Christmas Is Here

Christmas is here. I know this because I woke up to a "Merry Christmas!" text from someone I love, followed shortly by a similarly sweet text from my mom.

Christmas is here. In morning prayer, I read from Isaiah chapter 9, which contains prophecies about Christ's coming, as well as from St.Luke chapter 2, which actually gives an account of the Nativity.

Christmas is here. My fasting and abstinence from certain foods is over, and I am enjoying a cup of tea.

Christmas is here. Facebook is buzzing with every different Christmas status and photo one could imagine.

How do you know Christmas is here? What does Christmas really mean? The signs--if we could call them that for a moment--in my life that say "Christmas is here!" are good things, and they certainly do signify something. The externals point nicely to the reality, that December 25th has come, that stores are closed (thank goodness) for this holiday, that my fasting has come to an end and my Scripture readings are appropriately themed.

I propose that there are better signs than these, to show that Christmas really is here.

The Light Himself dwells among us. He enlightens us, showing us how we ought to live and why, guiding us through hard times, inspiring us to do good even when darkness threatens. The Light of the world has come: "the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not. But as many as received him, to them he gave power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name: which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God"(St. John 1:9-13). Indeed, the people walking in darkness have seen a great light (Isaiah 9:2).

Love has come into the world. We who believe in Christ are part of his Kingdom, which is a kingdom of love. And Christ gives us not just the example of love, but the power to love. We learn from the examples of the saints, the major figures in Scripture, and those we know who have lived a life marked by Love. How can they love so much, and so well? They can be different in every respect--in nationality, in gender, in wealth or means, in vocation, in age, in background and experiences, in talent, in renown--and yet they share Love as the distinguishing characteristic of their lives.

Truth is incarnate. Christ is the way, the truth, and the life; and in Him do justice and mercy, righteousness and peace, abide together. The truth of salvation has been brought--more than a mere set of teachings, but a new life. C.S. Lewis describes the transformation which comes from recognizing the Truth of the faith thus: “[To have Faith in Christ] means, of course, trying to do all that He says. There would be no sense in saying you trusted a person if you would not take his advice. Thus if you have really handed yourself over to Him, it must follow that you are trying to obey Him. But trying in a new way, a less worried way. Not doing these things in order to be saved, but because He has begun to save you already. Not hoping to get to Heaven as a reward for your actions, but inevitably wanting to act in a certain way because a first faint gleam of Heaven is already inside you.” We can only see Truth by beginning to undergo this transformation. Truth is incarnate, and not to be feared. Indeed, I have been working hard in the past months to remember that all truth is God's truth, and thus it ought not to be feared but fervently sought.

We live a new Life. Christ is the Life of us all, coming to a place of death and darkness and bringing new life. We might be tempted to despair at times, when we do not seem to see much except death and darkness. The world has, in a way, not changed all at once into the new, peaceful Life. Some things--quite formidable things--are still to be endured and overcome in each of our lives. But in another--and infinitely bigger--sense, the world has indeed changed all the way for the Good. We are "already finished works-in-progress," and so is the world we live in. The new Life has come and worked through everything, and we are witnessing that. Redemption is a present reality. Indeed, we cannot celebrate Christmas without thinking ahead to the work done at Easter. Christmas is the incredible seed, planted for the fruit of redemption borne through Easter.

Christmas is here. Light, Love, Truth, and Life are here. Look for them, and I pray that they become apparent to you through this season.

Advent Draws to a Close

Christmas is less than a week away, and in these last few days of Advent, I'm reflecting on the past month.

How am I no longer desolate, now that Christ has come?
In his epistle to the Galatians, St. Paul alludes to the prophet Isaiah in chapter four, when he writes about the Church before Christ came. He powerfully compares the Church before Christ's coming as the barren, desolate woman who had no children. These descriptions confused me before I took December to actually observe Advent. After all, Advent is the season we observe prior to Christmas-- to imprint upon us a small part of the experience of the Church before Christ came to redeem it. This period of waiting has shown me how frail I am as a human, and how sinful. I've had to rely upon the Lord to walk me through the days, learning each day that I cannot accomplish anything on my own.

