I learned a considerably valuable lesson last week in the pulpit; of all the places in the world in which it remains offensive to declare, “Santa is not real,” Sunday worship still manages to rank fairly high. 

     To be fair I did not begin my sermon with any ill intent. I am not a Christian version of the Grinch who is bent on ruining “Holiday spirit” in the lives of millions of children or some cynical, old, cantankerous codger who suggests Christmas is nothing more than a bunch of pagan rituals high-jacked by Constantine. To the contrary, I like Christmas quite a bit, and I have preached a great number of sermons about the need for the church to learn from the culture around it how to celebrate this season to the fullest. I have often talked about the missional opportunities of Christmas, the historicity of St. Nicholas, and the voice we lose when we chose to shout through megaphones in the marketplace to shame people into believing “Jesus is the reason for the season.”  To be quite honest, I like to think of myself as a fairly culturally-whimsical Christian.  At least, I use to.

     But there I was preaching a sermon last week in the season of Advent, at a decidedly Evangelical church (a Presbyterian one at that), in the heart of the Bible belt when I began to speak about the less-than-truthfulness of Saint Nick. As I did so the crowd shifted nervously in their seats. Some let out uncomfortable laughs while casting even more uncomfortable glances around the sanctuary. Others averted all of us by simply looking down at their shoes or their hands while wringing them nervously in their laps. Some flashed wide-eyed gazes at their innocent children while hiding their fear behind insincere smiles that attempted to communicate “he is just kidding honey.” One of the boldest in the bunch simply got up and ushered his child out.

     All of this occurred, mind you, before my introduction was even finished.

     Yet, despite all its discomfiture the moment served as a fitting illustration, perhaps a better illustration than any I could have conjured on my own, of the message I actually came to bear. My original intent was to reflect on the often overshadowed glory of the first Advent, and the way in which our failure to ponder the sheer impossibility of Christmas actually tempts our hearts to believe fairy tales that are far less mythical than the truth of the Gospel.

     The thunderous silence of the sanctuary confirmed that the story of a man dashing down chimneys with a sack full of gifts and a little holiday spirit trumps the excitement of the Incarnation. For some, the story of elves and reindeer is the one we would rather tell our children, maybe it is the one we would rather tell ourselves.

     While I have real opinions on whether or not you should tell your children Santa is real (perhaps another post for another day), suffice to say here that no matter how exciting, or fantastic, or mythical or impossible the story of Santa may be, the story of the Incarnation is infinitely more so. Infinitely. That God would become a man is a blasphemous claim worthy of anathema in nearly every world religion throughout history. That his joining us here on Earth would come by way of an unwed Jewish teenager, that he would first see the world he created through human eyes from the bottom of a trough in a borrowed hog pen, and that the only ones who would recognize his coming would be shepherds and pagan magicians, is simply divine comedy of the highest order.

     As Frederick Buechner once wrote in his seminal work on preaching Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy and Fairy Tale:

“There is no less danger and darkness in the Gospel than there is in the Brothers Grimm, but     beyond and above all there is the joy of it, this tale of a light breaking into the world that not even the darkness can overcome…That is the fairy tale of the Gospel with, of course, the one crucial difference from all other fairy tales, which is that the claim made for it is that it is true, that it not only happened once upon a time but has kept on happening ever since and is happening still….that once upon a time is this time, now…and the ones who are to live happily ever after are…all who labor and are heavy laden, the poor naked wretches wheresoever they be.”

     That is the better story for the Church this season. It is the better story for the world, and it is only story worth telling.  

 

   

   No movie has touched my life more dramatically than Good Will Hunting. It appeared on the screen in a season of my life in which alcohol and anger were seeping from my own father wounds, and during a time when the direction of my life and the purpose of my story were clouded in self-doubt, insecurity and confusion. Today, I mourn with the rest of the world as we contemplate the legacy of Robin Williams, who despite assuring us all that "It is not your fault," has taken his own life. As is often the case in suicide, the true rationale for such a final, and drastic measure, passes on with the victim. Even when a reason is given, it fails to tell the entire story. In fact, my first months of ministry found me picking up the pieces with a family in the wake of suicide. Their own questions mirrored the same “why?” that seems to just hang in the air like a thick smoke inside my mind to this day.
 
