Of Cows Calves & Christmas Chaos

Searching for the meaning of Christmas:

Driving back from a hustling and bustling Newcastle preparing for its Christmas profits, my wife and I happened across a cow and new-born calf at Mt Kanwary. For us born-and-bred, city folk this was entirely new. To be sure, this was no classy maternity ward copiously supplied with drugs-on-tap and decorated with every bell and whistle as we would expect for our family.

We saw mother give this minutes-old offspring her undivided attention as she licked it where it dropped. It just lay right there in the open, in its birthplace, wobbling its head among the bugs, flies, dung and every other unsanitary thing. It was contrary scene: so beautiful in its natural purity and so confronting in its rawness. What a peculiar place to be born, the family-historian in me mused.

Most of us know where we were born. Perhaps Western Suburbs Hospital, like me, or the Mater like my wife and kids. Maybe Maitland’s Birthing Suite; at least some intended and respectable place, unless it was a taxi. I also wondered where exactly was Jesus born? “In Bethlehem, in a manger, because the Inn was full, as the Good Book says,” I hear some say, reflecting my own traditional background, to a degree.

When a kid I did not understand what a manger was. It was a barn, yes? At least it was as special and as fancy as the strange word suggested. It didn’t really matter for I was focused on those presents. Much later I was surprised to learn that a manger was a feed-trough! What? They laid their new-born in a chewed-over, saliva-dribbled and snorted-upon, animals’ food trough? Could God allow such a thing, for his Son? What about something more palatable, like our popularized, up-market crib in a super-elegant and hermeneutically sealed barn, located in an idyllic, star bright and blissfully sleepy Bethlehem, according to the greeting cards and hymnals?

A thousand years of European ‘Christian’ tradition, we find, gives us a Caucasian Mary and Joseph kneeling adoringly by a halo-lit white-skinned, baby Jesus, with a couple of shepherds and three fancy-dressed wise men. This is all chaos-free; and, without another person in sight, just some cows, a sheep or two, and the iconic donkey. Our modern portrayals include streams of flashing, coloured lights, the omnipresent Santa, his magical reindeers, even Bart Simpson, or Snow White and her seven dwarfs. Clearly, anything goes.

But what were the circumstances of Jesus’ birth? I once thought Jesus was born in the street, but the Bible doesn’t indicate that, in fact it indicates very little. What about: Joseph, on entering the town with a ready-to-deliver Mary, being turned away at the reception counter by some blasé inn-keeper, causing them to go to some back-alley barn? No, none of that. What about a make-everything-perfect Santa – surely he was there to make everyone happy? Nope. Not a one.

What we do read is that Mary and Joseph were in their birth-town of Bethlehem for the census of Qurinius, about 5 - 4 BC [1]. As for the many other visitors they most probably were accommodated with family or friends. While there Mary went into labour, but there was no suitable space in the upstairs “Guest Room”. A house in Bethlehem was commonly of two levels within one enclosed space. It sheltered everything, including the barn with its animals at ground level [2]. So, Mary laid Jesus in a feed-trough downstairs near the animals, next to where he was probably born. Upstairs, we can understand, was quite chaotic and noisy, with some very excited at this new birth; of the One who came to save those who wanted God to rule in their life.

But, Jesus’ birth, I suspect, went largely unnoticed by ever so many occupied by the hustle and bustle of an over-crowded, back-country town stretched to the limit of its social pleasantness and of its civic and commercial resources, as it tries to cope with the demand of the influx of thousands, with their grunting camels, shopping carts and raging traffic. Sound familiar?

Will Jesus’ birth and life go largely unnoticed again this year? If this Christmas is like any other it most certainly seems that way. Aye? What? Think about Jesus -- born a Jew, The Israelite, of middle-eastern appearance? Wasn’t he the One who said, unless a person is re-born and believe that God sent Him in the flesh, to die for humanity and rise again, they could not enter God’s kingdom? Do you mean Jesus of Bethlehem said that? Yes. That is what Christmas is all about.

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[1] Matthew 1:18-2:12 and Luke 2:1-20 are the only gospel naratives of Jesus' birth.
[2] "Guest House" is the most likely translation of the Greek kataluma.

For further discussion on the circumstances of Jesus' birth refer: J.B. Green, "Birth of Jesus" in “Dictionary of Jesus and the Gospels.” (IVP. 1992) p.69.

