When you are forgotten or neglected or purposely set at naught, and you sting and hurt with the insult or the oversight, but your heart is happy, being counted worthy to suffer for Christ - that is dying to self.
When your good is evil spoken of, when your wishes are crossed, your advice disregarded, your opinions ridiculed and you refuse to let anger rise in your heart, or even defend yourself, but take all in patient loving silence - that is dying to self.
When you lovingly and patiently bear any disorder, any irregularity, or any annoyance, when you can stand face to face with waste, folly, extravagance, spiritual insensibility, and endure it as Jesus endured it - that is dying to self.
When you are content with any food, any offering, any raiment, any climate, any society, any attitude, any interruption by the will of God - that is dying to self.
When you never care to refer to yourself in conversation, or to record your own good works, or itch after commendation, when you can truly love to be unknown - that is dying to self.
When you see your brother prosper and have his needs met and can honestly rejoice with him in spirit and feel no envy nor question God, while your own needs are far greater and in desperate circumstances - that is dying to self.
When you can receive correction and reproof from one of less stature than yourself, can humbly submit inwardly as well as outwardly, finding no rebellion or resentment rising up within your heart - that is dying to self.
- Author Unknown
4.18.2012
4.14.2012
Farewell to Buster
Our little friend found a new home at my cousin's house. I offer this ode to Buster. :)You weren't very big when you first arrived home.
And then you somehow gained 80 pounds and we realized that you were a small tank.
A rather wide and stout tank, that is.
We loved you anyway.
You seemed to drool everywhere and we often thought you needed a gutter attached to your mouth to catch the perpetual river that somehow came out.
We loved you anyway.
You usually had selective hearing and it usually served you well when you were half a mile up the road and you decided to forget we existed. We cursed you and your obliviousness.
We loved you anyway.
You found much satisfaction in shredding
your blanket to bits, among other things.
You didn't mind breaking a few chains, a few collars,
a few leashes, nor did you mind chewing on a few bowls,
a few lawn ornaments, and a few bones.
We loved you anyway.
You always seemed to be fond of the game "chicken,"
And you didn't think twice about knocking me over,
unaware of your own strength.
I also cursed you then.
We loved you anyway.
You had brakes that often failed, as wet paws
and smooth cement do not make for smooth sailing.
A few crashes into the tool chest, a few crashes into the side
of the car, a few crashes into the sawhorses. You were none
worse for the wear. Maybe a little more inclined to pump the
brakes before sliding your way across the floor.
We loved you anyway.
Try not to gnaw the legs off the furniture and try not to
raise a ruckus in the neighborhood.
Try not to pee on everything. We know you like to leave your
mark, but it's really not necessary.
Try not to break anything or run over any small children in the
vicinity. Play nice.
Try not to drool all over the place. Most people don't want to have
to mop up after you.
But even if you do,
I'm sure they'll love you anyway.
4.02.2012
Green Thumb I Am Not
I have this bad habit of killing things, particularly green leafy things. I don't know particularly how or when the habit started, but my first recollection of a plant not faring so well under my care was the bamboo shoot my best friend got me when we graduated from high school.
It was doing so well, all that summer, into my first semester of college.
It was dead by Christmas break. I swear I watered the thing and took good care of it. Alas, it was not destined to live.
Another item that didn't fare so well was the bonsai kit a friend bought me. I couldn't even get the thing to germinate, let alone grow and actually live a healthy life.
I did manage to keep a peace plant alive all through grad school, which was a minor feat. The great thing about that plant was that it let you know when it needed water because it literally would wilt and get all droopy. Give it some water and in an hour or so it would pop back up. It was very good at speaking my language and crying out for help when it needed. Most plants are not that kind to me. I had to water my friends' plants one time for a week. I was terrified everything was going to be dead by the time they got home. I assure you, it's never because I don't try. I always give it a valiant effort to keep things alive, but for whatever reason, it just can't seem to happen.