What does Christmas mean to me, which it hadn't meant before?
Before observing Advent, I didn't fully understand the significance that Christmas holds in the narrative of the Church. I knew it was important that Christ was born, so he could eventually redeem mankind. What I hadn't considered is how monumental this was: Christ's coming marked the beginning of the plan of salvation. It was what the prophets and other faithful people had been awaiting. It was the beginning of the fulfillment of the promise. It was the seed planted, and Easter is the seed coming to fruition.

Both fasting during Advent and listening to Advent hymns helped me understand the meaning of this season. My church had an Advent Lessons & Carols event, and I was also blessed to attend one at another church. As I read the words to these hymns, I was struck by the poignancy of this season.

My favorite for this season has been "Lo, He Comes With Clouds Descending" (if you would like to listen to a fantastic version of it on youtube, I would recommend this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYf4W5Fy_2w).

Here are some of the words:


Lo! he comes, with clouds descending,
once for our salvation slain;
thousand thousand saints attending
swell the triumph of his train:
Alleluia! alleluia! alleluia!
Christ the Lord returns to reign.

Now redemption, long expected,
see in solemn pomp appear;
all his saints, by man rejected,
now shall meet him in the air:
Alleluia! alleluia! alleluia!
See the day of God appear!

Yea, amen! let all adore thee,
high on thine eternal throne;
Savior, take the power and glory;
claim the kingdom for thine own:
Alleluia! alleluia! alleluia!
Thou shalt reign, and thou alone.


May your Christmas season be deepened by the knowledge of its significance, and may you be blessed at the coming of the new year!

Observing Advent: Suggestion #2

Advent is here, but it may not seem like it. Looking around, the rest of the world has jumped into Christmas. Part of me is excited for this, as I love Christmas and want it to come quickly. I love seeing the stores decorated, drinking holiday-inspired drinks, planning Christmas parties and thinking about which gifts to buy for my loved ones. All of these things really tug at my heart.

Yet there might be something valuable about pausing before we jump straight into Christmas. Indeed, I learned about this firsthand during Lent. One of the things I abstained from was tea, and I abstained from it six days each week. It might seem dramatic, but it's true: refraining from drinking tea during those days was a test of my faith. I learned, during Lent, that I tended to place a lot of comfort on having a cup of tea--to pick me up after a bad day, or to celebrate during a good day. While drinking tea is not a bad thing to do, it had become an obstacle for me. I relied upon it when I could have been in prayer, relying upon God.

Tea was not my kryptonite. But the comfort I derived from it was something that I needed to surrender to God. In Advent, we engage in fasting and abstinence as spiritual disciplines, in order to fully engage in the solemn and penitential season of Advent. As my priest said during Lent, we ought to think of fasting not only as abstaining from some things, but as "exercising our spiritual muscles" while we do that.

My Advent fast has been fruitful so far. I know this, not because the Lord has sent me a message in the clouds, or because I've suddenly become much stronger in my spiritual gifts, or because I feel better. I know my fast has been fruitful because I have been depending upon the Lord much more often than I usually do. When I am stripped of tea, I am stripped of my "pick me up," the treat that helps me stay awake and act more civilly than I feel like acting sometimes. As my dear roommate knows, the Jessica you get without tea is the Raw Jessica. There's no pretending. When I fast, I feel like I'm entering into a time where it's really just God and I--and I realize how grateful I am that He is with me.

Perhaps take some time to reflect on something you could abstain from for a few days each week of Advent. What do you turn to instead of the Lord?

The Beginning of Advent 2013

I’m probably one of the most enthusiastic Christmas fans you’ll meet. My parents suffered from my obnoxious pleas to please, please put up the tree and lights already; I’ve often begun listening to Christmas music (secretly, of course) shortly before Halloween (and then very publicly beginning on November 1st); much time and thought goes into the Christmas gifts I buy for others; I love caroling, snow, and cider. In terms of celebrating Christmas, I have spent the past twenty years following society’s prescription quite closely.

