No So Amazing People--Magi by Wil Triggs

I’m feeling a little cheated this Christmas season. I didn’t get to dress up like a Bible character and put myself into the Bible story for our Kindergarteners. Our curriculum had us studying the bad prophets and kings. I don’t want to dress up like one of those bad Jahoia-whatevers. Then, suddenly in a nod to Christmas, the lessons shifted to Mary. I guess I could have dressed up like an angel, but Lorraine really wanted to tell the story of Mary. So, it was her turn this year; she didn’t dress up.

There’s something about an old, bearded man in jeans and a sport jacket morphing into a shepherd or an apostle or maybe even a tax collector that is just irresistible to me. And our kids are young enough that when I announce myself as whoever, there is a little part of them that believes it.

Now my head goes to the magi from the east—upper echelon, exotic, other-worldly. They were learned. Sometimes called wise men or kings, they brought gifts and avoided meeting Herod a second time. The Bible doesn’t give details, but traditions have added names and more. I could be one of them, I think; instead my head goes to special guests. I’m the casting agent this time.

Caspar, representing Europe, brought gold; I cast my friend from Ukraine. He has school-aged kids and does ministry in the midst of war, where air raid sirens are a part of daily life. They’ve started rationing electricity in his neighborhood at unpredictable times. He helps with small groups. He teaches workshops to help young people use their minds and imaginations. He has contests for people to write down a story of faith in what seems like an unending war. What a gift of gold he brings.

Melchior, representing Asia, brought frankincense; I cast my friend from Singapore. He too is a pastor and a publisher.  He has a strong ministry to men and helps to call them to great holiness. He also has no pretentions. He is kind and humble and acts sometimes like Obiwankenobi or Yoda. He is funny and heart-felt serious at the same time. His quiet prayer sustains me through years.

Balthazar, representing Africa, brought myrrh; I cast my friend from Nigeria. He’s works for a publisher/printer. The town and church he grew up in were burned to the ground—Boko Haram or the Fulani, I can’t remember which, but they’re both there. He perseveres, and his gentle love and prayers for others always refresh. The publishing goes on as does the church in Nigeria.

So, for next year, it’s not going to be me. I’m inviting my real friends to make their imaginary journeys on camels—clop, clop, clopping their way across oceans and borders toward the Bethlehem of Kindergarten at College Church.

The shepherds saw and heard the angels announce the coming of Jesus, but the magi saw from afar. They saw something in the stars that was significant enough for them to put their lives on hold and take a journey to a foreign land to worship a king they clearly did not know.

Each of us takes that journey only to discover that our homelands are the faraway-from-God places where we bring books of faith to children or bookstores or seminaries or war zones—the Word that is alive is with us.

The faraway wisemen capture imaginations through the ages and we can’t help ourselves. We embellish and create stories. It’s fun. But we also see Jesus in new and different ways when we see him through the eyes of far-off people. Jesus transcends our homes, nations, cultures. He is in but beyond our human foibles, even the ones we make as Christians.

I like to think that the Christians I most admire are the ones not like me, but people far away—in miles or in history—from my own limited experience: my friends from Asia and Europe and Africa. But you know, we are not really so different from one another. We do not define God by our experience. God makes us; he defines us by his everything; he uses us in our own contexts for light-shining where darkness imagines itself ruling for what feels like forever.

Joseph’s shame, the cunning smirk or cynic’s scoff

From the womb to the feeding trough

Or all we know as humanly smart

He dives headlong into the human heart

From the cup of wrath he does not shrink

The filthiest dregs he dares all to drink.

The servant Wise-Man-Maker journeys on

From darkest night to pearlescent dawn

Hammered to the skull-place of no recall,

The royal robes of heaven, he surrenders all.

He gives up life and gives more than anyone can

Dawn comes to the sleeping land of woman and of man.

Our tattered gifts we journal, we kneel, we bring

From Joseph’s tomb he lifts his baton that we might sing.

