On writing about Jesus

On April 15, 1997, Bill Clinton was hobbling around on crutches at Shea Stadium to honor Jackie Robinson 50 years after he broke the color barrier. That was the night that baseball retired the number 42 for all major league teams. At the time, I didn't like that idea. I thought it was politically correct tripe. Now, I think it is a woefully inadequate way to honor a man whose life was cut short by the stress that came with carrying the burden he did.

It was a pleasant evening, a chance to see my Mets on TV, which didn't happen too often considering how bad they'd been for a few years.

Then President Clinton did something that irritated me greatly. He said, "I'm sure that if Jackie were alive today, he'd..." I don't remember how the sentence ended. But Bill Clinton didn't know Jackie Robinson. He had now idea what his thoughts were. He was just appropriating Robinson's name to make his own point.

I hate that.

But, as I write dialog and claim it to be from Jesus, I guess I am doing the same thing. After all, Jesus has been gone for the better part of 2000 years. And, of all the Christians I know, I am probably among the least appropriate to put words in Jesus' mouth.

Still, I think I'm okay with it because, in this case, Jesus is not agreeing with me. In fact, He is convicting me. One of the stories involves interplay between me, Jesus, and my friend Marty, who is a knockout who drives a BMW convertible and happens to be a lesbian. I don't have a friend named Marty who is a lesbian. But if I did, and if she was hot, I suspect I would react the same way as I did in the story. Especially if she drove me around in her BMW convertible.

I am reasonably familiar with the Bible, having read it cover to cover five or six different times. I have taken part in some pretty deep conversations about Jesus with people who are learned, have a deep relationship with Him or both. In short, unless I felt called to do this, I wouldn't do it.

Putting words in Jesus' mouth is a dangerous thing to do unless you know what you are doing. I think what I am doing is obeying. I hope the words that my fingers have Jesus saying are helpful and not hurtful.

Still, if you read them and find me to be full of crap, please let me know.

Jesus, Marty, and Me go to Dinner

Later, after another round and some more talk, Marty, Jesus, and I decided to stay and have dinner. Logan's has excellent steak and some of the best dinner rolls on God's green earth. So we got a booth for three. Marty sat next to Jesus, which disappointed me. In spite of what Jesus said, I really did like Marty, and it wasn't just so I could show how tolerant I was or because she looked hot in form-fitting clothes. I wanted her to sit next to me because she looked hot in form-fitting clothes. And also because I was afraid that I had damaged our friendship.

I excused myself for a minute, then went to the men's room. When I got back, Marty smiled at Jesus, then excused herself.

"It's not all about you," Jesus said.

"Huh?"

"Is it possible that the reason you are here with her isn't for you; it's for her?"

"What are you talking about?" I said.

"She has a lot of questions, Chris. I care about her deeply, as I know you do. She needs to work some things through."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that she's been hurt by a lot of Christians," he said.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said. I wasn't sure whether it was good practice to get irritated with Jesus in public, but given his ability to respond to what I was thinking, I didn't see the point in trying to hide it.

"Yes, including your attitude, which I am certain you will work on. But how do you think she feels when a church that touts how I died for their sin and how they are now loved denies her because of her sin?"

I said nothing, so Jesus continued.

"How would you feel if you were involved in a high school prank and someone turned you in and you were punished, but the guy who turned you in had previously vandalized the football field?"

Again, I said nothing.

"She doesn't believe in me."

"No offense, but I'm not sure that Jesus is going to return as the assistant manager of a multiplex, either."

"You know what I mean," Jesus said. "She is tough and she won't let people see it. But underneath, she knows that a lot of the people here would not let her be her if they knew the truth. Even though she doesn't make an issue of it, she knows she has to be careful of it."

I picked at my steak, which is uncommon for me. Usually, it is gone with a force that requires young children to be tethered to their tables, lest they get caught in the vacuum. I preferred the vacuum.

"What do you think of her lifesty...choic...whatever is the appropriate term?"

"Of her homosexuality?"

"Yeah."

Usually, I am articulate. Jesus had a way of making me unsure of my words, which is stupid, because he seemed to know what I was thinking.