And even if we were to make it more “Christian” (I mean, it is Christmas after all), I’m not half-bad at celebrating. I love helping churches and charities stuff shoeboxes for under-privileged children; I donate time and resources to organizations that help others at Christmas; I help out with nativity plays and holiday-inspired dramas about good cheer and loving one another; as a child, I used to watch an animated version of the Nativity Story that I’ve almost certainly broken, from watching it so much.

This year, though, I’m excited to finally celebrate Christmas. Looking back on my last twenty years of Christmas celebrations, I’m not ashamed of the way I’ve celebrated. Indeed, at times I’ve been really blessed by it. But I think in many ways it missed the point.

Let me explain—and before I do, let me add that I felt the same way about celebrating Easter this year. I hadn’t fully celebrated Easter until I’d observed Lent. The experience was so transformative—both immediately and long-term, thus far—that now I cannot really imagine one without the other.

Like Lent, Advent is an intentional period of time, set aside before the celebration of Christmas (in this case). Advent refers to a period of waiting; an anticipation of Christ’s coming into the world. Advent is actually the first season of the Christian calendar—the “seasons” of the Christian year are as follows:

Advent (always begins in either November or December) – the 4 Sundays and the days leading up to Christmas day
Christmas (this is actually a season—we’ll talk about that later) – 12 day season, beginning with the Nativity of Our Lord on December 25th.
Epiphany – up to 6 weeks, but always begins on January 6th*
Pre-Lent – 17 days (consists of the three Sundays before Ash Wednesday)
Lent – 40 days (not including Sundays), begins on Ash Wednesday, concludes with Holy Week – the week before Easter, including Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday)
Easter – 39 days (including Sundays)
Ascension – 10 days, beginning on Ascension Day, always falls on Thursday
Whitsuntide – 1 week, begins on Whitsunday (also known as Pentecost), which is 50 days after Easter Sunday
Trinity (referred to by a variety of names: “the time after Pentecost,” “ordinary time,” “Kingdomtide,” to name a few) – up to 28 weeks, begins on Trinity Sunday, the week after Whitsunday*
*the length of these seasons depends upon the date of Easter, since it varies every year

Living according to these seasons is interesting, to say the least. I hadn’t ever considered living according to seasons (not even seasons related to weather, since I’m from Arizona). It frames the experiences in your year, to say the least. If you live according to these seasons in conjunction with the church lectionary, you read Scripture and passages from apocryphal books in order to immerse more prayerfully into these seasons. Living according to the Christian seasons is intended to be a communal experience, involving the whole Church.

Why would I live in Christian seasons? Why, especially, would I choose to live in the Christian season of Advent, since it sounds like it will involve things like halting my celebrations and participating in a fast? To answer the second question:

To help put this season into perspective, remember that Christmas is the celebration of Christ coming into the world as an infant, born the way we were (which is profound, actually, when you think about it). Christ is the Messiah the Jews had been awaiting—and the Savior whom every one of us needs. Christmas, then, was preceded by a very, very long period of waiting.

Advent is one of the two penitential seasons in the Christian year (solemn, preparatory, involving denial to self). For me, that really puts it in perspective to realize that the only other time we are to be solemn like this is during Lent; you might also note that both penitential seasons precede the “coming of Christ” in some way—when He actually entered the world (Christmas) and when he went into it to teach, guide, and ultimately save us through His sacrifice and give us hope in the world to come (Easter).

To connect this back to my last twenty years of Christmas celebration: I’ve realized, through very real personal experience, that jumping headlong into celebration, without preparing for it, is less worthwhile. I can honestly say that, despite the vigor with which I used to celebrate Easter, I had never experienced it so fully as when it was preceded by Lent. On one hand, this might sound embarrassingly obvious: of course it meant more, Jessica. You’re obviously thirsty when you’ve been withholding water, and this is the same thing. Actually, though, it’s not entirely the same thing. Lent and Advent are not mere contrivances to make me appreciate Easter and Christmas more. They are not meant to be manipulative like that. They are intentional preparatory seasons, which place a person in the proper mindset in which to experience and celebrate Easter and Christmas. In the context of Christianity’s history, these fasts did precede these feasts. It’s kind of weird to reverse them—let alone do away with them altogether.
Advent is underappreciated, but you ought not to observe it out of pity. It is underappreciated because it is difficult, because society has taken us on quite a different path. I ask you to observe Advent with me, not because I need an Advent buddy (although I’ll happily take one), nor because it’s hipster or enlightened or something. I don’t claim to have come up with anything new here; on the contrary, I’m presenting the view of traditional Christians throughout history, and I am indebted to them and their articulations of these things.

