it’s the people who can’t seem to grasp this reality that underlie the need for a new curriculum.   Maybe, if we were able to broaden or eliminate the definition of “Normal” we could save a lot of very good people a lot pain and suffering.

3.       I've heard it said that we shouldn't allow the State to be in charge of something so personal and important as Sex Education.  I agree completely – that’s why I have never supported prayer in school.  If it is important to you, then pray with your children, don’t leave it to Mr. Weatherby to provide spiritual guidance to your children over the school P.A. system.   If you don’t like the Ontario Sex Education curriculum, then opt out and do a better job at home – that is an option. Take it.

   

However, there are great many parents who do not have the time, the skill or the inclination to take up this task responsibly, so someone’s got to do it – as a matter of public health, at least.

4.       I've heard it said that Grade Three is too young an age to hear about homosexuality.  Really?  

      "But my friend Timmy has two Dads and Rachel has two Moms… and I think that Johnny’s Mom used to be a Dad…  "  

      Should we simply tell them not to worry their pretty little heads over such puzzles until they’re older?  

      

      And never mind the kids who come from Cisgendered Heterosexual parents, what about the kids who come from the variety of family constructs that include same sex couples… should we keep them away from show and tell, force them to make Father’s Day Cards from their Moms and just keep them quiet until they’re old enough to understand the songs of Cole Porter?   I assume that most children, by the time they are in Grade Three, have been exposed to television and probably the internet.  So, they are seeing Tide commercials with gay couples, television shows and characters that present different expressions of family and sexuality, they are meeting transgendered people in the world around them and through media; they might even have a transgendered minister!  We are already trying to explain to little Tiffany why “Anaconda” is not a good choice for the grade three talent show and why Daddy thinks that “Blurred Lines” is a terrible song.  This new curriculum isn't trying to shape the world, it is trying to keep up and prepare our children to live in it happily and responsibly.

5.       This fall, the majority of university under-grad admissions, will have been born in 1997.   

      Think about that for a moment… 1997.   

      Remember, just the other day when Farrah Fawcett was drunk on David Lettermen?  

      Or when Lady Di, died??  

      That was 1997.    

      Since then, same sex marriage (better known as “Equal Marriage”) has become law in Ontario and later, Canada… some believe that was the end of the battle and everything is fine now for Gays and Lesbians… but reported violence against gay and lesbian teens is higher now than it was in 1997; on line bullying of those who might identify themselves as belonging to the LGBTQ community is a horrible phenomenon that we didn't imagine in the pre-FaceBook world.   We need a curriculum that addresses the reality and needs of 2015, not one that still dwells in the late 1990s, even if that does seem like “just yesterday”.

6.       In the past couple of years, whether it’s students of dentistry or frosh-hazing University Seniors, we have seen myriad examples of our education system failing to effectively teach respect for others and for ourselves; we have failed to empower people to say “No” confidently and for others to hear “No” as a viable answer to a proffered question, not a rejection of a them as a whole person.  We will only overcome a "Rape" culture, if we can nurture a "Consent" culture, this curriculum at least recognizes the terms.    

      This curriculum is not perfect; it will not fix all of our woes, but if it educates just one person to the reality that being a lesbian is not a “choice”;  that there is no secret cabal of Gay people pushing an agenda on our society… if it provides on child a moment of relief when he realizes that he is not a freak for feeling the way that he does… if it invites any of our diverse community into a better relationship with an “other”… if it helps to create an environment where we can be who we are and be in respectful, joyful relationships with others…if it keeps one kid from "sexting" a friend...  then it is an improvement over the existing program and I am glad to embrace it.

7.       Finally… it is true that I no longer have children in the system that will be affected by this new curriculum – but I do live in community and those children who are in school today ARE my children: They are and will be my neighbours, my leaders and my care-givers as I get older – so, I have an important investment.

Oh… and for those who think that we should be teaching Math not Masturbation to teens... trust me, they've already made the decision and no curriculum is going to change that. 

Heterodoxy, maybe even Heresy to start the New Year!

The church newsletter went out yesterday... much to my surprise, I have already received numerous requests for a copy of my "Notes from Norm"  Something seems to have hit a chord with my folks... and so, not just because I am too lazy to send copies to all who ask, but also because maybe there's somebody reading my blog for whom this might also strike a chord. 

or not. 

Also, I haven't blogged in over 6 weeks... and I really should have written something. 

So, as my way of multi-tasking, I offer this a response, inspiration and long over-due publication. (WOW, three things a once... if you include me hiding my head in shame for calling this multi-tasking, that's FOUR things at once. )

Without further delay:  

January 4^th, 2015.  It was the first Sunday of a New Year.  I was still recovering from my Man-Flu (formerly Man Cold) as well as the joy and efforts of Christmas at Jubilee and in the Seli family, which involved several extra services, events and a Christmas Dinner that would be the first meal cooked in my son’s new house and would gather my children, parents, sister, niece and nephew, father-in-law and two brother-in-law… as well as my son’s girlfriend who arrived from India three days before.  Did I mention that this was our first time meeting her? Did I mention the Man-Flu?    I mention all of these details perhaps as an excuse… either for what had already happened or what was about to happen. 