   Statistically, my work with college students places me in direct contact with a demographic that is more likely to end their lives prematurely than nearly any other. I say “nearly”, because the reality is that suicides that occur among those 18-24 is actually eclipsed by only one other age group, those above 65. Of this shocking trend M. Robert Mullholland, Jr. writes:

“I believe one of the underlying realities behind the epidemic of suicide among adolescents and senior citizens is that we are a culture that values people primarily for what they do.” 

   Teenagers and the retired are most vulnerable to despair and lack of identity in such a culture, he argues. Robin Williams, at age 63, could certainly fit into this demographic. And while this may very well be a legitimate diagnosis of the problem, it is certainly not the only one. My contact with those who have attempted suicide leads me to believe that many considered suicide because, quite frankly, life has become unbearable. I see the connection in the two age groups to be more along the lines of their place in history. Those older than 65 have fought long enough and are ready to move on. The young adults simply look at the potential of another 60+ years of hell in front of them and opt out early. When I look at the world outside my window and the one unfolding on the screen in front of me, I sympathize with their conclusion. This is not cynical, nihilistic surrender, it is empathy instead of judgment, and it is refusing to call it daytime when it is night.

   My personal conviction is that those who are considering suicide do not need sermons (formal or informal) exhorting them to cheer up, look on the bright-side, or reminders that things are not so bad after all, or be told one more time how much they are loved and appreciated…no matter how well intentioned. What I want to suggest instead is that, especially as followers of Jesus Christ, we need to be willing to sit in the darkness with others and refuse to call it anything less. A girl who is rapped by her uncle, a boy who has struggled his whole life with homosexual urges, the child who grows up in the foster care system, the man whose drunk father beat him daily and the women whose parents were killed by a drunk driver. Their pain is real and their tragedy has marked every aspect of their story. 

   What I often fear drives some to take their lives is that the world around them doesn’t want to hear their story. Our culture is unkind to those who are broken messes. Those who feel all alone in their struggle often wake to find one day that the world around them really has moved on without them. Theirs is not a winning story of overcoming and unstoppable victory against all odds. To all of you who are considering suicide today I want to remind you that Jesus came for the sick who know they needed a doctor (Matt. 9:12). He had little patience for those who thought they were already healthy.

   Your stories of pain and abandonment and crushing loss are all living reminders that the world we live in is broken and in need of the rescue that only Jesus can give. And we need you. We need your bravery and your honesty. We need truth tellers who have stared at the darkness of their own lives and are not afraid of the darkness lurking in the stories of everyone they meet. Truly, if this can’t start among those who know they are unconditionally loved, things may be truly worse than any of us imagine. That is why we need you to stay among us. Not because things are not as bad as you think, but because you know how bad they really are. We need people who are not afraid to take off their masks and let the world know, as Frederick Beuchner suggests, that our secrets are what we share most in common. Robin, I wish we all still had time for you to talk to Sean. You will be greatly missed.

   

   

    Mike Kuhn, author of Fresh Vision for the Muslim World, rightly warns, “there are missional implications to the political affinities of evangelicals.” Kuhn’s point is an important one, as it relates to a myriad of current social issues that we wrestle with as a nation. But while it is true to suggest that we need to be mindful of the way in which theology affect our politics, it is equally important for Christians to recognize when they have allowed their politics to influence their theology.

      At the outset, let me make it clear that scripture does not prohibit the involvement of Christians in politics. Undeniably, reformed theology in particular has shunned the common distinction between “sacred” and “secular” and has long supported the need for Christians to impact every sphere of society, including government.

     However, the political atmosphere of modern America has become quite difficult to compartmentalize into a well-kept corner of our lives. Partisan debates dominate the headlines and have fostered an environment in which people are compelled to choose a side.

    Given these realities, I have been anxious to see how Christians might respond to the third National Climate Assessment (NSA) released in early May by the U.S. Global Change Research Program (USGCRP). I am curious, because there are very few issues today including immigration, marriage, healthcare, or education that have not become, almost overnight, utterly politicized. Climate change has not been spared. And as these issues have moved from being, primarily, a social concern to mere political ammunition, I have watched many Christians become defined increasingly by their political beliefs rather than their theological convictions. 