The following posts will (in varying lengths, I’m sure) offer a few ways to observe Advent. To reiterate, Advent begins today and spans all the way up until Christmas day. Oh—and Christmas? In the Christian calendar, it’s a twelve-day season (the song makes much more sense now), full of joyous celebration and deep thankfulness for what Christ did for us—all of which began, really, with his coming to us in our human form.

A few ways to observe Advent…
Get your hands on a lectionary. I use the one in the Book of Common Prayer (U.S. 1928) (the BCP for short), which is in print, but you can also easily find it online: [instructions].
Whether or not you pray the daily offices from the BCP, the lectionary is a good place to start. The readings really help place us in the mindset of people who are awaiting the Christ to come.

More to come!

Humanity Lost—and Found—in Les Misérables

It’s kind of sad to think that this is a novel concept to me (no pun intended), but to some extent, we attribute a sense of humanity to each other in a meaningful way. It almost seems as though we can “clothe” a person in a blanket of humanity—or we can collectively perceive people in such a way that they seem to shed their humanity. Indeed, the term “dehumanized” is one we ought not to use recklessly; we must realize that we have the power to affirm the humanity within others, and we must take the responsibility seriously. The costs of neglecting it are devastating.

But enough of what I think. What does Victor Hugo write on the immortal pages of Les Misérables? He begins the story with the “honest bishop,” the man whose singular kindness is transformative, by the grace of God. The bishop operates out of a deep respect for others, initially shown to Jean Valjean every time the bishop calls him monsieur. Indeed, “every time [the bishop] said this word monsieur, with his gently solemn, and heartily hospitable voice, the man’s countenance lighted up. Monsieur to a convict, is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea. Ignominy thirsts for respect” (67). A few lines later, the bishop claims to already know Valjean’s name, without having heard it or looking at his passport: “your name is my brother,” the bishop tells him. At this point in the musical version, the astounded convict sings

“Yet why did I allow this man/To touch my soul and teach me love?/He treated me like any other/He gave me his trust/He called me brother…He told me that I have a soul,/How does he know?/What spirit came to move my life?/Is there another way to go?” (“Valjean’s Soliloquy/ What have I done?”)

Of course, the bishop famously saves Valjean from imprisonment, the latter having robbed him despite his kindness. The catalyst for Jean Valjean will come after he leaves the bishop’s kind house, but nevertheless, the seed has been planted.

Valjean’s respect for every person is modeled after the bishop’s shining example, as we see later in his treatment of Fantine. Her death in the novel is slightly different—and in my opinion, more heart-wrenching—compared to the musical version. Suffice it to say that Javert’s presence causes Fantine’s final, fatal fit of terror. Upon observing Valjean’s kindness to her, Javert exclaims “Miserable country, where galley slaves are magistrates and women of the town are nursed like countesses!” (255). He cannot see Fantine for anything but her most wretched state.

Hugo contrasts starkly different views of humanity through the eyes of each character: he paints Fantine, despite her fall from virtue and subsequent poverty, as a devoted mother; Jean Valjean is a noble defender of the ill and downtrod; and Javert is “a demon who had again found his victim [Valjean]” (253). He has become consumed with capturing Valjean, so much so that Hugo describes him as being absolutely imbued with “the deformity of triumph” (253) when he finally succeeds. Indifference is the only emotion he feels (if such a thing can be) when Fantine dies in front of his eyes—indeed, almost at the sight of him. Jean Valjean’s reaction is exactly opposite. He whispers some last words to Fantine, of which Hugo writes that “Sister Simplice, the only witness of what passed, has often related that, at the moment when Jean Valjean whispered in the ear of Fantine, she distinctly saw an ineffable smile beam on those pale lips and in those dim eyes, full of the wonder of the tomb” (256).