A Man Walks into a Bar on Christmas Eve by Lorraine Triggs

My father spent one Christmas Eve at a bar.

I didn’t know that till years after his death and I was home for Christmas break. I learned it from Mr. K, who was doing some interior house painting for my mom. I stuck my head into the room to say hi.

“You know, your dad was one of the few people who didn’t give up on me,” Mr. K—call me Roy, now—said a bit wistfully. “Did you know that he sat with me in a bar one Christmas Eve so I wouldn’t go home drunk? I was ready to call it quits, but your dad didn’t let me. He really loved the Lord.”

That I knew. But I didn’t know the bar story, even though I remembered that Christmas Eve. My sibs and I complained about my father’s absence and about waiting forever to begin our Christmas Eve traditions. I also remember that the phone rang a lot, and after every call, my mom assured us that Daddy would be home soon. So be patient. Oh, of course, we were’nt.

Grace and truth walked into that bar oh so many years ago when my father was both to Roy. The truth was clear: You don’t sit in a bar and get drunk on Christmas Eve. The grace evident in cup after cup of coffee poured, every phone call after phone call to my mom so she was in the loop and every hug after hug he gave to his not quite so grace-filled daughters who pounced on him the moment he came home.

How many of us might have been Roy, sitting in a bar—maybe not on Christmas Eve—but still in need of the grace and truth that walked into the world that first Christmas.

The truth was (and still is) clear: humans needed to be saved from their sin. Grace, cloaked in human form as it was, may not have been as obvious nestled among the hay and animals had it not been for excited shepherds who came looking for the Savior that had been born. Some thirty years later, John the Baptist recognized grace and truth in human form and proclaimed, “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1:29).

In the lyrical language of Philippians 2:6-11, it’s easy for me to miss just how far down, down, down Jesus stooped to be born in the likeness of men. Instead of grasping his equality with God, he picked up a towel and basin and washed dusty feet. Instead of rejecting the cup of suffering, Jesus submitted to the Father’s will, “to the point of death, even death on a cross” (2:8), because that was what he was born to do as the One full of grace and truth.

I have never sat in a bar on Christmas Eve. The pious part of me wants to say, “and I never will.” But with my father’s legacy, I hear a smiling grace and truth say, “Oh, you never know the places you’ll go with us.”  

Not So Amazing People--Innkeepers by Wil Triggs

Growing up, motels were magical places for me. We didn’t have a lot of money, so when one of my sisters and her family moved to Connecticut, we all went into deep mourning. We talked on the phone once a month because of the expense and sent handwritten letters. When summer came, we drove across the country, from southern California all the way to New England. Most nights we stayed in motels and ate in restaurants—two things we almost never did otherwise. Adventure. One week to get there, two weeks there, and one week to get back home.

We had AAA maps guiding us; they suggested possible places to stay along the way. Often we didn’t use their suggestions, choosing instead to find something a little more budget friendly. Sometimes there was a pool in the parking lot. I begged to put coins into the magic fingers machine that made a bed vibrate for ten minutes if we were lucky enough to get a room that had one. I could watch television from bed. The rooms were clean with ready-made beds that we didn’t have to re-make in the morning when we left. The innkeepers were always nice. Sometimes I got a free bottle of Coke and in the morning before we left, those who drove got free coffee.

The worst time was when we would hit a town where we had planned to stay and the rooms in the motels were all taken. The neon signs could say “vacancy,” “no vacancy,” and sometimes just a simple “no.” We sometimes had to keep driving longer than we wanted and pay more than we planned, but eventually we always managed to find a place to stay.

Finding a place to stay whispers thoughts of Christmas. In the story of Christmas, there’s Mary, Joseph and Jesus. All others fade into the background. Sure, other people are there, but their significance dulls in comparison to the Incarnation.

The innkeeper. The shepherds. The wise men from the east. They all factor into the story and are memorable in their own not-so-amazing ways.