"What do you think I think?" He asked. It was a typical non-answer answer, I was coming to find.

"I don't know," I said. "That's why I am asking you."

"That's a copout. You think that it's a sin, but that you are called to love each other," he said. "Which is a good enough answer."

"But I'm not asking what I think. I am asking what you think. And you are not answering the question."

"Not answering is an answer," Jesus said. "To be blunt about it, it's none of your business. It is for her to work out with My Father."

He chewed on a french fry.

"As I said, it isn't about you. Your job is to love her."

"My job is to love everyone," I said. I sipped at my beer. I had a slight buzz, which made me happy that Marty was driving me home.

"You make it sound like a death sentence," Jesus said.

"It isn't easy," I said. "A lot of Your people really hack me off."

"I can assure you that for some of them, the feeling is mutual."

He was smiling at me, this man who claimed to be Jesus. Jesus was supposed to have long hair and a moustache and beard and look like Dave Dennison, the guy I worked with in a small supermarket when I was in high school. He was supposed to wear sandals and a robe. And he wasn't supposed to drink draft beer at a steakhouse after work.

He looked at me and shook his head again, almost imperceptibly.

"You have to love them, that's true. You have to be happy for them when they succeed and sad for them when they hurt. You need to offer to help them and not take gratuitous shots at them," he said. "But you don't have to like them. If they caused you pain, you don't have to pretend that pain doesn't exist. That wouldn't be love from my Father, to expect that. You have real pain, just like Marty and everyone else. And you won't get better by pretending it isn't there."

He sliced a triangle off his steak and ate it.

"They have great steak here," He said. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

"I don't know, am I doing what you are saying?"

"No one does it perfectly, and you aren't among the league leaders, but you're a lot better than you were. Overall, I am not unhappy with your progress."

Just then, Marty came back. Jesus smiled at her and raised his hand, touching her back as she slid into the seat next to him.

"Stupid Bucs," she said. She shook her head and was visibly annoyed.

"Can't you make them win?" she asked Jesus.

"I could," he said. "But I wouldn't hold my breath about it."

She laughed and touched his arm. Jesus was right about her. There was always a reserve about her, as if she were holding something back. I hadn't noticed it until now, but it was always there. Only just for a second, when she touched his arm, it was gone. Her smile was physically the same as it was every other time I'd seen it--and she smiled a lot. But there was something about her body, a lightness, that had never been there before. As soon as it was there, though, it was gone, and for a few seconds, I thought it might be a mirage.

Then Jesus looked me directly in the eye with an intensity that almost made me look away. For an instant, I thought He was angry at me again. But somehow, I thought He was telling me to go likewise and do the same. But that He would give me the tools to do it.

My friend Marty and Jesus

My friend Marty drives a silver BMW convertible with a black convertible top. She bought it with a very large bonus she got for saving her company approximately $253,000 by consolidating vendors. It was used when she got it, but it was still a Beemer ragtop, which is something she'd been after since she'd been old enough to want a car.

Marty was short for Martina, which she'd dropped in junior high school because of the sexual proclivities of a certain famous namesake that had dominated women's professional tennis for about a million and a half years. It was ironic, because Marty's life changed the first time she kissed another girl. And it had never changed back. She was not currently with someone, but that was only because her previous relationship had ended poorly and she wasn't quite ready for the risk.

I took Marty to Logan's the other night to meet Jesus. I liked going places with Marty because she typically dressed in form-fitting clothes and had the body for it. She wasn't petite; in fact, she called herself full-bodied. But she wasn't even remotely fat. In fact, she is an absolute knock-out, a body made for something other than saving procurement money for a worldwide insurance company.

Tonight she wore form-fitting jeans and a tight, white t-shirt with an open neck. She looked great and every guy in the place knew it. And every guy in the place looked at me with appropriate reverence. They didn't know that I had as much shot at her as I had at, say, Ingrid Bergman.

Jesus was wearing jeans and a Mike Alstott t-shirt that featured a characture of him with the words "Pound the Rock" on its front. Alstott's arms were bigger than Barry Bonds'...by a lot. He was drinking Coors Lite out of a frosted mug.