If anything, one would read the novel hoping that, even to Javert, people might become equally valued in death. Javert’s attitude toward Fantine does not change in the face of her death, showing that he was never going to ascribe humanity to her at all. Perhaps he is unable to do so because he lacks humanity himself. Hugo writes that Javert is so ecstatic at the capture of Valjean that his face showed “the fullest development of horror that a gratified face can show…nothing could be more painful and terrible than this face, which revealed what we may call all the evil of good” (253). He is a “wild beast” and a “mad-man” all at once, a creature incapable of compassion or even reason (254).

We cannot let ourselves make Javert’s mistake, even to a lesser extent. His path may seem distant to us. It may even strike us as absurd to think we could ever resemble him. Consider, though, how apt we are to assume the worst in others. Of course the homeless man on the street will use our money for drugs. Of course each and every poor person on the street has completely caused his or her situation. Of course they are beyond help, even if we try. So of course we shouldn’t even bother, right?

Back in January, when I visited Skid Row, I had versions of theoe thoughts swirling around in my head. I don’t have all of the answers, but I have learned a few things:
1. Jean Valjean and the Bishop were right to help others. They showed the light of Christ to others in very tangible acts of charity.
2. We cannot excuse ourselves for neglecting our fellow men, first and foremost in prayer.
3. As soon as we begin to dehumanize others, as Javert did, we become less human ourselves.

O GOD, Almighty and merciful, who healest those that are broken in heart, and turnest the sadness of the sorrowful to joy; Let thy fatherly goodness be upon all that thou hast made. Remember in pity such as are this day destitute, homeless, or forgotten of their fellow-men. Bless the congregation of thy poor. Uplift those who are cast down. Mightily befriend innocent sufferers, and sanctify to them the endurance of their wrongs. Cheer with hope all discouraged and unhappy people, and by thy heavenly grace preserve from falling those whose penury tempteth them to sin; though they be troubled on every side, suffer them not to be distressed; though they be perplexed, save them from despair. Grant this, O Lord, for the love of him, who for our sakes became poor, thy Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen.

Initial Thoughts On Les Misérables

A brief comment on the work, as I take it up daily to delve into the world of nineteenth century France: it is remarkable to read for many reasons, one of which is Hugo's treatment of humans as persons. He is deeply interested in the lives of the characters, sparing the reader no detail of their lives, no matter how small. His project seems almost round, as he takes pains to fill out the various details with short episodes organized into larger books by character; for instance, when describing the good Bishop, Hugo offers episodes ranging from describing the Bishop's frugality ("How Monseigneur Bienvenu Made His Cassock Last so Long") to showing us a rather private conversation of his with an old atheist ex-Revolutionary ("The Bishop in the Presence of an Unknown Light"). Hugo does the same with Jean Valjean, as he is introduced, and now with Fantine, who I am just beginning to read about. The lives of each are simultaneously treated systematically and haphazardly; Hugo organizes the book by character but seems to weave them together quite seamlessly, traveling from one to the other without apology or announcement.

Every character is a person to Hugo. Environment takes its toll on each character--indeed, this seems to be a subject with which Hugo is very preoccupied--but they are not mere products of the environment they dwell in. Hugo remarks on Jean Valjean's poverty, but does not omit his penitence. As I turn page after page, the genius of the structure becomes more apparent--of course he must begin with the Bishop, for it is through the Bishop's lens that Hugo views each character: with compassion and charity, not regarding his own discomfort in meeting them but solely their good.

A daunting task indeed, to read such a comprehensive treatment of human nature. And Hugo's method of describing his characters is distinct--it doesn't quite resemble the propriety of Austen, nor the wild intensity of Bronte (or so I've been told), nor even the methodical style of Dickens. It is distinct in its balance, matter-of-fact yet pulsing with life. The prose is arresting, and thus worthy of its content.