     In the report a panel of more than 300 scientists conclude “Long-term, independent records from weather stations, satellites, ocean buoys, tide gauges, and many other data sources all confirm that our nation, like the rest of the world, is warming.” Furthermore, exploration of “multiple lines of independent evidence confirm that human activities are the primary cause of the global warming of the past 50 years.” Finally, the scientists warn that this warming of the world caused primarily by human activity “presents a major challenge for society.”

     If I might condense the report even further- The world is experiencing climactic change that has, is, and will present major challenges for our entire society, and the primary cause is…humans. If that is all Christians knew, if we could distance ourselves for a moment from debates about fossil fuel, deregulation, and the particular party attached to either side of those debates, would we care? Should we care? And should we be on the forefront of our nations response through the diversification of transportation options, water conservation, sustainable agricultural practices, or the development alternative energy sources as the report suggests? Or will our politics tempt us to close our eyes and ignore the command to be stewards of the earth we were given to rule (Gen. 1:28)?

     My prayer is that the church’s response will be guided first by their identity in Christ, rather than their political affiliation. For as the Arch Bishop of Whales, Dr Barry Morgan, preached in a recent Easter sermon “Caring for creation means enjoying the gifts that God has given us, but also ensuring that they are there for future generations…Our task now is to live by the values of His risen life – to bring about God’s kingdom on earth as it is in Heaven. And that is good news for all people and for the whole of creation.”

  

There is a church for the faith-less emerging in London. During any given week people from around the city gather together at the School of Life to sing Christian hymns, recite Christian liturgy, read sacred texts and listen to a sermon by a myriad of "experts" including the school’s founder, Alain De Botton. The only twist of irony is that the faithful who gather in the pews, all self-identify as staunch Atheists.

Driving the theologically inconsistent phenomenon is the fact that many Atheists who turn their backs on religion often lament later in life that they miss the religious music and liturgy associated with their previous life of faith. The School of Life, according to Alain De Botton, exists to provide these experiences as a way to enhance life and restore a sense of “religious experience” without all the cumbersome dogma and doctrine. Some might assume this penchant for a new brand of Atheism stems from a desire to pursue truth regardless of its origins. Yet, to do so would be to blithely ignore a core belief of the movement. 

Alain De Botton states explicitly in his writing that the most boring question anyone can ask of a religion is “is it true.” I would agree wholeheartedly if by “boring” Botton is suggesting that the question itself is not entirely sexy. However, I couldn’t disagree more if what he means by the word is that the question of truth actually lacks importance. The question may not be a particularly attractive one in our pluralistic, inclusive culture, but it is by all means the single most important question one can ask of a belief system.  

Please consider for a moment how the world might react if we applied this same sentiment to other areas of our life. Would my spouse care if I dismissed her questions about my love or faithfulness to her by stating, “questions of truth are the most boring ones you can ask.” We would agree if our nations political leaders responded in kind (as indeed they have on many occasions). Indeed questions of truth are essential precisely because it is the foundation upon which relationships and trust are built. If truth doesn’t not matter, then on what grounds do Atheists suggest my belief in God is ignorant? If the School of Life admits a disregard for the fact that they may be blatantly lying to their followers, why attend? Why would I ever trust anyone who told me that questions of truth are the most boring kind I could ask?

Apparently quite a few. And the public response is not entirely shocking given the fact that I have visited dozens of places very similar to the School of Life here in the United States as well. In fact, I would be willing to wager that the School of Life can be found around the world in nearly every location in which a Christian church has been planted. Places where people gather to hear a sermon that sounds more like self-help than Gospel, music that is window-dressing rather than worship, and a liturgy that rings of a lifeless routine rather than any sort of true confession of belief. Religious atheists: oxy moron, or just an honest assessment of the lives of many who claim to follow Christ?

Something as blatantly foolish as Botton’s experiment might be good fodder for ridicule, but when we examine our own religious lives, it should cause all of us to ask, would I really feel so out of place in a church like the School of Life?