My latest mishap was a plant from Nick. He knows I like flowers. I don't mind the occasional splurge on a bouquet, but the practical side of me usually wins out and says that nobody should be spending that much money on a bouquet of flowers that is going to die in a few days anyway, and probably even quicker under my care. My plants generally do not die slow deaths. So, knowing that I think flowers are occasionally impractical, he decided to get practical and buy me a little pine tree of some sort back at Christmas. It was a very nice, lovely little green tree, all wrapped up in its own little pot. You know, something good and hardy, something that can withstand the blows of a less-than-capable green thumb. I faithfully watered it, put him in some sunlight, and waited for him to grow and grow.
But he still manages to look like this:
How is this possible?
I do not understand. I follow the directions. I do what I'm told and I still manage to completely annihilate any green thing in my vicinity. Without even trying!
So, then today I had a good laugh when a friend of mine dropped off a small gift to me. It's this little tiny box, all neatly packaged with a purple flower on top. It's a forget-me-not flower kit. Of course.
I'm sure I'll waste no time in killing it, too.
So fair warning - if you ever feel compelled to buy me any type of plant as a gift or as friendly gesture, don't take offense if you come back awhile later and find that it has ceased to exist. I promise it's no indication of my personal affection for you. I just can't seem to keep things alive. No matter how hard I try.
2.22.2012
The Dust of Everyday Life
Pablo Picasso said, “Art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life.”
I have needed some dust washed off my soul lately.
In the wake of Jonathan's death, I have found myself reflecting on thoughts too numerous to mention all in one place, but finding at the same time a sense of desperation to get them out of my head and onto paper or onto canvas. Because in the days after his loss, I just kept coming back to the same phrase over and over again:
There is healing in the act of creation.
There is a solace that is found in making something that is all together separate from you, but still a part of you. Maybe it's my way of remembering. My way of honoring. My way of healing. Because I don't know what else to do. I don't know what else to do other than write. Journal entries. Blog entries. Cards to people, talking about Jonathan. I don't know what else to do other than to paint, to put a brush in my hands and figure out a way to bring life to my own soul. That's what I know to do.
I remember after I lost my grandfather several years ago, I dredged up a story I had written about him when I was an undergrad student. It was originally a creative writing assignment for an American Lit class I was taking. We were to write a story with "local color," a story that conveyed a distinct region or area, including dialect and geography. I chose my grandparents' farm and the words of my grandfather to tell the story I had bottled up in my head. So, when he died, I did a painting based on that story, a story I dearly love because, from my perspective, it so clearly captured my grandfather and all that I esteemed him to be. I treasure that painting and that story so.
Because that's what I have to do to wash the dust off my soul. Because that's where I find some semblance of healing and satisfaction in the face of loss.
There is healing in the act of creation.
"God created the heavens and the earth...and he saw that it was good..."
I have needed some dust washed off my soul lately.
In the wake of Jonathan's death, I have found myself reflecting on thoughts too numerous to mention all in one place, but finding at the same time a sense of desperation to get them out of my head and onto paper or onto canvas. Because in the days after his loss, I just kept coming back to the same phrase over and over again:
There is healing in the act of creation.
I remember after I lost my grandfather several years ago, I dredged up a story I had written about him when I was an undergrad student. It was originally a creative writing assignment for an American Lit class I was taking. We were to write a story with "local color," a story that conveyed a distinct region or area, including dialect and geography. I chose my grandparents' farm and the words of my grandfather to tell the story I had bottled up in my head. So, when he died, I did a painting based on that story, a story I dearly love because, from my perspective, it so clearly captured my grandfather and all that I esteemed him to be. I treasure that painting and that story so.
Because that's what I have to do to wash the dust off my soul. Because that's where I find some semblance of healing and satisfaction in the face of loss.
There is healing in the act of creation.
"God created the heavens and the earth...and he saw that it was good..."
2.07.2012
Joy
Joy is such a funny, funny thing.
I've thought about it a lot here lately and the conclusion I've come to is this:
It is so very selfless.
