Christmas is over,resist depression
Saturday, December 26th, 2009

    I was depressed.  No.  Maybe I got depressed.  I became depressed?  Depression overtook me.  

    It's really difficult in this day and age to express exactly how depression appears in our lives.  We live in a  time when the miserliness of Ebenezer Scrooge would be diagnosed as a disease instead of viewed as a vice and haunted by three ghosts.  Let's put it this way--I certainly did nothing to resist depression.

    It was about twenty years ago, and I was traveling with my family, sharing in churches, and we had taken the month of December off for the Christmas season.  We had located a beautiful lodge in the middle of the woods, complete with a wood-burning stove, a gorgeous loft and a forest that would occasionally dust up some snow for our pleasure, with a nearby salt lick where deer came to converse and interact.

    We played Christmas music continually--our preference, the Carpenters.  We decorated the lodge festively, like it was an old English pub, complete with food and drink and a place where merry gentlemen could certainly find God's rest.  We did nothing all month long but relax, enjoy one another, Christmas shop and think about the holidays.  

    December 26th rolled around and it was over.  We had to vacate our little piece of Christmas magic and head back out on the road, to the real world.  And I allowed depression to overtake me.  Why did Christmas have to end?  Why did life have to resume a drone instead of continuing with a little drummer boy?  

    I became stubborn.  I kept playing the Carpenter's Christmas album all the way into the first two weeks of January.  The songs that had been so enriching and fulfilling now seemed desperate.  I was grouchy.  What a horrible thing, to come out of the most joyous season of the year and garner only a bit of snideness and sarcasm.  

    The reds and greens of my world were now browns and slate gray.  I would postulate on the lack of joy I saw in the world around me compared to what we had experienced in our little haven of rest.  At first, the family joined in with me, lamenting the loss of our wooded Shangri-la, and our Christmas in heaven.  But eventually they just got quiet and then began to roll their eyes and became annoyed with my repetitive remembrances.

    So I began to view them as the enemy, too.  The enemy of Christmas--and me, the only true messenger of its gospel.  It went on for nearly a month.  Isn't that unbelievable?  

    Sometimes all depression needs to maintain its integrity is the avoidance of possibility and the absence of a brain.  At least that was my case. Finally the necessary step occurred--the moment that determined my salvation.  I came to myself and was disgusted with what I discovered.  I was a self-piteous platter of dried-out holly.  There wasn't even any joy left in me about the experience we'd had in that forest.  I was just mad that I couldn't be there and maintain the magic.

    I laughed at myself.  

    I don't know--those words right there may be the greatest prescription for human rejuvenation ever given by any doctor, minister, counselor or psychiatrist.  I laughed at myself.

    And then I separated off what made Christmas Christmas and started doing the sum of the parts.  There were four of them, and if you don't mind, as we lead up to the New Year, I would like to tell you those four parts, one at a time, pretty much the way they arrived into my soul.  

    I will commence my tale on the morrow. (I decided to go a little Dickensian there . . . in honor of A Christmas Carol.)

Mary didn't know
Friday, December 25th, 2009

    It had been a long time since March 12th.

    That was the day--an unseasonably hot one, so she had escaped into the night to gain some cooling relief.  The sand was still hot between her toes from the baking of the noon-time sun, which, combining with the chill she felt on her head created a tingle up her spine.  As she walked she thought--but never really able to hold a single concept in her head for more than a few seconds.  

    She came to the edge of town and was about to turn and head back home, when suddenly she was surrounded.  Yes, that's the best way to describe it--encompassed, as if she had just entered a private sanctuary.  The terrain encircled her like a cocoon, but still the stars twinkled high in the sky. 

    Then a voice, with a presence, but really no body to accompany the timber--a confusing, perhaps better stated, twirling sensation of being captured away to another place and time while simultaneously remaining with both feet firmly on the ground.  She was alone--but visited.  She was in the same place, yet transported.  There were words heard, but more discerned within her inner ears landing deep within her heart, penetrating her feelings with emotions that carried ideas and notions beyond her comprehension, yet amazingly, within her understanding.

