Without the benefit of knowing the whole story, we are not sure what to think of Strider when first we encounter him. He lurks in the shadows of The Prancing Pony, keenly interested in the Halflings and their songs. It is evident he knows more than he reveals. Is he friend, or is he foe? We are unsure.
In time, we learn that Strider is in fact a friend, and will be a trustworthy guide for the hobbits on their journey. His true name is Aragorn, and as the story unfolds we discover there is much more to him than meets the eye. He is the heir of Isildur. He will not always lurk in the shadows. Someday he will take his rightful place as King of Middle Earth.
When J.R.R Tolkien first placed Strider in “The Fellowship of the Ring,” he wasn’t quite sure what he would do with him. Although he had already invested twenty months constructing what would become an epic story, only later would Strider, the vagabond Ranger, become the central character in the climax of “The Lord of the Rings.” At the first, he was merely a mysterious guide; later he became a magnificent king.
Aside from the “everyman” appeal of Frodo and Sam, Aragorn is the next most fascinating character in the famous trilogy. The burden of his mission is almost as great as that of Frodo, the designated Ring Bearer. Unlike his fateful ancestor, however, Aragorn refuses to accept the ring of power when it is available to him. He is willing to walk the path of humility until the appointed time.
In this way, Aragorn is a picture of Jesus Christ in his first advent. The Scriptures teach that Jesus, “being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness” (Philippians 2:6).
Like Aragorn in the days he was known as Strider, Jesus is often misunderstood. Some think him mysterious. Most assume him to be a particularly gifted teacher. Others, while calling him the son of God, mean only that his relationship with God is no more unique than any of us could potentially achieve.
But this is not the Christian understanding of Jesus. The reason we are so keen to celebrate his birth is that we believe that Jesus was not just a good man, or a great teacher. He was God in the Flesh, fully human and fully divine. His glory, like Aragorn’s, veiled during his life, and revealed at his resurrection, was nonetheless an essential part of his nature. He was the Son of God.
This is why multiplied millions of every race around the world pause each year to celebrate his arrival on planet Earth. For his was not merely an exemplary life. Nor did his birth simply signal the advent of an enlightened brand of teaching.
No. The coming of Jesus was a thunderclap in history. God himself invaded humanity. As such, he does not simply deserve our adulation; he demands our worship.
And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him… (Matthew 2:11).
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Christmas Past, Present and Future
It is our twenty-eighth Christmas as a married couple. Twenty-eight freshly-cut Christmas trees. Twenty-eight years of hanging stockings. Twenty-eight Christmas mornings waking up together.
In the early days we traveled to someone else’s home for Christmas. But for the most part, Christmas has been our own private family tradition, a blending of the homes we grew up in, as well as those habits unique to our own family.
Growing up in Chicago, my wife never had a real tree. Every year her father pulled it out of the basement and plunked it in the living room. Consequently, one of the traditions in our home has been the annual trip to secure a live (or rather, dead) tree. While I once bemoaned the annual expense and the loss to the environment, I have come to enjoy our trees as much as she does.
The traditions evolve as our family grows up. In the old days, each kid took a turn being hoisted to the top of the tree to place the star. Nowadays, our boys are taller than me. They joke about hoisting me to the top.
This afternoon, after helping to position the tree in our home, I went outside to do some chores. As I returned our found our sons, 16 and 20 years old, rummaging through the ornament box, laughing and reminiscing as they placed them on the tree.
When our first ornament came in the mail back in 1980, I had little idea how much I would come to appreciate these small tokens of Christmas past. Back then I thought them a cute trifle, a throw-in Christmas gift.
There are the countless engraved ornaments given by our parents in California and Illinois. I once wondered why they went to the time and expense of decorating every gift with an ornament. Now I know: long after the gift is forgotten or broken, the ornament has a home on our family tree.
The best ornaments are the ones crafted by our children as gifts when they were in Kindergarten. Each one is complete with a name and photograph. These are the ones that elicit guffaws from our grown children.
I imagine that someday many of these ornaments will move from our home to theirs. As their children trim the family tree, they, too, will laugh at pictures of mom or dad when they were small.