As I sat at Jon's celebration of life yesterday (and yes, it was a celebration) and watched his mom and sister sing the words to Matt Redman's song "Never Once," raising their hands in true worship, and I thought to myself, "That is what true joy looks like." That is what it looks like fall down on your knees and worship God, even in the midst of the greatest pain and loss of your life. That is what it looks to offer a sacrifice of praise, to praise God when you least feel like it. That is what joy looks like, dancing alongside grief. That is what it means to make Jesus greater. And that's what it looks like to choose joy.
It would be an epic failure if I tried to capture all that went through my mind and my heart yesterday as I sat listening to the words spoken about Jonathan's life. I went in just feeling so - so sorrowful, so sad. I missed my friend terribly and I wasn't sure how I was going to make it through the next hours. The tears just wouldn't seem to stop. And seeing his body lying in that casket - I kept waiting to see his chest move or to see his eyes open. (I promise I'm not trying to be creepy) I desperately wanted my friend back.
But as the stories began unfolding and as the worship songs brought forth praise, a small part of me was being healed. And I was humbled. I count it nothing less than a privilege to have spent my Thursday evenings with Jon, taking up a spot on the couch in his little corner of the world, watching episodes of Big Bang and Wipeout, rehashing scenes from Lord of the Rings. As I was at the visiting hours on Sunday afternoon, his mom nearly did me in when she pulled me in for a hug and said, "Courtney, you saw past his chair. You saw past his chair. And he loved you." And when his brother-in-law said, "You know, Jon had a lot of friends who could say a lot of nice things about him and he had a lot of friends who loved him from a distance, but very few who entered into his world like you did." It was too much. I wanted my friend back more than I wanted to hear those words.
But leaving - leaving that celebration behind and leaving Jon behind, I realized the value of choosing joy in this moment. If Tim and Twyla, Jesse and Kellye could choose joy, if they could choose to lift their hands in worship, if they could choose to smile and praise God, then surely I could do the same. Because I am not without hope. Jon was not without hope. Yes, he spent most of his life in a wheelchair. Yes, he had a terrible disease that robbed him of a lot of things the rest of the world said was necessary. Yes, he didn't like what that disease had done to him. But he was not without hope. He saw that disease as something not to be bitter about, but something to be grateful about because it was making him more like Christ. I love how Anne Lamott talked about it in her book Traveling Mercies - she was talking about an interview with a man who had a terminal illness. He was learning to savor life and instead of having a life-threatening disease, he had a disease-threatening life. Jon had a disease-threatening kind of life.
That kind of joy isn't manufactured by the world. It's not manufactured by a religious crutch or a warm fuzzy feeling from a so-so god. You don't pull that kind of joy out of thin air, you don't conjure it up and you don't fabricate it. It comes only from a God who said, "I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete." Jon's joy is complete. And never once did he walk alone.
I've thought about it a lot here lately and the conclusion I've come to is this:
It is so very selfless.
As I sat at Jon's celebration of life yesterday (and yes, it was a celebration) and watched his mom and sister sing the words to Matt Redman's song "Never Once," raising their hands in true worship, and I thought to myself, "That is what true joy looks like." That is what it looks like fall down on your knees and worship God, even in the midst of the greatest pain and loss of your life. That is what it looks to offer a sacrifice of praise, to praise God when you least feel like it. That is what joy looks like, dancing alongside grief. That is what it means to make Jesus greater. And that's what it looks like to choose joy.
It would be an epic failure if I tried to capture all that went through my mind and my heart yesterday as I sat listening to the words spoken about Jonathan's life. I went in just feeling so - so sorrowful, so sad. I missed my friend terribly and I wasn't sure how I was going to make it through the next hours. The tears just wouldn't seem to stop. And seeing his body lying in that casket - I kept waiting to see his chest move or to see his eyes open. (I promise I'm not trying to be creepy) I desperately wanted my friend back.