    She was to be blessed. She was to have a child.  The child was to be of some import to all of mankind.  She was more than just a "handmaiden," but rather, the "handmaiden of the Lord."

    As quickly as the visitation came, it passed away and she once again was just a small girl, making her way home on a cool night.  That evening as she slept, the dreamy bewilderment  returned.  But it was more than a dream.  It was a conversation with a Being beyond the limits of human life and limb.  It was an embrace from the sky that held her close and filled her with the knowledge of well-being.

    Shortly thereafter, she was with child.

    Unexplainable--truly a complete statement, because the explanation was bizarre.  No--perhaps blasphemous.  Her child was not conceived through contact with a man, even though she was betrothed to be married.  Who would believe such a thing?  Of course, it's most difficult to explain something that you, yourself, find quite doubtful.

    But mothers know such things, so soon hers was inquiring.  She offered the simplest rendition of the experience that had brought her from the status of "little child" to "woman with child."  Her mother did not believe her.  Her mother was hurt that she had chosen to tell a lie instead of cleanly sharing the details of her tryst.  Soon there were others who knew.  And even sooner, there was talk. 

    Before long it came to the attention of the man who was to be her husband.  Men being who they are, it was necessary for him to consider what he must do to save his honor.  There was nothing more she could do.  She was pregnant.  What she believed about that pregnancy and what she dreamed it would become made little difference in a  male-dominated world, where such foolishness and iniquity were deemed damnable, especially when asserted and performed by a female.

    Three months into the pregnancy, while climbing up a steep wall to acquire a bucket of water, she fell.  It was  a hard fall--directly onto the belly containing her promised child.  She lay there for a few moments, stunned, thinking to herself that she had hurt the child.  Part of her was relieved.  For after all, it was much easier to forgive an adulterous fornicator who didn't have the evidence of a squalling baby.  Yes, maybe the voice from above had decided to relieve her of the responsibility of such a frenetic and debilitating condition. Perhaps the baby was taken.

    For six days she wondered.  No movement, no sign of life.  She was sad and jubilant all at the same time.  She wanted to go back to being the good little girl, doing the good little things in the good little village, in front of all the presumed good little people.  

    And then there was a kick.  The first.  There was life.  The hope was moving.  There would be no change of plans.  She was with child and it seemed the child was with her.

    It never got easier.  Even when the man to be her partner came around and decided not to put her away and have nothing to do with her, but instead, step into his seat of responsibility, it didn't change the mood and the gossip of the locals.  

    There was a quick visit about six months in to Elizabeth, her aunt, in a nearby town.  Elizabeth was the only bright spot throughout the entire pregnancy.  Elizabeth not only believed her story, but told her that the child within her was truly a promised one.  Of course, the true blessing and impact of Elizabeth's words were lost a bit in translation because Elizabeth claimed to be carrying a promised child of her own--and everyone thought she was a little "tetched" in the head.

    Meanwhile, back at home, it never got easier.  Her mother never forgave her, and even though there was tenderness and care, there was always a darkened suspicion and an inner longing from her for a better path--a preferred choice, or to have had a daughter who would have kept herself clean.

    After that initial visitation so long ago on that March 12th, there was never another word or thought that came from the heavens or the earth below--just a growing child inside of a normal girl under absolutely strange circumstances.  

    Meanwhile, her husband was being called away to take care of some matters of taxes and family business.  She was full term, perhaps a few days late.  She was weary.  The baby was heavy and she was small and the burden was continual.

    But he felt she should go with him.  He felt it was dangerous for her to be left behind, alone amongst her critics.  He thought the baby would be born soon, and he didn't want to miss the experience.  

    So foolishly they set out together on a journey through the desert to his home town.  "Foolishly," because that's how all the family and friends viewed it.  Everyone wagged their heads in disapproval.  It had been a most unsuitable set of circumstances for a people who fostered and believed in normalcy.  A daughter who had claimed a heavenly visitation producing an unwanted pregnancy and now--to carry that off into the wilderness to unknown conclusions.

    Nevertheless, they journeyed.