When the holidays arrive, my wife and I will show up at their house. After greeting our grandchildren, we will gaze long and wistfully at the tree. Chances are, it will be freshly cut. We will admire the handmade ornaments our grandkids made for their parents. We will search for the macaroni mug shots our children made when they were small and, seeing them, we will cast a grateful eye toward heaven.
We will remember Christmas past, when it was our children making the ornaments, when it was our children trimming the tree, when it was our children laughing at funky photographs. And we will pray for Christmas future: may our children’s children grow up in homes filled with memories as happy as those of their parents’.
In the early days we traveled to someone else’s home for Christmas. But for the most part, Christmas has been our own private family tradition, a blending of the homes we grew up in, as well as those habits unique to our own family.
Growing up in Chicago, my wife never had a real tree. Every year her father pulled it out of the basement and plunked it in the living room. Consequently, one of the traditions in our home has been the annual trip to secure a live (or rather, dead) tree. While I once bemoaned the annual expense and the loss to the environment, I have come to enjoy our trees as much as she does.
The traditions evolve as our family grows up. In the old days, each kid took a turn being hoisted to the top of the tree to place the star. Nowadays, our boys are taller than me. They joke about hoisting me to the top.
This afternoon, after helping to position the tree in our home, I went outside to do some chores. As I returned our found our sons, 16 and 20 years old, rummaging through the ornament box, laughing and reminiscing as they placed them on the tree.
When our first ornament came in the mail back in 1980, I had little idea how much I would come to appreciate these small tokens of Christmas past. Back then I thought them a cute trifle, a throw-in Christmas gift.
There are the countless engraved ornaments given by our parents in California and Illinois. I once wondered why they went to the time and expense of decorating every gift with an ornament. Now I know: long after the gift is forgotten or broken, the ornament has a home on our family tree.
The best ornaments are the ones crafted by our children as gifts when they were in Kindergarten. Each one is complete with a name and photograph. These are the ones that elicit guffaws from our grown children.
I imagine that someday many of these ornaments will move from our home to theirs. As their children trim the family tree, they, too, will laugh at pictures of mom or dad when they were small.
When the holidays arrive, my wife and I will show up at their house. After greeting our grandchildren, we will gaze long and wistfully at the tree. Chances are, it will be freshly cut. We will admire the handmade ornaments our grandkids made for their parents. We will search for the macaroni mug shots our children made when they were small and, seeing them, we will cast a grateful eye toward heaven.
We will remember Christmas past, when it was our children making the ornaments, when it was our children trimming the tree, when it was our children laughing at funky photographs. And we will pray for Christmas future: may our children’s children grow up in homes filled with memories as happy as those of their parents’.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Tennis Court Soundtrack
Although baseball and football were my passion in high school, I have always enjoyed competitive sports. If it requires skill and a ball, count me in.
That is why I was happy to pack my tennis racket when my friend and I went to a summer camp together. He was an avid player, and I was happy to give him whatever competition I could muster.
When we headed out to play, however, we were dismayed to discover that the courts were in disrepair. Massive cracks cris-crossed the playing area. Faded lines defined the boundaries. Worst of all, there were no nets.
That’s okay, we decided. We’ll just hit the ball back and forth. It will still be fun.
Wrong. After fifteen minutes of futility, we gave up and found something else to do.
I have often thought about this incident. Why did the game feel so futile? Was it that we could not bear to play without winning? It is a fair question. I have been accused of being overly competitive more than once in my life.
But it was more than that. A primary skill in tennis is the ability to navigate the ball over the net and into a defined boundary on the opposite side. Without nets and clear boundaries, the game had no point. It became an endless and meaningless circle of volley and return.
This is precisely the problem with the common worldview that permeates our culture. We assume that the world is ours to shape. There are no rules but the ones we make up. There is no point but that which we invent. Life is a spinning wheel. We are caught it in an endless circle of cause and effect, volley and return.
Privacy and tolerance have, predictably, become our supreme values. You play by your set of rules; I’ll play by mine. You stay out of my game; I’ll stay out of yours. There is no overarching objective to our existence. There is no intrinsic meaning to our connectedness to one another. We are merely molecules bumping into one another meandering down an endless maze to oblivion, or nirvana, or whatever.
If so, count me out. I want to believe that my life has meaning, and that there is a reason why I am here. I want to think that relationships matter, that love is real, and that suffering has significance. Don’t tell me that life is an endless circle with no rhyme or reason; make it a beautiful story, a tragic comedy, a divine drama, complete with beginning, middle and end.