But as the stories began unfolding and as the worship songs brought forth praise, a small part of me was being healed. And I was humbled. I count it nothing less than a privilege to have spent my Thursday evenings with Jon, taking up a spot on the couch in his little corner of the world, watching episodes of Big Bang and Wipeout, rehashing scenes from Lord of the Rings. As I was at the visiting hours on Sunday afternoon, his mom nearly did me in when she pulled me in for a hug and said, "Courtney, you saw past his chair. You saw past his chair. And he loved you." And when his brother-in-law said, "You know, Jon had a lot of friends who could say a lot of nice things about him and he had a lot of friends who loved him from a distance, but very few who entered into his world like you did." It was too much. I wanted my friend back more than I wanted to hear those words.
But leaving - leaving that celebration behind and leaving Jon behind, I realized the value of choosing joy in this moment. If Tim and Twyla, Jesse and Kellye could choose joy, if they could choose to lift their hands in worship, if they could choose to smile and praise God, then surely I could do the same. Because I am not without hope. Jon was not without hope. Yes, he spent most of his life in a wheelchair. Yes, he had a terrible disease that robbed him of a lot of things the rest of the world said was necessary. Yes, he didn't like what that disease had done to him. But he was not without hope. He saw that disease as something not to be bitter about, but something to be grateful about because it was making him more like Christ. I love how Anne Lamott talked about it in her book Traveling Mercies - she was talking about an interview with a man who had a terminal illness. He was learning to savor life and instead of having a life-threatening disease, he had a disease-threatening life. Jon had a disease-threatening kind of life.
That kind of joy isn't manufactured by the world. It's not manufactured by a religious crutch or a warm fuzzy feeling from a so-so god. You don't pull that kind of joy out of thin air, you don't conjure it up and you don't fabricate it. It comes only from a God who said, "I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete." Jon's joy is complete. And never once did he walk alone.
2.03.2012
Grief
Grief is such a funny, funny thing.
I've thought about it a lot here lately and the conclusion I have come to is this:
It is so very selfish.
I know, that seems a little harsh. Maybe too abrupt.
But the thought occurred to me yesterday while I was driving home, tears streaming down my face.
I lost my good friend Jonathan yesterday. I knew the day would come - the phone call would come - at some point. His heart and his lungs would some day give way and the phone call would come. It came yesterday at 11:51 a.m. And my heart was grieved because my friend was gone. Just as I was getting ready to text his mom to see if now was a good time to come to the hospital to visit, my caller ID flashes the name of our pastor, and I knew. I knew.
As a thousand thoughts ran through my mind, about how it had to be a Thursday. Thursday nights for the last year and a half have been spent watching Big Bang and Wipeout with Jonathan. Of course, it would have to be a Thursday. I thought about how Myrt and Paul are out of town and they don't know yet. They'll miss his funeral. I thought about Tanner, Jonathan's dog, and wondering about how confused he'll be that Jonathan hasn't come home yet. I thought about James, Jonathan's caregiver, who has devoted ten years of his life to serving Jonathan. And I thought about Tim and Twyla, Jonathan's parents. I truly, truly believe that apart from God himself, they are the sole reason Jonathan lived as long as he did. Thirty-one years is a long time to be living with Muscular Dystrophy. He far outlived the usual life expectancy for people with this disease. I have never met more selfless people.
And I thought about how selfish grief is. I was grieving what I had lost instead of rejoicing in what my friend had gained. And if there was anything Jonathan was about, he was about others and he was about selflessness. Not once - not once - in the few short years that I knew him did I ever hear him complain or take pity on himself for being confined to a wheelchair. I never heard him grumble, I never heard him say "woe is me." He volunteered his time at the church doing Powerpoint (he literally only had the use of his right thumb, which was enough to let him use his computer and operate his wheelchair), he worked at another church creating and burning audio files of sermons and special events. He always wanted to know how my family was, how my other friends were, what my boyfriend was up to. It was always about others.
And if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.
Jonathan spent himself on behalf of others, just like Isaiah 58:10 commands us to do. I cannot be selfish in my grief. Not that I should disregard the sadness or squelch it or act like everything is a-okay, but that grief should never lose sight of what the ultimate truth is:
Jonathan spent his life on behalf of others because there was a Savior and a King who spent his life on behalf of Jonathan. That is a life worth rejoicing over.