Les Mis for Today

My last post--written at the beginning of a semester that has now ended--described my first experience on Skid Row, and my thoughts were left somewhat unresolved. Five months later, I finally have more time to process that experience, as well as experiences I've had since then. And, I now have a new context in which to investigate the issue of poverty: I am reading Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, which the author opens with the following lines:

So long as there shall exist, by reason of law and custom, a social condemnation, which, in the face of civilisastion, artificially creates hells on earth, and complicates a destiny that is divine, with human fatality; so long as the three problems of the age--the degradation of man by poverty, the ruin of woman by starvation, and the dwarfing of childhood by physical and spiritual night--are not yet solved; as long as, in certain regions, social asphyxia shall be possible; in other words, and from a more yet extended point of view, so long as ignorance and misery remain on earth, books like this cannot be useless (1862).

Thus begins the famous novel, which apparently Hugo himself labeled a religious work, and which I expect will shed valuable light on the questions my experiences have raised. Here begins, then, a short series offering snapshots of my journey through Les Miserables.

"Say Hi" on Skid Row

[Part 1]

I live in Los Angeles county for nine out of twelve months. In mild traffic, it takes forty-five minutes for me to drive to Skid Row.

Tonight, I accompanied my RD and my five fellow RAs to Skid Row and served meals to the homeless there by helping a group called Monday Night Mission. The closest I'd ever come to the homeless was a few day trips into the inner city of Phoenix, giving out Christmas presents and doing light landscaping for a nonprofit organization. The contrast between those trips and this trip to LA is difficult to describe; suffice it to say that my comfort zone is located far away from the dimly lit alleys of Skid Row, where trash and rainwater decorate the sidewalks and you get the feeling that you're always being watched because you are so out of place.

The group of volunteers we helped tonight is composed of both "regulars" and new volunteers, and the success of each night literally depends upon the number of volunteers that show up each night, Monday through Friday. We meet at a Burger King a few streets away from Skid Row (incidentally, a decent part of town) and consolidate our food and our workers; then we drive to the corner of San Pedro and 6th St, set up the folding tables and the food, and serve the line of people waiting. The "regular" men stand around the group in a sort of perimeter, and the volunteers inside of the perimeter rotate so everyone helps serve in some one of the tasks.

I learned a lot tonight. Although I cannot articulate much of it at present, below are a few thoughts.

A person is not human because he possesses things, has an education, or sleeps in a bed. There is actually a lot of debate about what makes a person human: productivity, cognitive ability, quality of life, fulfillment of a certain role or purpose.
I know that every human is made in the image of God. As one of my team members so eloquently said, "we are all image-bearers. We gawk at God's creation of mountains, but we forget to recognize that every person is a creation." I saw a lot of faces tonight that saddened me or-at times- made me uncomfortable, but the fact that they made me uncomfortable does not make them inhuman. The fact that they sleep on the street also does not make them inhuman. While we were serving food to the people, a volunteer at the front of the line was constantly yelling "Say hi to Joey. Say hi to Frankie. Say hi to Gomez. Say hi to Gabriela." People asked us why we'd shout names in unison; one man look concerned and asked if we were a cult. We had been told by the founder of Monday Night Mission that the residents of Skid Row do not often hear their names spoken to them. Lack of interaction does not make someone inhuman either.

According to the founder of MNM, Skid Row has existed for the past eighty years because the homeless and mentally ill of LA are deposited there, for various reasons. When a police officer is called to pick up a homeless person, he does not arrest the person but drives him or her to Skid Row, where unimaginable perils await. Also, hospitals, after treating the mentally ill and keeping them for the required seventy-two hours, deposit them in front of Union Rescue Mission (located on San Pedro). A smaller group of us walked half a block to this mission, where we were told that it has six hundred beds. I glanced to both sides of me and saw more homeless people on the sidewalks, presumably the "leftovers" who hadn't come in time to get a bed at the mission. Around the corner was the Midnight Mission, which also gives beds daily to those on Skid Row. I hadn't been under any illusions that every homeless person magically ended up with a bed each night, but I had no idea that so many had to be turned away.