I arrived at Jubilee, eager, if not rested, to begin a New Year.  Our first New Year with Music Director Daniel, Drama Wonder Jennine and our ever exuberant intern Étienne.  I was looking forward to singing more Christmas Carols (after all the season extends beyond the day) and celebrating Communion.  There is something special about Communion on the first Sunday of a New Year.  For me, it is a balm to my soul and nerves that have been stretched over Christmas; it is a quiet moment when I sit at table with God and all of Creation and see  holy in the simple and mundane.  It is a moment for recognizing and embracing God’s presence and committing to carrying it with me through the year as it unfolds.

Well… I would love to show you a picture of the beautiful Communion set up that greeted me at 10:15 as I darted into the sanctuary to grab check something with Daniel before the service.

Somehow, in the joy and stress of Christmas time, I had not communicated my dedication to New Year’s Communion… I had not passed on my passion for the Sacrament… I had not requested or checked that Communion be set up for Sunday.  

There was nothing there.

I ran to the kitchen… nothing was being prepared.  I checked the Craft Room where Communion Supplies are stored… nothing was happening.  I checked again and discovered that we had NO bread… NO Grape Juice… and NObody to fix it.

I hung my head, decided to blame my Man-Flu and went back to my office.  I gathered Jennine and Étienne, told them the news and decreed that we would have Communion next week and simply skip over the Communion Prayers in the Order of Service.

It was Jennine who blurted, “Aw c’mon, we can do it!”

“We don’t have any bread” I explained.

“I have some Christmas Cake” said Jennine as she proferred a lovely Christstollen that Pat had given her for Christmas.  I looked at it… it was bread.  And dried fruit, marzipan and powdered sugar.. but I don’t what kind of bread Jesus had at the Last Supper, do you??

Étienne’s enthusiasm was instant (no shock) and Jennine set about to cut up the Christstollen while I found some Fruit Drink, broken cookies (in case we ran out of Christstollen)… prepared one tray of Fruit Drink in tiny cups, and unceremoniously put the proceeds of our efforts on the Communion Table along with our usual Cup and Plate.

As the service proceeded, I adapted the prayers and change the focus of the service so that we might recognize the order that God brings out of chaos; the hope when everything seems to be falling apart; the promise that God continues to act in the world and in our less than perfect lives.   It seemed to connect.

Of course, I would never want my Seminary, nor the folks that ordained me to see what transpired that cold January morning.  There was no elegance to the table, we did not have the “proper” elements for celebrating Communion – recalling that Jesus broke the bread and declared “This is my body broken for you” I snapped a chocolate chip cookie in twain and hoped that no one would laugh. As people received the “body” of Christ, Étienne reminded them that “Jesus is sweet”.   The Fruit Drink was ridiculously sweet and very, very bright.  As we had no extra servers, Jennine, Étienne and I served everybody as they came down in one line down the centre aisle, necessitating a fair bit of weaving, cutting around behind and in front and much less efficiency than our usual practice.  And some kids tried for seconds (some succeeded).

Not dignified.

Not orderly.

Probably not really official.

And yet… having only one tray of small cups, I watched many people choose to dip in the large cup, even if they would normally have taken a small cup, because they wanted to make sure that would be enough for everybody  (we had one small cup left after everybody had been served) – simple kindness.  I saw people being patient with each other as soft collisions necessarily took place.  I got engaged in discussion during coffee about whether what we had just done was Orthodox, Heterodox or Heresy… and I heard many people talking about the experience.  How often do we stop to talk about Communion??

But more than that, I felt the presence of God in our sanctuary that morning.  As badly as we did it; as heretical as our practice may have been… it was holy.

As we did our best; made do with what we had available, God was present to make up the difference.  What a great way to start the New Year!

It has struck me since that this is something that happens at Jubilee quite often: We take what we have, we put it out in our imperfect way to the community

               and God is present. 

At Community Table.

At Ulterior Worship

At Labyrinth Walks

At Bible Study

At Living the Questions Discussions

At Youth and Children’s programs

At Baptism and Communion.

As collect food and clothing for our brothers and sisters in need.

As we try to support our friends at Eva’s Place and the Massey Centre

As we try to welcome the stranger who comes through our doors for the first time.

In all that we do… God is present.

I would invite you to be similarly inspired and recognize that even though you don’t know what to do from time to time; even though you may not be perfect… you have the promise that God is present and will make up the difference.