I've thought about it a lot here lately and the conclusion I have come to is this:
It is so very selfish.
I know, that seems a little harsh. Maybe too abrupt.
But the thought occurred to me yesterday while I was driving home, tears streaming down my face.
I lost my good friend Jonathan yesterday. I knew the day would come - the phone call would come - at some point. His heart and his lungs would some day give way and the phone call would come. It came yesterday at 11:51 a.m. And my heart was grieved because my friend was gone. Just as I was getting ready to text his mom to see if now was a good time to come to the hospital to visit, my caller ID flashes the name of our pastor, and I knew. I knew.
As a thousand thoughts ran through my mind, about how it had to be a Thursday. Thursday nights for the last year and a half have been spent watching Big Bang and Wipeout with Jonathan. Of course, it would have to be a Thursday. I thought about how Myrt and Paul are out of town and they don't know yet. They'll miss his funeral. I thought about Tanner, Jonathan's dog, and wondering about how confused he'll be that Jonathan hasn't come home yet. I thought about James, Jonathan's caregiver, who has devoted ten years of his life to serving Jonathan. And I thought about Tim and Twyla, Jonathan's parents. I truly, truly believe that apart from God himself, they are the sole reason Jonathan lived as long as he did. Thirty-one years is a long time to be living with Muscular Dystrophy. He far outlived the usual life expectancy for people with this disease. I have never met more selfless people.
And I thought about how selfish grief is. I was grieving what I had lost instead of rejoicing in what my friend had gained. And if there was anything Jonathan was about, he was about others and he was about selflessness. Not once - not once - in the few short years that I knew him did I ever hear him complain or take pity on himself for being confined to a wheelchair. I never heard him grumble, I never heard him say "woe is me." He volunteered his time at the church doing Powerpoint (he literally only had the use of his right thumb, which was enough to let him use his computer and operate his wheelchair), he worked at another church creating and burning audio files of sermons and special events. He always wanted to know how my family was, how my other friends were, what my boyfriend was up to. It was always about others.
And if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.
Jonathan spent himself on behalf of others, just like Isaiah 58:10 commands us to do. I cannot be selfish in my grief. Not that I should disregard the sadness or squelch it or act like everything is a-okay, but that grief should never lose sight of what the ultimate truth is:
Jonathan spent his life on behalf of others because there was a Savior and a King who spent his life on behalf of Jonathan. That is a life worth rejoicing over.
1.30.2012
Know What This Is?
This would be my flight confirmation for my return trip to Kenya. :)
Columbus to Dallas, Dallas to Dubai, Dubai to Nairobi. I want to cry at the thought of being on a plane for 16 hours between Dallas and Dubai, but we'll manage somehow. Either way, I'm headed back!
1.21.2012
God's Funny Like That...
Let's just say yesterday was not the greatest of days. I don't want to use the words "horrible" or "awful" because I feel like it's an insult to those who are legitimately having bad days, like my friends Jon and Alex. Both have been in the hospital since Wednesday night, independent of one another. Alex suffered another round of severe Crohn's pain and was staring down the possibility of another surgery. And Jon - well, some very scary moments when I thought I was going to lose my precious friend. He is wheelchair-bound due to Muscular Dystrophy and has been quite sick in general here lately, problems breathing and things. But heart problems popped up on Wednesday, starting with an irregular heartbeat. It went downhill from there, to the point on Thursday night where he was non-responsive. And to go into the hospital yesterday to see him, to feel so helpless in the face of something that I could physically do nothing to fix, I wanted to run and hide. And to look his mom in the eye as she pulled back from a hug, tears streaming down her face, barely whispering, "We almost lost him, Courtney..." Sometimes the thought is too much.
So me not getting a job that I so desperately wanted, one that I knew I could have done well, seemed an afterthought in the midst of all that my friends were going through. They were fighting for their next breaths, hoping those moments to be without pain, and here I was crying my eyes out about not getting a job. Life wasn't making a whole lot of sense yesterday.