    It didn't get easier.  It was hot--sticky.  She was sick for the whole journey, barely able to sit upright on the small donkey they had supplied for her safekeeping.  Arriving in the hometown, it was a melee of human traffic, packed to the brim with folks with only their personal concerns in mind.  

    No one cared about the desert pair who had emerged from nowhere and had no place to reside.  Unfortunately, no room with relatives, because the family who lived in the small town had heard of the unexpected pregnancy, and had opted not to welcome the two of them.  So they ended up trying to find a place to sleep at the local tavern and inn, but it was full.  

    Yet, deep within the bowels of the stone construction--cut into the ground--was a small stable for the residing of the animals of travelers.  This was their home for the night.

    No--it just never got easier.

    She often wondered why a promise made with such energy and fervor would be followed by such a silent period, absent any obvious encouragement.  And then came the pain--like nothing she had ever experienced in her young life.  She had asked early on of her mother what it was going to be like, but her mother was reluctant to discuss it, so she found herself experiencing it alone in a manger, so far away from home, with her only support coming from a befuddled man with carpenter's hands.

    Nature takes its course.  The baby was born--blood and water.  Pain.  So normal that within that fleeting second of the birth, she wondered once again, like she had done so many times over the passing months, whether she was just insane and had dreamed the whole thing up in her own adolescent mind.  How could a promised child be born so commonly, without flourish, dropped from his mother into the moldering hay?  She pondered these things in her heart.

    Something was not right.  Something about it was just too simple to be really supernal.  As the baby pushed out for the last time, she tried to take her mind back to that night in March so many months ago, to recall the feeling of being exhilarated and lifted up by angelic words.  

    The feeling was gone.  All that remained was a young girl who was now a mother, far away from home, with a new child, birthed in poverty.

    She wondered if it would get better.  She wondered if it would change.  She wondered if the angel who had promised a miracle child had taken the time to show up for the birthing.  She felt nothing but exhaustion as she fell off to sleep.

    It took nine months, and in those nine months, what seemed to be a heavenly idea had become very human and very common. Could God still be there?  Had God given up?  Had she fallen from grace when she fell to the earth from that wall?  Had she shown disrespect for caring for the divine child, and therefore become an unsuitable vessel for the progression of a salvation idea?  

    She didn't know.  She was just there, and the process had come to an end. Or was it a beginning?  She didn't know.

    Mary didn't know.

Why I love Christmas? The cold causes us to heat our world
Thursday, December 24th, 2009

    The warmest I've ever felt was on one particular day when I discovered how truly cold I was and sought out some heat.  There probably is nothing worse than being just a little chilly, because you never quite convince yourself that you're frigid enough to seek out the fire.  That's too bad.  

    Christmas works because it does happen in the winter.  Even Miami drops from 85 to 70 degrees.  To them, that's the North Pole.  It's enough for us to physically enact what we should spiritually and emotionally do continually--drawing closer to achieve warmth.

    That's right.  If it never got cold, there would be no need to heat things up. I guess I feel a little sorry for the Southern hemisphere, that has Christmas in the summer time, trying to squeeze generosity and gift-giving in with beach-combing.  Must be quite a feat.  Because we have this wonderful time of the year when a bit of chill comes in the air and reminds us that being warm can no longer be taken for granted.  It is something we must pursue and cause to happen or we'll shiver in our own timbers.

    My ideas are really simple.  I don't expect human beings to be perfect, or even good, for that matter.  I just want us to have the realization that we don't have to settle for what we see around us and that our body temperature, set at 98.6 degrees, is a great barometer that we are here to warm things up during our journey.

    I love Christmas because the physical air around us and the atmosphere remind us that we need to create enough energy to generate the heat to keep us from turning into an emotional ice-box.  You add some carols, great movies, gift-giving and just friendly greetings, and the world becomes brighter and sunnier, even though the climate appears to be artic--or, at least, in the case of Florida, mellowing.

    No, if it never got cold, we'd never have any reason to warm it up.  If there was never a chill in the air, we probably wouldn't turn up our own personal heat.  And if the expanse around us wasn't frosty, we certainly would never consider stoking the fire.