Actually, the innkeeper doesn’t show up in the biblical story. He’s just implied in a reference to Mary and Joseph being turned away from shelter. Luke 2:7 ends with “because there was no place for them in the inn.” Somebody had to give them the “no vacancy” message. In those days they did not have little neon signs to inform weary travelers.

Maybe the thought of a mama giving birth in an inn as public as that was more than the innkeeper could handle, or maybe there were just too many people. Or, if it was a distant cousin who turned them away, well, that adds a whole other wrinkle. Rooms for people were on upper floors, whereas animals were relegated to the ground floor. Whatever happened, a person turned them away. And there’s always the traditional cave or barn-like structure where we place our Nativity figures.

Even from the very beginning, Jesus had no home. Bethlehem was an ancestral “home,” but they were just there for the census. And this baby took his first breaths in the manger, not a family home or a room for special guests. Welcome to the world, Jesus, the one where “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” (Matt. 8:20)

When the baby grows up, he tells a story that features another innkeeper.

This innkeeper opens his door to a hated class of man who brings with him an injured man he has rescued.

The hated rescuer says to him, “Take care of him, and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back.” (Luke 10:35b)

The innkeeper takes the wounded man under his wing, into his inn. Well, Jesus doesn’t really that say as he finishes the story, but he instructs the listeners who first heard him tell it, “You go, and do likewise.”

For the most part, our lives are not lived out in hotels and restaurants. Real life is ordinary life, whatever that might mean for each of us. Eventually vacations end; we go home, make our beds, cook our meals, live our lives.

The events of Christmas traditions are not the real Christmas—much like creches on display showing baby, mother, father, animals, magi, shepherds and angels all arranged around the baby Jesus to tell the story. Our houses and traditions do not hold him. They cannot hold him.  We cannot contain him.

But he can hold us. Jesus can and does hold us. There is room for us in his inn, and he does not turn us away. The vacancy sign is in us until we pull off the road, and he comes to inhabit every room, every corner—binding wounds, offering food and drink and care, serving and loving lost people like you and me.

He only says to us quite simply and wondrously, “You go, and do likewise.” 

Avent Cloaked in Mystery by Lorraine Triggs

“Do you know what the five most sinful cities are in the U.S.?” Wil asked me the other day.

“New York? Chicago? LA?” For sure those were the top three.

Well, one out of three isn’t bad. According to the article Wil read in the Christian Post, the five most sinful cities in America are:

Number 5: Atlanta

Number 4: Philadelphia

Number 3: Los Angeles

Number 2: Houston

Number 1: the original Sin City—Las Vegas

Chicago and New York City didn’t even make the top ten according to the WalletHub’s Vice Index study the Christian Post article cited. The study’s baseline for sinful behavior was anger and hatred, jealousy, excesses and vices, greed and lust—the Seven Deadly Sins.

As part of its study, WalletHub pondered, “What leads many of us to partake in sinful behavior may seem like a mystery, especially when those behaviors become common in our daily lives.”  

If sinful behavior is a mystery, then God’s Word has already revealed whodunit and the motive for our bent to sinning. The Apostle Paul explained it in Romans 5:12, “Therefore, just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned.” Or as the New England Primer put it, A is for Adam as in “In Adam’s Fall We Sinned All.”

Sin and Advent aren’t incompatible.

Advent is also a mystery, a mystery wrapped in promise—a mystery first given to “A is for Adam” et al; then whispered to the prophets that a virgin would conceive a son whose name would be Immanuel, that an insignificant town would bring forth the one to be ruler in Israel, and that people living in the most sinful cities in the world would see a great light.

Advent is mystery wrapped in the Son’s name, Immanuel—God with us—and revealed when the Word, who was with God and was God, became flesh and dwelt among us, which remains a wondrous mystery to me.