"Chris," he said. "Come in. Sit down."

"Jesus," I said, haltingly. I wasn't sure that my Lord and Savior would actually call someone a rugrat, as he had done the day before. "This is my friend Marty."

He stuck his hand out and Marty extended hers, haltingly.

"Chris says that you are Jesus."

"That's my name, yes."

"Marty is a lesbian," I said.

"How nice for her," he said, "and for you."

She smiled at Jesus a little uncomfortably, then at me, with askance.

"Jesus told me He had a problem with my stance on gays."

"So that is why you brought me to meet him?"

"No, I did that...well...okay, I guess so. Yeah."

She glared at me.

"That is why I have a problem with him, you see," Jesus said. "He doesn't hate gays, and wouldn't even hate them if I gave him permission to."

"Well, that's not bad," I said.

"No," he said, "it's not. But how do you feel right now, Marty?"

"Well, I feel a little awkward, I guess."

"Un-huh," he said. "Chris, let me ask you a question. Do you find Marty to be...desireable?"

"Well, I mean, she's my friend and she's a lesbian and..."

"Just answer the question."

"Yeah, she's hot," I said. "I mean, look at her. She's a knockout."

"She is sitting here right now," Marty said. I glanced over at her. She looked irritated at me. And confused by Jesus.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Is that why you brought her here? To show me how tolerant you are?"

"Yeah," she said. "Is that why?"

I sort of shrugged a little and prayed that the bartender would come to ask us what we wanted. Jesus looked at me and shook his head almost inperceptibly.

"Uh, okay. I was an idiot. But I mean,...awww, dammit."

Jesus looked at Marty, then at me.

"Marty are you offended by the fact that he finds you attractive?"

"No. I am flattered by it."

"Does he hold your lesbianism against you?"

"Not at all."

"So why are you irritated with him?" Jesus said.

"Because I am Marty, his lesbian friend, not just Marty his friend," she said.

The bartender came and took our orders. She had Shiraz; I had a Michelob Lite. Jesus passed.

"I have to drive," he said.

She picked up her Shiraz and sipped it.

"Be nice if there was popcorn," she said.

"Jesus doesn't do popcorn," I said. I know; I'd asked the day before at the movies.

She smiled. I was married, but her smile could melt my heart on a regular basis. I realized who I was sitting next to, or thought I was sitting next to, and my melted heart sank. If it hadn't been unseemly, I would have plucked my eye out on the spot.

"Do you understand now why I had a problem?" Jesus asked.

"I think so," I said.

"It has nothing to do with plucking your eye out. Marty has a desirable body and you are wired to notice it. You also understand that you are married and that all you can do is look and you usually stop short of imagining."

Marty looked at me and I looked down. I was beginning to not enjoy Jesus' company.

"Marty, why do you like him?"

"Because he is a person with a soft heart and he tries to do the right thing."

"Why does he like you?"

"I think because he isn't a bigot if he does."

It hurt me when I said that. It hurt me because it hurt her. And it hurt me because it pointed out a place where I was a failure.

"Yeah," Jesus said in response to my unasked question. "That's how Peter felt."

The Yankees' Coming Nightmare

Assuming Randy Johnson and everyone else involved in his trade pass their physicals, in 2005, the New York Yankees will spend $64 million on their five starting pitchers. Rumor has it that they could also add Carlos Beltran to their lineup in the next few days. If that happens, their total payroll will likely be more than $220 million (all of which would, of course, be better used helping the victims of the tsunami).

The array of talent will be the greatest ever on a single ballclub and they could win 115 games next year. Or they could go through a nightmare scenario like none seen in New York since last October.

A pitching staff of Johnson, Mike Mussina, Kevin Brown, Carl Pavano, and Jaret Wright would have been unstoppable in 1997. It might be unstoppable now, too. But it might not be. It might be simply old. Randy Johnson will be 42 next year. He has pitched more than 200 innings every year but one since 1996. But two years ago, he pitched just 114 innings and won just six games.