After making the rounds at the hospitals, I needed to run some errands to pick up some things on the "to buy" list. As trivial and meaningless as it seems in the face of what has been happening, I was on a mission to find a pair of skinny jeans. I don't own a pair and quite frankly, never have cared to own a pair, but for whatever reason, I decided to cave and buy a pair. So I made a pit-stop at the mall. I'm looking at jeans and as I'm becoming aware of what's playing over the stereo, I hear the lyrics, "...everything's right, hey, everything's right tonight..."
Of course, God would do something like that. He plays Matt Wertz, one of my all-time favorite musicians, in the middle of a crowded mall at the moment when I most needed to know that everything was, in fact, going to be right.
So, not only did I get a pair of skinny jeans (on sale!) out of the deal, I got a gentle reminder from a sovereign God via Matt Wertz:
Everything's right.
So me not getting a job that I so desperately wanted, one that I knew I could have done well, seemed an afterthought in the midst of all that my friends were going through. They were fighting for their next breaths, hoping those moments to be without pain, and here I was crying my eyes out about not getting a job. Life wasn't making a whole lot of sense yesterday.
After making the rounds at the hospitals, I needed to run some errands to pick up some things on the "to buy" list. As trivial and meaningless as it seems in the face of what has been happening, I was on a mission to find a pair of skinny jeans. I don't own a pair and quite frankly, never have cared to own a pair, but for whatever reason, I decided to cave and buy a pair. So I made a pit-stop at the mall. I'm looking at jeans and as I'm becoming aware of what's playing over the stereo, I hear the lyrics, "...everything's right, hey, everything's right tonight..."
Of course, God would do something like that. He plays Matt Wertz, one of my all-time favorite musicians, in the middle of a crowded mall at the moment when I most needed to know that everything was, in fact, going to be right.
So, not only did I get a pair of skinny jeans (on sale!) out of the deal, I got a gentle reminder from a sovereign God via Matt Wertz:
Everything's right.
1.17.2012
Letter FAIL
Part of my job entails processing incoming money. We received a check from an alumnae group:
The breakdown is below for how we want the scholarships to work:
Dead and Blind Scholarship: $555.60
Houston, we have a problem. I'm pretty sure we were aiming for deaf and blind on that one.
The breakdown is below for how we want the scholarships to work:
Dead and Blind Scholarship: $555.60
Houston, we have a problem. I'm pretty sure we were aiming for deaf and blind on that one.
12.25.2011
Even The Rocks
There's been a lot of talk about a baby and a manger here lately. This morning as the pastor talked about that baby named Jesus lying in a manger, for some reason I couldn't escape that man named Jesus who died on the ultimate Christmas tree - the cross.
But before I get to that, it seems there was a lot of commotion when Jesus was born. Angels singing. Shepherds worshiping. Throw in their sheep and other livestock and I imagine the noise level increases a great deal. Who knows what else added to the cacophony. Safe to say it wasn't a silent night.
Fast forward thirty or so years. Jesus is heading into Jerusalem, about to make his triumphal entry on a humble donkey (check out Luke 19:28-44 for the full details). Lots of noise here, too.
As he went along, people spread their cloaks on the road.
When he came near the place where the road goes down the Mount of Olives, the whole crowd of disciples began joyfully to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen:
“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!”
“Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”
Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples!”
“I tell you,” he replied, “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.”
So He makes his triumphal entry. The people are going wild and Jesus says he won't silence them. He won't stop them because even if he does - and he could - the rocks would cry out.
Fast forward again to that moment when he's hanging on the ultimate Christmas tree. He has cried out to God, asking why he has been forsaken. A darkness has fallen over the land. And I can't help but wonder if the people have gone silent. Because you know what happens when Jesus finally takes his last breath?
"At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split..." (Matthew 27:51)
The rocks cried out. In that moment, they could no longer be quiet, even when the people were. Even when those who had sworn they would never leave him, they would follow him always - even when they grew silent - the stones cried out.