My son Andrew is eight years old. He is the same age as Martin William Richard, the young victim of the pressure cooker bombs that exploded during the Boston Marathon earlier this week. Bombs that tore into the crowds who gathered to cheer on family and friends. Bombs that have left us, once again, searching for answers and counting up victims. It was a race that started with a moment of silence for the victims of the Sandyhook Elementary School shooting, and ended in another massacre that requires memorializing of its own. Like you, I am exhausted by the darkness. I am tired of the violence. I am emotionally and spiritually drained. And many days I am simply angry.

I am angry at senseless crimes and unspeakable evil leveled at the innocent and unarmed. And I am angry that in the midst of many peoples’ pain, the ones they have loved the most often become political pawns for agendas, laws, and policies. It is hard at times for me to remember these victims are human beings, not causes or statements. Their lives are not serendipitous tools in the hands of religious apologists who want to argue about evil and morality. They are not lobbyists for gun control. Martin Richard was an eight year old boy. He was a son, and a brother. He was a child, who is now famous for his creation of a handmade sign that reads, “No more hurting people.”

In honor of Martin Richard, I wanted to share a unique, and I trust, much needed reminder that the light shines in the darkness, can still shone in the darkness and, try as it may, the darkness has not overcome it. Nor will it ever. With so much talk about vengeance, revenge, and justice swelling in my own heart, I took some time to re-read the following story today.  Whenever I need to be reminded about the power of the gospel, I turn to a wise friend and mentor who has taught me countless truths in the last few years. This is the story of Corrie ten Boom, holocaust survivor, Christian, and victim who learned how to forgive. I trust it might do your own heart well this morning too.

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“It was in a church in Munich that I saw him—a balding, heavyset man in a gray overcoat, a brown felt hat clutched between his hands. People were filing out of the basement room where I had just spoken, moving along the rows of wooden chairs to the door at the rear. It was 1947 and I had come from Holland to defeated Germany with the message that God forgives. It was the truth they needed most to hear in that bitter, bombed-out land, and I gave them my favorite mental picture. Maybe because the sea is never far from a Hollander’s mind, I liked to think that that’s where forgiven sins were thrown. ‘When we confess our sins,’ I said, ‘God casts them into the deepest ocean, gone forever. …’

“The solemn faces stared back at me, not quite daring to believe. There were never questions after a talk in Germany in 1947. People stood up in silence, in silence collected their wraps, in silence left the room. And that’s when I saw him, working his way forward against the others. One moment I saw the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, a blue uniform and a visored cap with its skull and crossbones. It came back with a rush: the huge room with its harsh overhead lights; the pathetic pile of dresses and shoes in the center of the floor; the shame of walking naked past this man. I could see my sister’s frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment skin. Betsie, how thin you were!

[Betsie and I had been arrested for concealing Jews in our home during the Nazi occupation of Holland; this man had been a guard at Ravensbruck concentration camp where we were sent.]

“Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: ‘A fine message, Fräulein! How good it is to know that, as you say, all our sins are at the bottom of the sea!’

“And I, who had spoken so glibly of forgiveness, fumbled in my pocketbook rather than take that hand. He would not remember me, of course—how could he remember one prisoner among those thousands of women?

“But I remembered him and the leather crop swinging from his belt. I was face-to-face with one of my captors and my blood seemed to freeze.

You mentioned Ravensbruck in your talk,’ he was saying, ‘I was a guard there.’ No, he did not remember me.

‘But since that time,’ he went on, ‘I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well. Fräulein,’ again the hand came out—’will you forgive me?’

“And I stood there—I whose sins had again and again to be forgiven—and could not forgive. Betsie had died in that place—could he erase her slow terrible death simply for the asking?

“It could not have been many seconds that he stood there—hand held out—but to me it seemed hours as I wrestled with the most difficult thing I had ever had to do.

“For I had to do it—I knew that. The message that God forgives has a prior condition: that we forgive those who have injured us. ‘If you do not forgive men their trespasses,’ Jesus says, ‘neither will your Father in heaven forgive your trespasses.’

“I knew it not only as a commandment of God, but as a daily experience. Since the end of the war I had had a home in Holland for victims of Nazi brutality. Those who were able to forgive their former enemies were able also to return to the outside world and rebuild their lives, no matter what the physical scars. Those who nursed their bitterness remained invalids. It was as simple and as horrible as that.