Mussina just turned 36 and had arm troubles that limited him to 164 innings and a 4.59 ERA. Kevin Brown turns 40 in March. He pitched just 122 innings and had an ERA of more than 4. Pavano had a big year last year, but he's 29 and has won more than ten games in a year only twice. And Wright had a great season last year, winning 15 with the Braves, but he has a lifetime ERA of 5.09. If everything goes right with this rotation, it could win 80 games or more on its own. If not, it could win 35.

Mariano Rivera was human down the stretch. Middle relief is always iffy. The Yankees middle staff has been awesome, but middle relief is an iffy proposition at best.

As for the starting lineup, it is incredible, even without Beltran. But it was incredible last year, too, and the year before that. In fact, it has been since the mid 90s. And in no year since 2000 has it been good enough to win a World Series. The problem with the Yankees is that Steinbrenner's first rule is that anything less than a World Series win might as well be a total loss.

Last year, after the Yankees got Alex Rodriguez, they were supposed to be automatic World Series champions. This winter, it is the Red Sox who celebrate. Next winter, it might be the Yankees. But then again, it might not be.

My encounter with Jesus

Jesus returned yesterday. Actually, he's been here for quite some time, but he's just now starting his public ministry. He's been working as an assistant manager at the AMC theaters next to the Veteran's Expressway in Tampa. He's also known to hang out after work at Logan's Road House in front of the theater and enjoy two-for-one beers during happy hour with his friends Jaime, Johan, and Andrew.

Yesterday, after we took the kids to see Fat Albert, Jesus was taking his break and decided to speak with me.

"Chris," he said, "I need to speak with you."

"Who the hell are you?" I responded respectfully.

"I am Jesus, your personal Lord and savior and I have come again."

"I would have expected something different than a retail job," I said.

"But I am in management," he said. "And if this works out, I might be able to get the manager's job at the new Muvico theaters over in new Tampa."

"Good luck on that," I said.

"I appreciate that," he said, "but I am concerned and a little upset with you."

When my Lord and personal savior tells me he is upset with something I am doing, it merits attention.

"Can you get me a discount on popcorn and Cokes?" I asked. "I mean, after all, the markups on that stuff are as vile as the gouging that took place outside the temple. And you got pretty upset about that."

He sighed.

"Right, but the moneychangers were gouging people who were trying to worship my Father. Unless you count Mel Gibson's movie, that isn't the case here. Besides, didn't you see that study from the Center for Science in the Public Interest that said how bad popcorn was for you?"

"Yeah, but I figured after I ate all that crap, you could just heal me."

"Okay, now we have two things to talk about, but that will have to wait. I'm not going to heal you just so you can get away with gorging yourself on junkfood."

"Killjoy."

He sighed again. I didn't want to piss Jesus off, so I kept my mouth shut. On ocassion, I can now manage to do that.

"I want to talk to you about your politics," He said.

"Okay, what about them?"

"Well," he said, pausing dramatically, "they're just wrong. I mean, they aren't what a follower of mine should be. I think you need to rethink your positions."

"What do you mean?"

"Take homosexuality for instance. I'm not happy with your thoughts on that. Or the death penalty or tax policy or any of that stuff, really. When I shed my blood for you, it wasn't so that you could be stupid about your politics."

"But I thought your grace was a gift freely given to anyone who asked for it."

He sighed again. And glanced over at the ticket window. There was a line starting to form and there was only one person working the window. Apparently, being an assistant manager meant that you had to help out, even on your breaks.

"I don't have time to completely tell you where you are wrong, but trust me, you need to rethink what you think. And pretty soon, too."

"Why the hurry?"

He mulled that. I wouldn't have figured that the Son of Man would need to spend a lot of time thinking about something. I sort of figured he already knew it.

"Trust me on this, sooner is better than later. When you are here in Florida, you can go inside and turn on the air conditioner when it is hot. That isn't the case everywhere."

"Were you happy with who I voted for?" I asked.

"Have I said nothing to you? That guy is going straight to hell because of his political stances."

"But what if He truly believes that He is following you? I mean the catechism clearly says that we are to inform ourselves and then pray and make the decision on our own."

"Well, yeah, but only if you come to the right decision. You haven't. So, Me and My Dad have had a talk about you and you need to shape up. Now."

