Joy to the World?

I think... I’m not sure. I think I see a hint of light through the trees as I gaze eastward across my back yard. Even in the darkness the snow is visible on the ground and on virtually every other flat surface. It was 31.9 degrees outside when I dragged my stiff old body out from under the comforting warmth of my side of the electric blanket. 31.9 degrees, heading for the mid 40s by mid-day; the first time the temperature will been above freezing since Sunday.

Inside, I smell the coffee brewing, and cinch my robe belt a bit tighter. The house is in a transitional state—kind of an organized clutter—as we already have begun to take down the Christmas decorations. Boxes and plastic totes are stacked hither and yon, grouped according to room so I can store them for easy identification immediately after Thanksgiving this fall.

It’s the middle of January, and we’ve already started the de-Christmas process. Some folk can’t wait to get it packed awayk. They start December 26 and have it done in one day. We intentionally leave ours up through Epiphany (January 6), the day the church, in some distant past, designated to remember the coming of the Magi (Wise Men from the east, according to the Gospel of Matthew). Then we start thinking about taking it down.

Some people would say we overdo it with Christmas decorations: a tree in the dining room, one in the living room, and one in each bedroom, each coordinated thematically with other decorations. The dining room is our Santa Room, with multi-colored lights on the tree (including bubble lights for a nostalgic touch). My collection of Santas occupies every flat surface except the dining table. My favorite is my “cool Santa:” dark sunglasses and a trombone. Touch the button on his left foot and he’ll toot out a jazzy version of “Jingle Bells” that morphs into “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

The living room theme is represented by Jo Lynn’s collections of angels and nativities. Many of the items hold sweet memories of friendships from the past, and we have three olive wood nativities, hand carved and purchased in Bethlehem.

The office holds the Hallmark tree loaded with train replica ornaments that were gifts from Jo Lynn’s late younger sister. The guest bedroom features our antique tree loaded with delicate ornaments that once decorated Jo Lynn’s grandmother’s tree.

In our bedroom is the Music Tree, graced with Jim Shore “Twelve Days of Christmas” ornaments and other music symbols.

Maybe we do overdo it. As our bodies age, we’ve begun to wonder. Just yesterday, for the first time ever, we mentioned maybe downsizing the decorations. We’ll see.

Anyway, by now I’ve secured my first cup of coffee, and it’s light enough that I can see the snow-covered roofs of our neighbors’ houses across our back fence. Looks like it’s going to be a cloudy day.

My reverie has left me with an ear worm. As “Joy to the World” reverberates through my head, my “scholar” mode kicks in, and I become aware of the verb tense: “...the Lord is come.” It’s present imperfect. It’s not “the Lord has come” (present perfect, indicating completed action). It’s the imperfect tense, indicating incomplete or ongoing action. That’s theologically significant. It’s crucial to the formation of one’s faith.

The birth of Jesus—the incarnation of the Word that was in the beginning with God and, indeed, was God—is significant, not as a one-and-done event, but as an ongoing reality that informs our understanding of eternal truth. And, while that eternal truth is “out there,” and while we can (sort of) comprehend it, our comprehension is imperfect—incomplete and, hopefully, ongoing.

From the very beginning, Christians have disagreed (too often antagonistically) and are divided over what the incarnation means. Much of our disagreement is about things over which we have no control, e.g., the anticipated “second coming” of Christ, the meaning of the cross, doctrines of atonement, the nature of eternity, et. al. We argue, as if our arguments will make a difference.

But there are some things that should unite us; things that seem abundantly clear (at least to me) and which we can control: “love your neighbor as yourself...” What part of that is difficult to understand?

“Love your enemies.” That’s not difficult to understand. We just don’t’ want to do it.

“I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat...” We’ve politicized that so we could divide and argue some more (because some of us just don’t want to do it).

The Lord IS come. And the Lord’s coming confronts our sinful nature, and we don’t like it. We prefer the present perfect theology of the Lord HAS come.

“Talladega Nights” is a shallow bit of cinematic fluff with no real redemptive value. But there is one scene that has potential (whether it was intentional remains a mystery). Ricky Bobby, the moderately dim-witted race car driver who is the focus of the movie, sits down with his family to dinner and says grace: “Dear Lord Baby Jesus, I want to thank you for this wonderful meal, my two beautiful sons, Walker and Texas Ranger, and my red-hot smokin' wife, Carley.”

Carley interrupts to remind him that “Baby” Jesus grew up. But Ricky Bobby is adamant: “Listen, I’m saying grace, and I like the Christmas version best!” And he continues, “Dear eight-pound, six-ounce, newborn infant Jesus, who doesn't even know a word yet—little infant, so cuddly but still omnipotent.” He then thanks baby Jesus for all his NASCAR victories and the millions in prize money he has won.

It’s my observation that a lot of Christianity is locked into a Ricky Bobby mentality that wants Jesus to stay in the manger because when he grew up, he became too difficult—too inconvenient—to follow.

That’s the way it looks through the Flawed Glass that is my world view.

Together in the Walk,

Jim