“And still I stood there with the coldness clutching my heart. But forgiveness is not an emotion—I knew that too. Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart. ‘… Help!’ I prayed silently. ‘I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling.’

“And so woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. And as I did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, sprang into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole being, bringing tears to my eyes.

“ ‘I forgive you, brother!’ I cried. ‘With all my heart!’

“For a long moment we grasped each other’s hands, the former guard and the former prisoner. I had never known God’s love so intensely, as I did then”

Excerpted from “I’m Still Learning to Forgive” by Corrie ten Boom.

Piers Anthony writes wildly famous fantasy books, and he came from a broken home. In the author's notes from his book Fractal Mode, he writes: "One thing you who had secure or happy childhoods should understand about those of us who did not, we who control our feelings, who avoid conflicts at all costs or seem to seek them, who are hypersensitive, self-critical, compulsive, workaholic, and above all survivors, we're not that way from perversity. And we cannot just relax and let it go. We've learned to cope in ways you never had to." I grew up in a broken home too. In terms of pure statistical data, that doesn’t make me much of an anomaly anymore in America, since nearly 50% of marriages here in the states end long before “death do us part.” My parents went their separate ways when I was very young and I have had plenty of years to pick of the pieces, forgive, reconcile, and learn to stop blaming them for my problems. Yet, Piers Anthony’s words strike me with a refreshing air of honesty and truth that is often missing in the Church. Perhaps because Christians are no more immune to marital failure than the rest of our culture (divorce rates are nearly identical), churches are less and less prone to ever address the elephant in the room. Why step on the toes of 50% of your audience? The reason, quite simply, is because divorce affects far more people than just a husband and a wife. In a particularly penetrating article in Christianity Today, Andy Root speaks about the way in which divorce can mess with a child’s identity in profound ways. For the full article see Since a child is born from the union of two souls becoming “one flesh” Root questions what happens to that same child when the union is broken? Practically speaking it means that children often have two homes, two schedules, two holidays and two families. Spiritually speaking it means a central aspect of their identity has been altered forever. Root writes: “I don't wish to diminish the psychological and economic impact of divorce. But if we truly are relational beings, then divorce is centrally an issue not of psychology nor of economics but of ontology—an issue of our very being. It therefore feels a little like being erased, like losing our being in the deep divide that separates our divorcing parents.” That is why the Church, who is repeatedly called a “family,” needs to be, of all places, a safe one for people to find healing in the wake of divorce. Not just the husband and wife, but the children, whether they are 3, 36 or 72. Like being born with a physical disability, the effects of divorce don’t ever go away. People learn to overcome, to compensate and to move on, but they never heal completely. Their altered identity becomes their reality and they learn that life without mom and dad together makes everything else just a bit more difficult. As a survivor myself, and as a pastor to countless students from broken homes, I want to suggest several ways that the body of Christ can come around and show the Kingdom to those who have been impacted by divorce. 1. Acknowledge: First, recognize those around you who are suffering because of divorce, particularly the children. People often assume the kids are doing fine. They are not doing fine. Something as simple as recognizing this in tangible ways for them can be significant. One of the most healing things a human can say to another human is something that recognizes the hurt. “I see your pain, and it doesn’t frighten me. I won’t tell you how to feel, but I will sit with you as long as you want.” 2. Invite: Initiate opportunities for people to talk, share, vent, cry and tell their stories. Listen without judgment and without trying to solve their problems or help them see it from another viewpoint. Just listen. Children of divorce have been told, “don’t feel, don’t trust, don’t speak.” Give them opportunity to do all three. 3. Model: Let your healthy home and marriage be a safe place for those who need to find some healing. It is hard to break the cycles of divorce and we need the people who are doing it right to let us watch and participate in a family where we can be taught that our future is not cast in stone because of our past. There is always hope.