Don’t know what to say to a friend who has lost a loved one?  You don’t have to an expert, offer what you have with sincerity… say the wrong thing if you must…but know that it doesn’t rest on you alone, like our January Communion, God will make up the difference.

Have a thought about God or a question about Jesus but don’t know how to phrase it? Don’t want to sound foolish or be wrong?  Remember the January Communion, say what you’re thinking and feeling, you don’t have to be a graduate theologian (nobody likes them anyway)  - dare to speak and let God make up the difference.

Afraid to take on a project or a task in the community, at work, at Jubilee?  You don’t have to be an Engineer or an experienced planner… offer your imperfect Christstollen and remember our January Communion and expect people to collide gently, respond politely and engage in the imperfection with love… and trust God to make up the difference.

What started out as a disaster and then became a great risk, proved to be a highlight of a New Year and a wonderful reminder of what happens when we do the best with what we have and trust in God to make up the difference…. Not just a Jubilee, but in life, as well.

Norm.

No doubt, there will be typos and errors of grammar in this - 

but I am trusting in you to overlook them… and God to make up the difference.

A Story for Christmas

Steve was getting ready for the Family Christmas... like always.

All of the cousins would be there: aunts, uncles; brother and sisters... Mother and Father, Grandmother and Grandfather...  husbands and wives of cousins, brother and sisters... a former sister in law who was divorced from his brother, but was still part of the family on Holiday Occasions (that wasn't awkward… except maybe for the new wife, the year that both John’s ex-wife and new wife made rum balls and everybody had to pretend the that new wife’s weren't better)

Oh, and naturally there would be 2 parrots, 4 parakeets, three cats, two dogs, little Tina’s Guinea pig (she takes it everywhere) and who knows? Maybe three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree!

If he had his choice he would be one of the Lord’s of Leapin'... leapin' out of there!

It wasn't that he didn't love his family or enjoy Christmas... he did love his family: his sisters, his really successful and popular brother; his brother’s ex-wife and wife; his brothers in law – his mother and father... nearly ALL of the cousins (especially little Tina with the Guinea pig)  But it was a long drive to Ottawa, the weather was always a problem this time of year, the highway around Kingston was murder... and.. and..

Well, he wasn't.. he didn't...  well, measure up well.

He didn't have a good job.

He didn't have kids... he didn’t even have a partner.

He didn't know how to act. 

The gathering used to be at his Grandparents place, they had this big old house in Ottawa.  And everybody would dress up....  but Steve didn't have a whole suit and had only one tie... brown shoes.  Brother John, he wore a tux... and danced with the aunts...  They would gather in the Living Room around the grand piano and sing carols... and if you didn't want to sing you were expected to go to the kitchen or somewhere else to converse.  Steve knew the first verse to most carols; John was able to sing O Come All Ye Faithful in Latin:  Adeste Fideles (all the verses).  Most years, Steve was asked to leave because he clearly was more interested in talking than singing.  A song sheet might have helped!!!  And what’s so wrong about wanting to sing Frosty the Snowman?

Eventually the gathering moved to Steve’s parents place.  Brother John, who lived in town and worked for the government, did a lot to help getting everything ready; Steve’s sisters had made special food... Steve was coming from far away, so there wasn't much he could do. He offered to help pay the caterer but Mom and Dad just laughed... nicely... (but it was still laughter).  That year, Steve took his meager savings and invested it wisely: He rented a tux.  And he got one of the girls at work to teach him to dance (a little).  This year: New locale and a new Steve – he’d be suave like his brother and he’d make his old Aunts swoon when he invited them out onto the dance floor.  He showed up ready for a great evening...   he could smell the mulling spices wafting down to the street as he walked from his car to the house... careful not to slip and spoil his beautiful tuxedo... he imagined the surprised look on everybody’s faces as he entered the house.. “Steve!” as they took in the tux (and the haircut)

“Yes, Steve... Steve, Bond”

If only someone had told him that the change in venue also meant that everybody was invited to come in jeans, casual clothes and Christmas Sweaters... so that those less resourceful wouldn't feel peculiar....

But now, THIS year... this year would be different.

Steve could never measure up gift wise. His sisters would buy him clothes with labels that Steve couldn't read (which is how they often ended up in the wash with his jeans... never to be worn again).  Last year, his brother bought him a Flat Screen TV, apologizing that it was only 42 inches (15 inches bigger than his old one).  Steve got his sisters bath salts and a Simon and Garfunkel DVD for his brother.  The Concert in Central Park may have been 30 years ago, but it was still good.  And affordable.

Everybody loved their gifts... but Steve knew that they didn't compare... he was tired of being a Shepherd when everybody else was a Magi.

This year... Steve got a bonus at work: $3,000.

Maybe not a lot to his brother... but a lot to him.

He thought about saving it...