Is that too much to ask? No, it isn’t. Not if you embrace the simple story found in the Bible and, better yet, rooted in human history. For Christianity is not merely a set of ideals and ethics. It is grounded in human history. A baby was born: we believe the baby was divine. A man was killed: we believe he rose again.
If it is true, then all of life – the good, the bad and the ugly – has meaning. If it is true, the rules are not ours to invent, the boundaries our not ours to create. If it is true, every life, every relationship has intrinsic value. If it is true, love and laughter, sorrow and pain, beauty and joy are worth cherishing.
If it is not true, well, whatever….
That is why I was happy to pack my tennis racket when my friend and I went to a summer camp together. He was an avid player, and I was happy to give him whatever competition I could muster.
When we headed out to play, however, we were dismayed to discover that the courts were in disrepair. Massive cracks cris-crossed the playing area. Faded lines defined the boundaries. Worst of all, there were no nets.
That’s okay, we decided. We’ll just hit the ball back and forth. It will still be fun.
Wrong. After fifteen minutes of futility, we gave up and found something else to do.
I have often thought about this incident. Why did the game feel so futile? Was it that we could not bear to play without winning? It is a fair question. I have been accused of being overly competitive more than once in my life.
But it was more than that. A primary skill in tennis is the ability to navigate the ball over the net and into a defined boundary on the opposite side. Without nets and clear boundaries, the game had no point. It became an endless and meaningless circle of volley and return.
This is precisely the problem with the common worldview that permeates our culture. We assume that the world is ours to shape. There are no rules but the ones we make up. There is no point but that which we invent. Life is a spinning wheel. We are caught it in an endless circle of cause and effect, volley and return.
Privacy and tolerance have, predictably, become our supreme values. You play by your set of rules; I’ll play by mine. You stay out of my game; I’ll stay out of yours. There is no overarching objective to our existence. There is no intrinsic meaning to our connectedness to one another. We are merely molecules bumping into one another meandering down an endless maze to oblivion, or nirvana, or whatever.
If so, count me out. I want to believe that my life has meaning, and that there is a reason why I am here. I want to think that relationships matter, that love is real, and that suffering has significance. Don’t tell me that life is an endless circle with no rhyme or reason; make it a beautiful story, a tragic comedy, a divine drama, complete with beginning, middle and end.
Is that too much to ask? No, it isn’t. Not if you embrace the simple story found in the Bible and, better yet, rooted in human history. For Christianity is not merely a set of ideals and ethics. It is grounded in human history. A baby was born: we believe the baby was divine. A man was killed: we believe he rose again.
If it is true, then all of life – the good, the bad and the ugly – has meaning. If it is true, the rules are not ours to invent, the boundaries our not ours to create. If it is true, every life, every relationship has intrinsic value. If it is true, love and laughter, sorrow and pain, beauty and joy are worth cherishing.
If it is not true, well, whatever….
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Missing Jesus
I’d like to introduce you to some fascinating folks. I wonder if you can recognize them.
These people are fanatical about living a good life. Models of personal purity, and careful to live above reproach, they are among the most respected persons in the community. They’re honest, hardworking, and conscientious.
They take their spirituality very seriously. They are scrupulous about attendance at religious events. They give generously. They fast regularly. They pray faithfully.
They have the utmost regard for scripture. They study it, memorize it, and conscientiously seek to apply it to their lives. They frequently gather to discuss its meaning and its application to their lives.
Do you recognize them? Are they Christians? Are they Mormons? Are the Muslims? No. None of the above. They are Pharisees.
Are you surprised?
Pharisees were one of the most prominent religious sects in Jesus’ day. They were precisely as I described them, distinguished from their peers by their religious sincerity, their personal purity, and their high regard for Scripture. They were considered by many to be the most “on-target” religious group of their day.
Which brings to mind a thought-provoking question: How is it that they missed – even rejected – Jesus?
After all, they were actively looking for the Messiah. They prayed regularly for his arrival. Why didn’t they recognize him when he came? Why did they miss the very one for whom they were waiting?
Among other things, they missed Jesus because they were more committed to their notions about God than they were to God himself. Their view of God was so rigidly defined that when God acted outside the box they rejected him.