If in “Adam’s Fall We Sinned All”, then in Jesus how “much more will those who receive the abundance of grace and the free gift of righteousness reign in life through the one man Jesus Christ.” (Romans 5:17)

To those who sit in deep darkness in the most sinful places in the world, to those who sit in the murky shadows of sin and to those who don’t think they are sitting in darkness at all, Advent is gift-wrapped in life and light—there for us to open, to receive, to believe and become sons and daughters of God.

As we walk through Advent this month, let’s ponder and treasure in our hearts this gift from “the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.”

Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
risen with healing in his wings.
Mild he lays his glory by,
born that we no more may die,
born to raise us from the earth,
born to give us second birth.

Thanksgiving Weekend by Wil Triggs

What gain has the worker from his toil? I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with. He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil—this is God's gift to man. Eccl. 3:9-13

Leaves raked, blown, bagged or composted. Remember when we used to set them aflame. Looking back, it seemed more of a community act than what we do today. Remember the blue haze when we built fires in the curbside or makeshift firepit. This was the way leaves were handled.

Now we line up brown bags along the street. Or compost the lot into flowerbeds.

Think about other ways that things were done and are, for the most part, not done any longer. 

The hand-tied bow tie, ever so slightly askew, meant authentic.

The three-piece suit with with a special pocket in the vest for a pocket watch.

The pocket watch.

The suit measured and tailored in a downtown shop—Gaede’s or Horsley’s in Wheaton; Dean Olson’s in Glen Ellyn.

From percolate to drip to press to pour—things have a way of changing.

As you walk in the doors of Starbucks, remember this is where Sandberg’s used to be. 

Or when you choose which kind of pizza you’d like, think of the watercolor tubes or school supplies you used to pick up there. 

Maybe you’re enjoying a sit-down meal where you used to buy bakery cookies or a birthday cake. 

Today you can watch a play where people used to wait in line to deposit their paychecks on Friday.

And there’s coffee roasting where—I don’t know what was back in that alley before.

Where some cars used to get their oil changed, people enjoy burgers, fries and beer.

You can phone an old friend and discover a new bagel shop.

You can buy doughnuts where you used to get Chinese food.

Or Mexican food in what used to be a department store.

 You can still check out books where you used to check out books. 

You can still eat your lunch in the same parks.

You can still wait in line at the meat market.

You can still visit at visitations or grieve with those who grieve on the same corner.

 And you can still get popcorn where you used to get popcorn.

You can still get luminaria supplies at Ace.

You can still worship God where you used to worship God. 

You can still pray wherever you pray.

 One day a parking lot might become your bedroom.

One day your creperie might become a halal shop.

One day your bedroom might become a closet in a luxury condominium.

One day your place of work might turn into a dog-grooming salon.

 Change happens not just in buildings or towns.

We change too, summer yellows to autumn browns,

Spring bulb loves, summer families nest,

Autumn faith harvest, winter servant rest.

It could be that loving people and God—

A thing that always seems a little odd

Is the most normal and right thing we’ll ever do—

This is how you become the real you.

 Everything that was, is or will be

Speaks of more than just community—

The buildings are not what you really see

People are the buildings of eternity.

That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we looked upon and have touched with our hands, concerning the word of life—the life was made manifest, and we have seen it, and testify to it and proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father and was made manifest to us—that which we have seen and heard we proclaim also to you, so that you too may have fellowship with us; and indeed our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ.
1 John 1:1-3

Treasuring My Treasures by Lorraine Triggs

I scroll through my online newspaper, and see a pop-up ad that asks, “Can you retire on five million dollars?” I start to panic. I don’t know if I can retire on five million dollars. I didn’t think I needed five million dollars to retire, but I do now, thanks to the marketers who know my age demographic.

As I stress about this hypothetical five million dollars, I wonder what happened to my wide-eyed innocent eighteen-year-old self—the one who, when asked how she planned on paying for her college education, replied cheerfully, “I don’t know, but I was accepted.”