    Christmas--when the cold around us gives way to a chill in our bones, causing us to rise and heat up our world.

Why I love Christmas? We give prominence to "the little"
Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009

    Little--as in, "not a lot."  Whatever "a lot" happens to be. Other synonyms:  Teeny.  Tiny.  Miniscule.  Wee.  (Always be careful not to add ANOTHER wee or you have an entirely different meaning.) And small.  Whatever the word, the meaning is the same--insignificant by both presence, value, potential and size.

    I love Christmas because it not only makes room, but gives prominence, to the little--the "least of these," as it were. Yes, at the heart of the Christmas parade are little people called "elves"--industrious, willing, helpful, loving, giving, producing far beyond their alleged capacity. Individuals who, because they have developed a friendship with the right benevolent soul, have partnered to produce a yearly miracle to bless all the children of the world. 

     Little people.  Not a sideshow; not extras in a movie added for comical flair; not spokespeople for Goodwill Industries; but rather, functioning parts of an organization honoring the immenseness in size of its leader, and the littleness of the workers and followers who actually pull off the labor and have the grit to produce the glory.

    Little--a word that is normally relegated as either a complaint or a disparaging assessment of possibilities, surprisingly, during this time of year, becomes the driving force of all that is good.  

    O Little Town of Bethlehem.  The Little Drummer Boy.  The Little Train Who Could.  

    The little elves.  And of course, let us never forget--the little baby.

    I love Christmas because it reminds us that "little" is "much" when it spends less time in front of the mirror in reflection of its plight, but instead, focuses its energy towards a magnificent goal.  

    Sometimes we're all little.  If you get around big enough stuff, you just look like a dinky dork. If you're lying flat on your face, short of your aspirations, you always appear to be a speck in the dust of the ground you just kissed.  It's at that point that we truly determine our destiny, where instead of complaining about our shrinking possibilities, we find a place to quietly hammer away and build a new gift for mankind.

    I love Christmas because little people are allowed to be a part of a really big idea and bring their best efforts to enlighten and delight those in need around them.   

    Christmas--when the least of these my brethren truly show us the kingdom of heaven.

Why I love Christmas? We get to consider what we believe!
Tuesday, December 22nd, 2009

    I spent the past week interacting with people of different ages, different cultures, different nationalities, and different mind-sets, for that matter.

    I've grown up in a world believing that people are very different from one another.  Yet, isn't that thee true seed of prejudice? Because once we can convince ourselves that we're different from one another, it's a very short journey to establishing what we don't like about those differences and then, a quick slide down to expressing our own personal superiority because we don't share similar convictions.

    Convictions.  Now, there's the word, isn't it?  Because even though I was around people of different ages and philosophy, I was perplexed by how little these nuances affected their reactions in the moment. Basically, they looked differently, thought differently, would probably have debated differently, but at the crossroads of normal interaction, discovery and decision-making, they were all about the same.  

    All of us, when confronted with the problems and various scenarios of life, will abandon our culture and creed to try to find the easiest path to solution.  I found it fascinating.  

    I think, during this Christmas season, we get a wonderful thirty-day reprieve to consider once again what we really believe and more importantly, where it might actually impact and improve our humanity. For after all, it isn't about the extent of what we believe, the quality of what we believe, the amount of what we believe, or even the fine points of our belief that determine the value of our travel experience on this earth--or the true impact that we can make on our lives and the lives of others while we journey.

    It simply is a question of whether we actually believe what we believe enough to let it show up at the point when belief is most needed.  I think there are three very distinct junctures:

    1.  How am I going to handle people?

    2.  How am I going to handle disappointment?

    3.  How can I keep myself from being afraid of opportunity?

    Candidly, if belief does not refresh our thinking in the moments when we're dealing with others, handling our latest failure, or considering launching into our next venture, well then, belief becomes the appendix in a great body of work.  

    It's useless.

    So I like to take the Christmas season to realize that if a carpenter and his young, frightened bride had not really believed in what they had heard and seen enough to get them through the desert, rejection at an inn, a frightening birth experience in a barn, and a wild middle-of-the-night escape to Egypt, you and I would not be sitting around today ingeniously trying to figure out ways to get rid of our fruitcake.  