All of this, despite its complexities, boils down to the simple truth that Skid Row doesn’t have to exist. This is the most heartbreaking thing. It’s easy to think that places like these are inevitable and can never change. I’ve often rationalized their existence with the basic idea of human sin—that their bad decisions landed them there. What I hadn’t considered was that human beings are deposited to Skid Row, sometimes from a hospital where they were battling a mental illness, and left there with no friend to call, no family member to ask for help, no idea of how to survive in that dark place, and the threat (and reality) of violence permeating the air.

After wards, I came back to Biola (an island of peace in a sea of insanity, it seemed now), put on a sweater, pajama pants, and warm fuzzy socks. I poured myself a tall glass of ice cold water and used a restroom with perfectly functioning plumbing, running water, and soap. One of the paper towel dispensers didn’t work—an inconvenience at which I frowned.

Do not mistake me. I do not believe in validating the reality of hard situations by lamenting the comfort of good ones. God does not hate me for my comfort. Satan, on the other hand, knows that he can use my comfortable life to cause me paralyzing guilt and even despair. God tells me that as I have been given much, of me much more will be required, and as I have been entrusted with much, more will be demanded of me (paraphrased from Luke 12:48). God does not want to guilt us into doing good things. He wants us to be thankful for all we have, and from that place to offer it back to him by sharing with others. I daresay God is above “guilting us.” I don’t think he will settle for that. What we can give to God is ourselves, our souls and bodies, in obedience to Him. And while we’re doing that, we can love our neighbors.

I hope to offer more ways, in subsequent posts, that we can love our neighbors in LA. For now, we must spread awareness about the tragedy that is Skid Row and the fact that it is not necessary. While we do this, we should pray.

O GOD, Almighty and merciful, who healest those that are broken in heart, and turnest the sadness of the sorrowful to joy; Let thy fatherly goodness be upon all that thou hast made. Remember in pity such as are this day destitute, homeless, or forgotten of their fellow-men. Bless the congregation of thy poor. Uplift those who are cast down. Mightily befriend innocent sufferers, and sanctify to them the endurance of their wrongs. Cheer with hope all discouraged and unhappy people, and by thy heavenly grace preserve from falling those whose penury tempteth them to sin; though they be troubled on every side, suffer them not to be distressed; though they be perplexed, save them from despair. Grant this, O Lord, for the love of him, who for our sakes became poor, thy Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen.

Ducks + Graham Crackers - The Recipe for Happiness

I spent one day last week in the company of a very animated two year-old boy, and our morning mainly consisted of feeding an entire package of graham crackers to some very grateful ducks swimming in a pond. Having gone quite a few years without feeding ducks, I had forgotten the inherent happiness in it. When you've surpassed your early years, you begin to recognize some drawbacks- the gooey, soggy graham crackers floating in the murky pond, the uncomfortable position of kneeling in the wet, muddy grass beside the pond, and the chill in the air as you work to disperse each cracker in the water; and yet, the little boy's enthusiasm fueled me despite my complaints. Perhaps he believed that without our help, the ducks wouldn't have eaten all morning- or perhaps he merely enjoyed watching the ducks race each other to get the cracker pieces. Regardless, I realized that sometimes, age clouds our ideas about happiness. We forget that there is contentment in simple things; indeed, we look to insufficient- and sometimes wrong- means for our happiness. Or, most gravely, we mistake happiness for joy. I do not maintain that there was joy in feeding the ducks; because as pleasant as that experience was, I think more highly of joy than to limit it in that way. However, little pockets of happiness, among which lies this sweet memory, seem to somehow create a joyful life. The laughter that bubbled up from this little boy as he hurled the crackers toward the ducks was a happy moment, and I am thankful for it because it added to the joy I have in spending time in the company of children.

I am obliged to this little boy for teaching me something I had lost and am very glad to have found. I am hardly surprised at the lesson I learned from this child so much my junior- for what else greater gift do children give us, than that of re-discovering the meaningful things in life?