He thought about paying off his student loans a little faster...

He thought about taking a little vacation...

He considered buying 1000 Lotto 649 Tickets...

But then he decided to buy presents for his family.

Presents like they bought him every year...

He went to the Shops at Don Mills and spent $300 on designer Vinegar for his sister, the wanna-be chef...

He bought a coat for his fashonista sister... at some Archaeology place that he’d never heard of... so it must be good.

He bought for his Mom and Dad... not sure what to get them, because up to now the only way he knew how to shop was to look for something in his price range, not something that might knock their socks off...  he wondered “WWJD”:  What would John do?... and as if channeling his brother, he bought his parents, his and her silk Pajamas and Velvet Robes.

And for John... his inspiration and his hero (his downfall and his nemesis)... his brother... an $800 bottle of wine! (you knew that John would be wine connoisseur).

Steve also managed to buy a few things for the cousins – a first for him – and spent a whole evening wrapping everything up perfectly.  Pink bows for the girls, Blue knots for the boys... and bubble wrap for the bottle..

The next morning he packed everything carefully and lovingly into his 2001 Corolla and started the drive to Ottawa... the smell of a Tim Horton’s Dark Chocolate filling the car... the sound of Christmas Carols filling his ears...and what surely must be “joy” filling his heart.

He would get to his parents about dinner time on Christmas Eve... time for a meal and then a Christmas Eve service with Mom and Dad... and the party on Christmas Day.

The party when he would finally fit in... he had the right clothes and nobody would look outside to see his car.  He knew the words to all the Christmas Carols (he had been practicing).  He would not be asking his aunts to dance, but he had gifts for them... gifts for the whole family... finally they would know how much he loved them... he would measure up... he would really be part of Christmas...

Driving along the 401, Steve saw a big pet shop in one of the malls... and was inspired.  He’d do something extra special that no one had ever thought to do before... he’d get something for little Tina’s Guinea pig... that’s love!  Remembering somebody’s pet... Brilliant.

He got off the highway, parked the car and all but skipped into PetSmart... checking the aisles until he found a tiny set of reindeer antlers, sized for a Guinea Pig.

Nothing says Christmas like a pet in plush antlers.

$11.95 and he was on his way...

Singing as he went out to his car...

Over by the lamp post..

Other lamp post.. 

Near the front of the store?  That can’t be right...

At the end of the row??

Steve looked for his car...  the one with an empty Tim Horton’s cup in the cup holder... the one with the Christmas Carols playing on the radio...  the one with $3,268 in gifts for everybody... the one with his salvation packed neatly in the trunk and back seat.

It was gone.

The police were too busy to come to the scene.

Mall security drove him to the Police Station.

Paper work was filled out...

Sad pathetic looks were exchanged... Sad tidings were in store...

There was no comfort... No joy... 

Steve caught a bus into Ottawa.

Got in around 2 in the morning.

Slipped into his parents’ house and dissolved into the guest room.

In the morning, he couldn't bear to face his parents... or watch the hordes descend upon the house for Christmas breakfast... Christmas lunch.... finally, Christmas Party and dinner...  so he slipped out and went to church (it was affordable).

God hated him.

He’s blown it.

He would never understand Christmas

He would never be able to express his love in a way that his family would understand.

He would never fit in...  he should have taken the bus back to Toronto instead of Ottawa.

Then he heard the Christmas Story...  the one that we hear every year about a pregnant unmarried teenage girl, some confused shepherds, unbelievable angels and foreign visitors called Magi...  he heard about people who didn't fit in... he heard about a journey that was dark and bumpy.... he heard about things going wrong... he heard about gifts...  he heard about God revealed in a small, vulnerable child....

He spent most of the day at church... not because he didn't want to go home, but because he wanted to hear the story again (he seemed unaware that there is a take home version of the story as well)...  but he did make it to the party.

And at the party, Steve didn't take his cue from the Magi... and he didn't take his cure from the Shepherds.... he knew that he didn't have the wardrobe to be an angel...  he, instead took his cue from the child, the baby... Jesus.   

Steve dared to be naked and vulnerable....   He told everybody his story...  he laughed and cried as he told it... so did they....   and then, he went around and embraced his family... each one, even Tina once she put down her Guinea Pig with the Reindeer Antlers (the one gift that was not lost) ... one at a time and he would whisper to each member of his family what made each of them so special to him... and then he told them, “I love you”

He would probably have years when he was a Shepherd at Christmas again... he might even get to be a Magi one of these years – but nothing would ever compare to the Christmas that Steve dared to take the story seriously and become Christ-like himself... naked and vulnerable.  For the first time – Steve finally “got” Christmas

Whoever you may be this Christmas – I wish you Christ-Child moments… and a very fulfilling, eye-opening,  heart-warming season.

Merry Christmas