In his book Wild at Heart John Eldridge writes, “The history of man’s relationship with God is the story of how God calls him out, takes him on a journey and gives him his new name.” Like Abram, Sarai, Jacob, Gideon, Moses, Peter, and Paul God is helping his people understand their true story by hearing the name that he is speaking over their lives. Distinct from the name on our birth certificates, penned by a fallen mom and dad, God’s name for us is birthed from an eternal understanding of who we truly are, and who we are meant to be. In so many ways, it is a name far more real than any name we have ever been given. The difficult part of embracing the new name is not necessarily discovering it, but truly hearing it, owning it, and believing it. So often the reason for this is that God gives us a new name for his own glory and not our own. While a new name may grant us hope for the future, more than anything it is the means by which God is writing his own story. For this reason, the new name we are given by God is often formed through the wounds of our past. Indeed, as Eldridge writes later, “He will wound us in the very place where we have been wounded.” Gideon, alone, frightened and hiding in a wine press is called “mighty warrior.” A barren man and woman become a “father and mother of nations.” The persecutor of God’s church becomes one of its greatest missionaries. The disciple who rejects Jesus is called the dependable rock. God is not making mistakes; he is drawing attention to the magnitude of his transformative power. The same power that created the universe ex nihilo (out of nothing), the same power that raised Jesus form the dead, is the same power at work in the lives of millions as God comes to each of his children and transforms their stories of tragedy and failure into tales of epic redemption and victory. Why? So that the world will know his unspeakable grace and bend their knees in humble submission. Every story of transformation becomes a living, breathing example of the depths God is willing to stoop in order to rescue a life and how great is his ability to save. The redeemed are called ambassadors. We are story-tellers declaring the truths about the author and perfector of our faith who longs to finish your story the way he wrote it before the foundations of the earth. Give him the pen, listen for your new name, and let the watching world be in awe of what God is able to do with our tragic tales, perfectly suited for surprise endings. Everyone has a story. http://vimeo.com/13509635

Recently Pepper Schwartz, a sociologist at the University of Washington, wrote an op-ed on Americans’ fascination with the love-life, and recent wedding, of Jennifer Anniston. Regardless of whether or not you care for Jennifer Anniston, the principles of the article can apply equally to our obsession with Beyonce, Adele, Lebron James, or the stars of “Teen Mom” or “Jersey Shore.” In her piece, Schwartz notes that we live in a media culture today that so frequently brings the lives of celebrities into our living rooms, smart phones, and tablets, that they feel like friends to us. Furthermore, and this is the point that was most fascinating to me, Schwartz noted that because of the familiarity (however real or contrived it may be) that we feel with celebrities, we find ourselves living vicariously through them. When it comes to Anniston specifically, Schwartz says that women follow her love life because A) when Anniston gets dumped it helps women to feel better about their own heartbreaks arguing, “if Jennifer Anniston gets dumped, anyone can” and B) Women are watching to see if true love will stick this time for Anniston because, again, “if it can happen to her maybe it can happen to me.” Schwartz closes the article by stating that the "fairy tale ending" we hope to glimpse in the lives of celebrities “is a stand-in for the fairly tale ending we want for ourselves.” After reading the article, I couldn’t help but reflect back to my favorite book on preaching written by Frederick Buechner in 1977 entitled Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale. One of the main premises of the work is the way in which each of us, regardless of time, language, and culture is drawn to fairy tale: the ugly becoming beautiful; the poor becoming rich; the oppressed finding justice; the overlooked becoming the centerpiece. It is, in so many ways, written on our hearts. It is what we long for in every good movie, every good song, and every good novel. It is the ageless story of the cross, and it is the gospel. We are all searching for it, this good, seemingly impossible news, that despite all of our warts and wrinkles, we might be found accepted, loved and wanted. J.R.R Tolkien once wrote, “It is the mark of the good fairy-story, of the higher or more complete kind, that however wild its events, however fantastic or terrible the adventures, it can give to child or man that hears it, when the ‘turn’ comes, a catch of the breath, a beat and lifting of the heart, near to (or indeed accompanied by) tears, as keen as that given by any form of literary art.” Our culture is dying to experience the fairy-tale. Surrounded by counterfeits, many have settled for living the life the wished they had through others, rather than entering the fairy-tale God has already written. Jennifer Anniston’s marriage doesn’t have to work out to offer you hope. Lebron doesn’t have to win the championship game. The creator of the universe knows you by name, is more aware of your failings than you will ever know, and was willing to move heaven and earth to rescue you. No fairy-tale could ever compete with that truth. Hollywood could never write a better story.