Their belief system, intended to shield the truth from heresy, was so deeply entrenched that, of all things, it shielded them from truth. Their spiritual pride led to spiritual blindness.
When John the Baptizer began to preach near the Jordan River, he carried an astounding and troubling message. He claimed that the long-awaited Messiah was about to be revealed -- this was the good news. But he also claimed that the people of God were not ready for his coming. This was the bad news.
He called the people to repent, and thus to prepare their hearts for the coming of the Messiah. In an unprecedented move, he asked good, upstanding people to be baptized as a symbol of their humility and faith. Pharisees scoffed at the idea. Any suggestion that they were not prepared for the Messiah’s arrival was, to them, preposterous.
We are in the season of Advent. For fifteen centuries, it was assumed by the church that a time of preparation and repentance was needed in order for believers to sincerely and joyfully open their hearts to Jesus. Like the deep cleaning our homes receive before the arrival of important guests, Advent was a time for spiritual cleansing.
Nowadays, many churches skip over all that. We assume (as did the Pharisees?) that our hearts are already fully open to God, and that penitence is not necessary.
Speaking for myself, I am not so sure. Like the Grinch, I sense that my heart is often two sizes too small. I’m consumed with myself, my family, my agenda, my career, my convictions – my, my, my! Is it any wonder I am easily baited to buy the latest greatest toy every holiday season?
Frankly, the spiritual blindness among such well-intentioned people as the first century Pharisees frightens me. I don’t want to repeat their mistake.
After all, this Christmas, I don’t want to miss Jesus.
These people are fanatical about living a good life. Models of personal purity, and careful to live above reproach, they are among the most respected persons in the community. They’re honest, hardworking, and conscientious.
They take their spirituality very seriously. They are scrupulous about attendance at religious events. They give generously. They fast regularly. They pray faithfully.
They have the utmost regard for scripture. They study it, memorize it, and conscientiously seek to apply it to their lives. They frequently gather to discuss its meaning and its application to their lives.
Do you recognize them? Are they Christians? Are they Mormons? Are the Muslims? No. None of the above. They are Pharisees.
Are you surprised?
Pharisees were one of the most prominent religious sects in Jesus’ day. They were precisely as I described them, distinguished from their peers by their religious sincerity, their personal purity, and their high regard for Scripture. They were considered by many to be the most “on-target” religious group of their day.
Which brings to mind a thought-provoking question: How is it that they missed – even rejected – Jesus?
After all, they were actively looking for the Messiah. They prayed regularly for his arrival. Why didn’t they recognize him when he came? Why did they miss the very one for whom they were waiting?
Among other things, they missed Jesus because they were more committed to their notions about God than they were to God himself. Their view of God was so rigidly defined that when God acted outside the box they rejected him.
Their belief system, intended to shield the truth from heresy, was so deeply entrenched that, of all things, it shielded them from truth. Their spiritual pride led to spiritual blindness.
When John the Baptizer began to preach near the Jordan River, he carried an astounding and troubling message. He claimed that the long-awaited Messiah was about to be revealed -- this was the good news. But he also claimed that the people of God were not ready for his coming. This was the bad news.
He called the people to repent, and thus to prepare their hearts for the coming of the Messiah. In an unprecedented move, he asked good, upstanding people to be baptized as a symbol of their humility and faith. Pharisees scoffed at the idea. Any suggestion that they were not prepared for the Messiah’s arrival was, to them, preposterous.
We are in the season of Advent. For fifteen centuries, it was assumed by the church that a time of preparation and repentance was needed in order for believers to sincerely and joyfully open their hearts to Jesus. Like the deep cleaning our homes receive before the arrival of important guests, Advent was a time for spiritual cleansing.
Nowadays, many churches skip over all that. We assume (as did the Pharisees?) that our hearts are already fully open to God, and that penitence is not necessary.
Speaking for myself, I am not so sure. Like the Grinch, I sense that my heart is often two sizes too small. I’m consumed with myself, my family, my agenda, my career, my convictions – my, my, my! Is it any wonder I am easily baited to buy the latest greatest toy every holiday season?
Frankly, the spiritual blindness among such well-intentioned people as the first century Pharisees frightens me. I don’t want to repeat their mistake.
After all, this Christmas, I don’t want to miss Jesus.
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