    Yes, belief is not asking God to give you more faith in your life.  It's taking your life at the point of contact and having faith to actually use your belief.

Why I love Christmas? We get to salute Santa!
Monday, December 21st, 2009

    So here's the story--at least, as much as I understand it:

    It seems the producers of The Biggest Loser got a hold of the North Pole and asked if Santa would be willing to be part of a special holiday presentation.  Here was the plan:  

    The goal was for the jolly Old Saint Nick to lose twenty-five pounds in twenty-five days, with the slogan being, Taking the Mass out of Christmas.  You get it?  "Mass" as in bulge, baby-fat and blubber. Contracts were signed, promotion was planned, and it all went well for about two days, until Santa refused to eat salad, calling it "reindeer food," and then objected to his other meals, referring to them as "elf proportions."

    It got really bad when that girl trainer yelled at him about his chocolate-chip-cookies-and-milk addiction and he broke down and cried.  Then that guy trainer walked out on him because Santa just stood on the treadmill and kept bellowing, "On, Dasher! On, Dancer!"  

    After five days, the whole thing just fell apart--a disaster.  

    So Mr. Claus returned to the toy shop and consumed five heaping helpings of North Pole Stew and two huge bowls of candy-cane-and-gumdrop ice cream.  But you see, the funny thing is that Santa insisted he lost two-hundred-and eighty-five pounds--the combined weight of the two grouchy trainers.

    So you see, folks, that's why I like this time of year.  Every December, we salute this cool dude with enough belly to hold up his own pants.  He just wears a belt to be stylish.

Sunday, December 20th, 2009

    If you're going to read the story right, you first have to get the facts right.  Otherwise, you come up with a situation like we have here in America, where we celebrate the freeing of the slaves after the Civil War, never really comprehending or confessing that for two hundred years, our ancestors had slaves in the first place.

    I will admit, it was an awkward first sentence.  But I hope you grasp my meaning--go back to the story.

    I'm talking about Christmas.  

    At the center of the tale is a baby, which always causes people to become overly-sentimental and to digress to "cooing and ooing."  But shall we look at the other members of the cast of our little nativity play?  

    Let's take a moment in the midst of our cast of characters from this story, to notice who's not there:

    Caesar.  The most powerful individual on the planet at this time, deeming himself to be a god, is absent from the guest list, even though his taxation may very well have spurred on some of the movement.    

    Religious leaders.  Completely uninvited.  They had set their life work looking for a Messiah who snuck in the back door and snubbed them.  

    King Herod.  The puppet figurehead, placed by Rome in a position of authority over the Jewish people, only is mentioned in our story as a kind of "goof," who tries to wreck the party and goes down in history, chronicled for his infanticide.

    Well, anyway, back to my list of those who were drawn.  Yes, there's another group who came to see the Christ-child.  

    You must realize that the term "wise men" was an edit--added later to the story to make them seem more viable.  They were actually astrologers who studied the stars, not from an aspect of constellations and distance, but rather, by what means these glowing objects in the sky determined our destiny.  They were not Jewish.  They were not religious.  They were not necessarily powerful individuals who ruled over the masses.  They were dreamers.  They were individuals who believed that everything God made was trying to speak to each and every one of us.  They were the necromancers that the Old Testament condemned and ordered to be stoned if they were ever found to be part of the tribe or inter-mingling with the people.  They were the representatives of the rest of the world who shared no doctrinal, philosophical or theological similarities whatsoever with anyone who was really looking for the Messiah, but only a desire to dream and believe for something better.

    They were perseverant--for after all, they traveled from afar.  They were independent.  They sought no one's permission, nor anyone's approval in their quest.  And they were pugnacious and feisty.  When they believed they had seen a dream, they ignored Herod and returned home without informing him of their findings, as he had requested.

    I love the story of Christmas, because the guest list rocks our little world.  It is so much like God to invite all of the geeks, non-jocks, bookworms, dreamers and dorks to the party.  

    For after all, if you want to change the world, you have to start with people who are willing to change themselves.