He glanced over again and saw that the line was continuing to build. Apparently someone had brought all the children in their neighborhood to the movie.

"Damn little rugrats," He said. "I have never seen destruction like they can do to a clean theater. Not even in Sodom and Gemorah. It's amazing."

He walked away from me.

"You think about what I said," He said. I said I would. What else could I say. It would be rude to lie to Jesus. "I would like to speak with you at some point about your position on the war in Iraq. There is only one appropriate position and you haven't taken it."

With that, he opened the door to the ticket booth and disappeared. I drank my Coke, which now tasted funny. I guess in concern about my health, he had turned my Coke into Diet Coke.

Bashing Bush over the Tsunami

The growing concensus is that George W. Bush doesn't care about the poor, dark-skinned peoples who were devastated by the tsumani. For one thing, he went on vacation. Second, even though we pledged more money than any other country and hundreds of times more than France, we are miserly with our wealth, which reflects the greed that Bush epitomizes. Third, Bush is spending $40 million on his inauguration (most of it from private sources). If he cared, he would chuck it all and get a bag of pork rinds and a six-pack of Coke and give all the money to relief efforts.

So basically, Bush would personally make the lives of the afflicted better by not taking a vacation. I suppose that if I cared, I should cancel my vacation as well. Then again, so should all the people who are home this week with nothing better to do than opine on this topic.

As far as the money goes, we will probably wind up sending around a billion dollars, not counting the private donations that we are already sending.

Finally, if Bush were to cancel the inauguration at this point, the very same people who are criticizing him for holding it would then criticize him for how he is ruining all the small businesses that will wind up without the work they thought they would have. Exposes would run discussing how Bush could have pumped $40 million into the DC economy, which is incidentally, dominated by African-Americans, but he chose not to, primarily so he could make a pittance of a donation. The donation would be little more than a publicity stunt anyway, especially when compared to the amount of money being spent on the war in Iraq.

Overall, this is little more than sour grapes from people for whom this is a giant chess game. No matter what Bush does, he should have done something different. Once senses disappointment that there's no way to blame him for the tsunamis themselves.

The only thing more absurd would be the lament that Pedro Martinez's salary should also go over there. After all, he shouldn't make $53 million and the people over there really need it...

Condemnation

It was a fresh meat in a pool of phiranas, a link to a story that indicated that a tsunami warning could have been issued to the areas hardest hit, but was cancelled in deference to the tourism industry.

The link was to an article in the Swedish online newspaper Expressen and did not appear in English. It was translated by someone named CLiss and referenced--but did not seem to link to--an article in the Bankok online newspaper The Nation (not to be confused with the American magazine of the same name). A brief search of The Nation's website did not indicated that a warning was cancelled.

That didn't stop a torrent of criticism at the greed involved in cancelling the warning. Everyone assumed it was true and assumed the worst. The fact that the message board was hard left wing didn't matter. I've seen (and participated in) the same reaction at far more moderate forums. In a lot of cases, I'm right. In some cases, information I find out later shows me that I was not only wrong, but needless caused pain for the object(s) of my scorn.

We live in a judgemental environment. Talk radio, columnists, muckraking authors, and others of the like all make money. After all, it's no fun listening to someone calling for cool heads until the facts roll in. It's more fun getting the adrenalin running and screaming and feeling that as bad as I might be, I am at least better than .

That's one thing when it is Jim Rome barking about Jets quarterback Chad Pennington, who has a running feud going with the New York media. No matter that Pennington is still in his 20s and many of the people criticizing him for his reaction would have similar reactions when they are criticized. Pennington gets paid a lot of money to play football and that's part of the reason why.

It is quite another thing when the object of scorn is someone thrust into the spotlight unexpectedly or worse yet, someone who has unpleasantly bumped up against us as we go through life.

Anne Coulter has a best-selling book called How to Talk to a Liberal (If you must). I will admit that I have not read the book, though I probably should. But the title puts me off. I believe that as a conservative, I must talk to liberals. Conservatives aren't always right. In fact, many of the liberals I know are far better people than I am. I learn from them.