Because there is a God in heaven who will be revered one way or another, whether I choose to worship him or not. Whether you choose to worship him or not. He will be worshiped. He will not be denied what is due Him.
From the manger to the cross - and everything in between - it is about a God who is sovereign, a God who has said even if you keep quiet, my creation will cry out.
Yes, Christmas is about a baby in a manger who was born to set us free from death and sin. Yes, Christmas is about angels proclaiming to a fallen world to not be afraid. Yes, Christmas is about an unlikely man and woman being called to be the father and mother of a baby boy named Emanuel. But that baby boy is no good if he remains there, if he remains in that manger, where a few wise men would come from afar to worship him. I don't need just a baby in a manger. I need a Savior on a cross whose blood was shed for me. A Savior who would be buried and rise again in three days. I need a Savior that demands that the rocks cry out.
Even when I don't.
Not that that should ever be a justification for my silence, that simply because there will be others who will speak forth the good news, I shouldn't have to. No. But it is a firm reminder that I have been given a choice - quiet and stillness or noise and proclamation. He will be heard one way or another. But wouldn't I rather be the one proclaiming? Wouldn't I rather be the one that has the privilege of speaking forth the ultimate Christmas story, a story not only of a baby in a manger, but a man on a cross who was laid in a tomb, rose again, and now sits at the right hand of his Father?
Yes, the rocks will cry out - even if I am silent.
But God, help me to not be silent.
But before I get to that, it seems there was a lot of commotion when Jesus was born. Angels singing. Shepherds worshiping. Throw in their sheep and other livestock and I imagine the noise level increases a great deal. Who knows what else added to the cacophony. Safe to say it wasn't a silent night.
Fast forward thirty or so years. Jesus is heading into Jerusalem, about to make his triumphal entry on a humble donkey (check out Luke 19:28-44 for the full details). Lots of noise here, too.
As he went along, people spread their cloaks on the road.
When he came near the place where the road goes down the Mount of Olives, the whole crowd of disciples began joyfully to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen:
“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!”
“Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”
Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples!”
“I tell you,” he replied, “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.”
So He makes his triumphal entry. The people are going wild and Jesus says he won't silence them. He won't stop them because even if he does - and he could - the rocks would cry out.
Fast forward again to that moment when he's hanging on the ultimate Christmas tree. He has cried out to God, asking why he has been forsaken. A darkness has fallen over the land. And I can't help but wonder if the people have gone silent. Because you know what happens when Jesus finally takes his last breath?
"At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split..." (Matthew 27:51)
The rocks cried out. In that moment, they could no longer be quiet, even when the people were. Even when those who had sworn they would never leave him, they would follow him always - even when they grew silent - the stones cried out.
Because there is a God in heaven who will be revered one way or another, whether I choose to worship him or not. Whether you choose to worship him or not. He will be worshiped. He will not be denied what is due Him.
From the manger to the cross - and everything in between - it is about a God who is sovereign, a God who has said even if you keep quiet, my creation will cry out.
Yes, Christmas is about a baby in a manger who was born to set us free from death and sin. Yes, Christmas is about angels proclaiming to a fallen world to not be afraid. Yes, Christmas is about an unlikely man and woman being called to be the father and mother of a baby boy named Emanuel. But that baby boy is no good if he remains there, if he remains in that manger, where a few wise men would come from afar to worship him. I don't need just a baby in a manger. I need a Savior on a cross whose blood was shed for me. A Savior who would be buried and rise again in three days. I need a Savior that demands that the rocks cry out.
Even when I don't.
Not that that should ever be a justification for my silence, that simply because there will be others who will speak forth the good news, I shouldn't have to. No. But it is a firm reminder that I have been given a choice - quiet and stillness or noise and proclamation. He will be heard one way or another. But wouldn't I rather be the one proclaiming? Wouldn't I rather be the one that has the privilege of speaking forth the ultimate Christmas story, a story not only of a baby in a manger, but a man on a cross who was laid in a tomb, rose again, and now sits at the right hand of his Father?
Yes, the rocks will cry out - even if I am silent.
But God, help me to not be silent.
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