The finance office was clueless to the treasure my widowed mother had given to my sisters and me: trust the heavenly Father and his care for birds, flowers, widows and the poor. The office, however, was looking for more tangible treasure from me when it came to paying my school bill at this fine Christian institution.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus is clear about treasure. If it were a pop-up ad, perhaps it would ask, “Is your treasure on earth moth-eaten and corroded? In danger of being stolen?” I can imagine anxious people clicking on the ad, but what would they do with Jesus’ reply: “Do not lay up for yourself treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure it, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21)

The word “treasure” is both a noun and a verb. The noun is the treasure chest overflowing with sparkling coins and possessions; the verb is what we hold as dear or cherished—relationships, children, grandchildren, status, country, achievements, ourselves.

Both reveal hearts still tethered to storing up treasures on earth, even though we know that stuff fades; cars die the first sub-zero day of winter; old oak trees fall on houses; relationships get messy; children wander as adults; achievements have a shelf life.

Instead of hoarding all our treasures, what if we emptied the treasure chest, singing as we did:

Riches I heed not, nor vain, empty praise;
Thou mine inheritance, now and always.
Thou and thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my treasure thou art.

And the next time a retirement pop-up ad asks me if I can retire on five million dollars? I will reply cheerfully, “No, and I don’t need to.”

So much for that five million dollars.

Specialization and the Soul by Wil Triggs

Lorraine closed the car door on her finger one morning this summer. She opened the door immediately to undo or at least stop what she had done. There was no undoing it. We drove to work, and she tried to soldier on. She took a painkiller and applied pressure but finally made her own appointment at the medical clinic and drove herself the three minutes it took to get there from work.

Our primary care doctor was not in, so another doctor saw her. He said it looked bad. I think she already knew that. He said to get stitches she would have to go to immediate care in the next town. They would x-ray it, too. Apparently that particular medical clinic didn’t do stitches.

Lorraine came back to work, and I drove her to the second clinic.

We found the right department: Urgent care.

The first person to see her finger, not sure if she was a nurse or an aide or an assistant, asked what happened. Lorraine explained and showed her the finger. She looked at the finger and said it looked bad.

The doctor came in and agreed that it looked bad. He said that they would be recording our time together to make reporting easier. He would do the stitches after an x-ray. The doctor expressed surprise that a car door could do such damage. He was pretty sure there was no fracture, but the tech escorted her down the hall and took the pictures. Lorraine came back and the doctor did the stitches—four on front and three back of the finger, her middle figure, what, we learned, some in the medical field call “the driver’s finger.”

That person who saw Lorraine agreed with the doctor that she would need to see an orthopedic doctor. She showed us how to wrap the finger and put a brace around it. They made an appointment for us at another clinic a little farther away, along with a follow-up appointment with them.

The day before the scheduled appointment with the orthopedist, his office called and said that he had to cancel because this doctor didn’t work on fingers.

When we went back for her follow-up appointment, the clinic people seemed upset with us that we had cancelled. We explained that the doctor didn’t work on fingers. “Why did you make the appointment with him?” they asked. We didn’t, we replied, you did.

They left the room.

When they came back, they explained that the appointment-making screen in their software allowed them to pick an orthopedic doctor, but it did not show their specialties or limitations. They made a new appointment with a different doctor who, they assured us, definitely would treat a finger—Lorraine’s in particular.

Lorraine had good sessions with the doctor and physical therapy for her finger, and I am happy to report that it’s as good as new.

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing;

heal me, O Lord, for my bones are troubled. Psalm 6:2

In our fallen world, I think that we are prone to fall under the same specialization limitations with our souls as with our injured physical bodies.

We are adept at recognizing and handling certain sin injuries. We specialize in seeing the bad in others, offering counsel to them, praying with them. In the comfort of our narrowed perspective, we easily overlook the sin that is closer to us than any other person can ever be. In that private room where only we and God can go, we leave quickly, closing the door behind us and forgetting the treatment for our souls, only to go on dishing out wisdom and insight we think other sinners need. May each of us find our own Nathan, and may he be strong enough to say, “You are the man.”