But in the culture of instant condemnation, such learning opportunities are becoming less and less common. Instead, our existence turns into an echo chamber, making our own views more rigid and inflexible. And our appetite for condemning what we disagree with increases.

If someone completely understood the tsunami warning, and if that person cancelled it, and if the reason for the cancellation was the fact that it would have cost companies money, then that person deserves servere criticism. But that's a lot of ifs to deal with. And even if all of those ifs are true, that person deserves the same right to redemption.

There is a Biblical passage that says that the measure you use will be used against you. Many of those who are most vocal in condemnation will someday understand the cost of their actions. They will know first hand. I'm not sure that the price of such poetic justice is a thing I would wish on anyone.

A Personal Relationship with God Isn't Enough

Where to send donations for those hit by the tsunami.

I spend a lot of time working on my personal relationship with God. Which is good, because I am better when I am closer to Him than when I am not. But then, just as I think I have it figured out and am on the right track, something happens.

This time, what happened is that 44,000 people have died in a giant tsunami. The devastation is beyond imagining. And it proves how truly insignificant our little struggles and wars are. Here am I, employed, relatively safe and security, surrounded by a family that loves me and that I do a pretty good job of loving. I have friends and a lot of support. What right have I to be secure or to spend time watching the SciFi Channel and doing any of the other stupid, meaningless things I do on a daily basis?

This year here in Florida, we thought we knew devastation. Certainly, the four hurricanes we experienced are more than your typical bad day. But we have, for the most part, running water and places to go to escape the problems. Even those who couldn't get help from FEMA have options.

What of the people on the islands who were swamped by the wall of death the other day? They don't have FEMA or homeowners insurance. They don't have the luxury of worrying about work or whether so-and-so likes them. Hell has reached up and paid them a personal visit.

Given the level of material goods we have, how can we do less than at least send money? How can we do less than pray and care and add to that with something tangible?

That having been said, everyone can't give to every worthy cause. I could hop on a jet and spend the next six months helping them to rebuild, but then who would be a father to my family? Who would help lead my son's Cub Scout pack? Who would do whatever it is I am going to do for my daughter's swim team? These are not feel-good rationalizations; they are ministries that God has, at least for now, asked me to carry out.

But most people can give more radically than they do. I am sitting here listening to $90 worth of NFL Films music that I asked for for Christmas. As I do, I sort of wish that I hadn't asked for it for myself. There are more important things in the world. I pray that God continues to soften my heart that I might find them and do something better. I am His first, and I have faith that He will give me what I ask.

Lessons from the Minister of Defense

I had just gotten to the concession stand at the Bucs game yesterday when I heard the news: Reggie White had died unexpectedly at 43 at his home.

It was sad news, to say the least. White was dominant both on and off the field, casting a shadow that matched his huge body that seemed to be built to dominate offensive linemen. According to many, he is the greatest defensive lineman to have ever played in the NFL. Any serious fan would know the plateau you reach when you are considered better than Joe Greene, Deacon Jones, Bruce Smith, and a host of others.

He was also a giant off the field. When he signed with Green Bay, a black man playing football in rural Wisconsin, it was news. In his wake, the Packers have been able to attract many other black free agents they might not have otherwise had a shot at.

An ordained minister since 17, Reggie White was roundly praised yesterday on sports media, from people who knew him and played with him. However, the praise was not universal.

White's first retirement was short-lived. He had signed a contract with CBS Sports, which was voided when he made a series of comments about homosexuals in front of the Wisconsin state legislature. Some were about the Biblical injunctions against homosexuality, but some of his comments, along with others, could be easily construed as going beyond that.

This link from a hard-line left-wing message board lists a number of quotes, some of them rather troublesome, about homosexuality. This link indicates that Reggie White was in the process of taking a second look at many of the things he once thought.

For the record, I happen to think that homosexuality is a sin. If I were God, it might not be, but I'm not and the Bible is pretty clear on this matter. It is also clear that drinking too much is a sin, and so is gluttony, and so is not taking care of widows and orphans. So before I throw stones a gays, I must first throw them at myself.