This article was published in the December issue of our village paper, Paterson PSST, and in the Weekend Magazine of the regional newspaper "Maitland Mercury" of 20041224 under the title of "Searching for the meaning of Christmas" .
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Treasured Jewel

Flickering shafts of early sunshine
Skim across endless waves.
Crests of jade are converted into
Diamond studded necklaces
Glimmering in brilliant array.
All there for her taking.

Tongues of waves caress the shore,
Laying a soft, golden carpet,
Of praiseful submission before her feet,
Inviting her to press her tender soul,
And embed her essence,
Into this moment of truth.

The Light of the risen Son catches her eye.
She turns, looks, she knows.
Her new dawn has come.
This moment to be sanctified,
As she holds its entrancing beauty
And embraces the hope offered therein.

There is no deception or magic here.
No smoke, no mirrors or glossy brochure.
Nothing to beckon the false or weak willed.
There is but the hard earned
Honour and the concealed glory
Known only through suffering and sorrow.

Her new day has dawned,
The promised renewal awaits.
She is who she always was,
Only more so now for the time has come
For this most precious, treasured Jewel,
To step into her freedom as never before.

Her bare foot takes its stand,
Soft moist sand is parted
and her destiny is claimed.
A past closes behind
as her other foot rises.
Her being shifts and her soul is filled.

The Living Creature & the Glory of the Lord

God says,
"In the last days I will pour out my Spirit on all people … and old men will dream dreams.”

The Acts of the Spirit of Jesus, 2:17.

The Eagle came and perched just a couple of metres from where I was standing. It looked intently at me. I returned the gaze and at the same time felt drawn to this regal and powerful creature, wanting to be close to it. Would it come and rest on my forearm? But I have no protection from its claws. "Come," I invited, as I stretched out my left arm. It stretched its wings and came and took its stand confidently, its claws seeking their grip clinging to my flesh. I felt safe, without fear; I marvelled at this event, as did those others around me.

As it is written in the Scriptures, eagles are not to be feared by those that love God. They are a sign of his love and good intentions toward them, of his promise and his favour, of his security and care, of his power and authority. The ‘eagle’ is also represented in the living creature/s worshipping at the throne of God.

In Ezekiel 17 there is the analogy of the Lord as the Eagle. In Isaiah 40 the soaring eagle symbolises the triumphant life of those who wait upon the Lord. It is utterly amazing to me that in his Word the Lord uses the analogy of the eagle for both himself and for his faithful ones in fellowship with him. There is more to this than meets the eye, I am sure; I must think on this thing.

For those who do not believe God, or the One he sent, the soaring eagle is a sign of judgment and condemnation, and of impending destruction. He spreads his wings and hovers over them ready to swoop down and devour them.

That which is written at the beginning of this post was the dream of this old man, last night. The eagle came to me and took its stand first by me and then with me. It did not force itself upon me, for it was up to me to invite, if I wanted. I am encouraged to know that I am at peace with the Lord, that he is close to me, that His power rests upon me. And, what of those places where the talons pressed home their grip upon my flesh? Are they not the marks of faithful communion with the Lord? The Lord’s will be done.

Whenever I see an eagle in the sky, majestically soaring and circling, I think of the Lord of Glory and of my relationship with him. I consider whether I am waiting on Him or just doing stuff my way; whether I am soaring above or trudging below. I am reminded that I am not to think God does not understand my difficult circumstances, but that he gives strength to the weary and power to the weak. It is always a beautiful time of encouraging reflection and of prayerful communion with He who commands the eagle in all its ways.

What is our future?

Here is an insightful commentary on today's world: past, present and future....

"When a whole community, removes God and Jesus from their lives, they become capable of inflicting the most indescribable evil upon each other. Life without God has no meaning, no value and therefore, human beings also come to have no value and it becomes possible to look upon a human being and regard them as being sub-human. And if they are sub-human, it is quite feasible to get rid of them."

.... an extract from "My Journey" by Rabbi Harold Vallins. The rest of what he wrote is a worthy read indeed and I commend it to all.

Warm Thoughts

It is cold and blustery here today. But the fluffy quilt-mist is rolling over the mountain to keep it warm, its extremity stretches out and then curls under. The trembling trees grab its fraying edges whenever they can, and hold it with their leafy fingers to their chest. And, so the mountain finds contentment amid the storm.

wind breath power life presence

All of a sudden the wind rattled the window next to where I was sitting, just the once, and quite markedly. It surprised me, and it startled me within, in a manner. I knew it was windy and I felt rather comfortable inside, but this was different. It alarmed me. It spoke to me.