We can often look at a person and see that something has happened and it’s bad. Or at first glance it doesn’t seem too bad, and then the x-ray comes back and there’s a fracture. Or maybe we see a problem but are not able to apply the sutures to stop the bleeding and help it begin to heal. We often think we know the answer and can ably treat the poor souls around us. But then there’s the problem of our own, you know, the S word. Sin. Or the D word. Death.

I want a doctor who specializes in everything, one who knows all my bones and muscles, one who knows every one of my organs, my blood and how my brain works, all my nerves and their ends. He makes house calls and when I have to go to his office, I find him there. And he doesn’t call what he does “practice.” There is no specialization needed. No trips to multiple locations. No insurance authorization. Jesus is more than enough. I want God!

Something has happened and it’s bad. But something else has happened that is good, and his good when applied to our bad wins every time. Let this good news go out to all. Praise him. Bless him. Live and walk today with him.

Let this be recorded for a generation to come,
    so that a people yet to be created may praise the Lord:
that he looked down from his holy height;
    from heaven the Lord looked at the earth,
to hear the groans of the prisoners,
    to set free those who were doomed to die,
that they may declare in Zion the name of the Lord,
    and in Jerusalem his praise,
when peoples gather together,
    and kingdoms, to worship the Lord.

Psalm 102:18-22

That Judgment Thing by Lorraine Triggs

No parenting book will ever prepare you for the sheer terror of sitting in the passenger seat of your car with your teenage son or daughter behind the wheel for the first time.

A few years before our son would sit in that enviable seat, he asked me why I sometimes waited for a car to go by before I turned, and other times I didn’t. I explained that the longer you drive the more you learn to judge the speed of the car, the road conditions—all that wise driving advice. Advice that came to fruition when he did have his learner’s permit and uttered what has now become a family classic, “You know, I’d be a good driver except for that judgment thing.”

And I’d be a good Christian except for that judgment thing.

The online dictionary defines judgment as an opinion or decision that is based on careful thought. All is well until I take a thoughtful and careful look at my heart, and see a mixed bag of judgments, with most of them being of the “snap” kind. A driver waits till the last minute to merge to one lane. “Can’t they read? Lane. Narrows. Merge. Left.”  A news notification pops up, and in the brief time that it’s on my screen, I pass judgment on the entire world. A neighbor’s yard is overgrown, and the trash bins sit in front of the garage. Fortunately, I don’t have to pass judgment on this one; I can call the Village of Winfield for this gross miscarriage of home ownership.

Just yesterday, the New York Times posted an article by Jancee Dunn, “How to Stop Being So Judgy.” Wrote Dunn, “We pass judgment all the time, and sometimes we don’t realize we’ve done it. Research suggests that when people see a new face, their brains decide whether that person is attractive and trustworthy within one-tenth of a second.”  That’s impressive timing for spotting a speck in someone’s eye.

Dunn turned to experts for advice on how to catch yourself from being overly judgmental. Their advice: Notice when you’re judging (one expert said it might require a “vigilant eye”); explore your reaction; and swap judgment for curiosity and empathy.

God’s Word has a different take on this expert advice.

In Matthew 7:1-5, Jesus painted a ludicrous picture of the vigilant eye. “Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye?” (vv. 3-4)

Even the most vigilant eye has a hard time seeing beyond its own log, which makes it easy to justify self-focused reactions. In Matthew 7:5, Jesus spoke to the heart of the matter, “You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother’s eye.”  

While experts advise swapping judgment for curiosity and empathy, God’s Word calls to a new way of judging and discerning that is infused with wisdom from above that is “first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere.” (James 3:18)

This wisdom is shaped by gospel mercy and embedded in the Word that not only became flesh and was filled with grace and truth but also became sin for us so that we might become the righteousness of God, no longer under judgment but under mercy and grace.