I had been working on an historical research project into the early evening, having done so for most of the day. It was a choice thing, I didn’t have to do it, there was no assessment, nor compulsion, other than that from within. Thankfully I realised I was trying to do too much too quickly (story of my life) and I was not leaving room for other things, other people, including God. From inside I knew I had neglected my relationship with the Lord that day and I needed to sit with him and talk and listen. I needed to be in his presence. I needed to know his presence, I needed to know him.

So I stopped the research, switched off my PC, and went and sat down for a moment’s interlude before I went elsewhere and took the time to meditate and pray. The moment stretched, and I watched some telly. And then the wind hit. Immediately I thought the Lord was tapping on the window reminding me he was still interested if I was.

Nah, I thought, God doesn’t do that, my background of conservative evangelicalism doesn’t really allow for such non-textual things. That background, a large portion of which I am thankfully shedding as a no-fit skin, is rigid and dry, and almost lifeless with its ultra-critical, Bibliolatrous and eccentricly 'orthodox' view of how God makes himself known in the world. This is coupled with an equally rigid and dry hermeneutic that is less than embracing of Spirit-life. It prefers a controlled and patterned legalistic form of self-be-in-control spiritually. Therein is an overwhelming organisational structure and demand for an unquestioning submission to (alleged) authority/ies; conforming to those things demonstrate one’s worthiness and value as a pew-bound, saluting believer. So I sat, and sat, and my mind simply couldn’t rest. Then I wondered again, who else would be rattling the window?

Perhaps it was my troubled conscience making something of just the wind hitting the window, as I am sure it has done thousands of times before. But, just perhaps it really was Him moving within his created realm doing as he pleases. After all, He has before acted through the wind and he is the same One. Why ever do 'we' still insist on saying that people are allowed to knock on doors and windows, but God would never do such a thing? Is he powerless to do so? Maybe he is just too proud and haughty to do such a thing? Or, and I think, are we just too stupid and so damagingly formal to believe he could, or would? Could such God-limiting thoughts have their roots in an innappropriate and eccentric elevation of the Bible where God is portrayed as one who has abrogated his right and his will to reveal himself to humanity in manners consistent with how he has done so in the past. Oh, you would never read that anywhere, I am sure, but there is no space for it, for God communicates ONLY and ALWAYS through his written Word according to that line of textually-dependant thinking which is largely based on Spiritless tradition and not on the person of the Almighty?. Bah-humbug, for doesn't even the Bible say somewhere, you search the scriptures but you do not find me?

I have been thoughtful for many years about the Lord when strong winds come and have an influence upon my immediate surroundings and me personally. I am mindful of how he visited the mountain, and the temple. How Spirit is God-breath. How Spirit is in the wind. How Spirit is breathed. How Breath is wind. Is it not the case that we cannot speak unless we breathe? (Some my say, well, you can speak through your fingers and through words. Yes, I agree, for even God has written on tablets and walls and the hearts of mankind with his finger!).

I simply love powerful winds and they always bring me to think of the Lord in an adoring and worshipful way, even if my life feels threatened by such exuberant power. I was certainly sure the wind on the windows wasn't the enemy. After all, why would that deceiver want me to get to and talk with my God in quiet solitude and grow close to him?

So, having wised-up to the moment (eventually; I am so slow, and way too often) I arose and wrapped myself in two blankets and went and sat out on the balcony and we talked. He talked I listened. I talked he listened. We communed; we were in presence, together. This is so new to me, it is so powerful, so liberating, so rich and peaceful, altogether beautiful. And I knew the contentment that only he brings as I climbed into bed and we talked: he talked and I listened, I talked and he listened ... I... he... we... US.

Sometimes...

Sometimes living is like walking through
a mind field of emotions and choices
on days where thick, soupy clouds
cover the potholes and crevasses.

Sometimes writing is like strolling
through a bowl of spaghetti
looking for a particular strand to chew,
swallowing it and waiting
as it gets transformed into a part of you.

Sometimes it is like walking through a desert
with little obvious but more than enough
to consume a whole day.

Sometimes I edit way too much
and loose the spontaneity of my thoughts
and end up with my words slipping
from my knife and sticking to the sand.

Sometimes I trip over and bloody my nose.
Other times I stand up and walk
toward the sunrise not knowing what the day will bring.
But the walk is worthwhile,
for the new day is not made by me,
yet I am invited to participate.

There is always a choice to be content no matter what,
but the strength for that comes from without,
from he who made the Son rise.

Sometimes I forget the most basic things.
Sometimes I choose what is best.
I should do that all the time,
and not just sometimes.