God loves His children, regardless of who or what they are. His invitation knows no boundaries. And it is His grace that changes us, not our efforts. I am no more entitled to God's voice than a gay person. In some respects, a lot of gay people are probably more Christian than I am.

But that's another discussion for another time.

The thing I respect about Reggie White--a man I never met--is that he had the courage to challenge his core beliefs. And that his faith seems to have become deeper, richer, and more real as a result.

The freedom that God gives us allows us to challenge those base beliefs without worrying about whether God will be pleased. Odds are, He will be. It is only by challenging our own limited understanding of God that we can start to transcend our own understanding and move closer to Him.

Reggie White did that. And for that, assuming that the rest is as it is presented, I admire him greatly.

I didn't get everything I wanted, but I got enough

I didn't get everything I wanted for Christmas, but I got enough. My family, as usual, was in upstate New York and I was down here in Florida. My wife and kids and her parents were here and we are well into have our own holiday traditions and rhythm. But this year I missed everyone more than I usually do.

My aunt and uncle weren't able to be up there either. It's been a tough year for them, health-wise, and even before my uncle got the bug last week, he wasn't up for traveling. It was tough seeing him in October. He was always so robust, but it's all caught up with him and now he has become old.

Christmas is evolutionary most of the time. Each year, the kids get a little older and the wide-eyed overwhelming enthusiasm of toddlers gives way to the youthful greed of childhood, then to a realization that it's at least as important for them to see their teenaged friends as it is for them to be with family. Eventually, they wind up away for a Christmas. But these changes are gradual and you can typically see them coming. I still miss the wide-eyed enthusiasm, but I have two wonderful children and it is still a pleasure to dote on them.

Then you have the revolutionary changes. These can be good...a new family member, either through marriage or birth, or the return of someone who used to live far away. And they can be bad...a broken marriage or a death that leaves a gaping hole.

My grandmother used to be an enormous part of Christmas. Her last Christmas with us was 1998 and we chose that Christmas to be back in upstate New York. I suspect that my mom still has a hard time with certain parts of Christmas because her mother isn't there. Then again, I suspect she probably still misses her father, who has been dead now for almost 35 years.

We had no revolutionary changes this Christmas. In fact, it was the first "normal" Christmas we've had since 2000. In 2001, my family was down and we had more than 20 people in our house Christmas morning. In 2002, my wife had to work Christmas day, as I was laid off and her job got us health insurance. Last year, we were away from home. This year was just us and her parents and her sister.

Everyone was there and well and no one was experiencing life-threatening difficulty. It would have been nice to see my family, too. I didn't get everything I wanted, but I got enough.

The presents were nice, too.

CEOs

We call them CEOs. We aren't mad at them for wrecking Enron. And we don't envy them for their giant paycheck. We see them at Christmas and Easter only.

When I was young in my walk, I scorned them. I mean, if you are only going to come twice a year, why bother? If you aren't willing to put in the work and the time to walk with Jeeesusuh, why take up space that the regulars can use?

Now I am older and I can chuckle and blush at my earlier silliness. Sure there are people who are lazy and shallow and that's why they don't come. And there are people who would rather have bamboo shoots stuff under their nails, but they come because they should because the kids will notice.

If you come out of obligation, why bother? And if you think that your children are going to get their message from the two times that you come, rather than the 52 times you don't come, you are a knucklehead.

It's easy to be arrogant about those kinds of Christians when you have your place to sit each week and all your friends are at church. But God loves those kind of Christians, too.

And then there are those who come because they had a bad time, but they still want to believe...they still want the feeling they imagine comes when Jesus cames and they dare not have hope, but they dare not give up on it, either.

In some cases, their wounds are self-inflicted. And in some cases, they were caused by small, arrogant, and petty Christians. They were caused by Christians who worshipped their worship more than their God and who didn't understand that church isn't for good people, and even if it were, they wouldn't qualify.

Christmas is a Christian holiday (you can tell by looking at the first six letters and how they match). It may have heavily appropriated pagan symbolism, but it is a Christian holiday. And it isn't for the Christians who are there in the same pew every week.

It's for the people who come twice a year, and it is important that they feel welcomed. They came because God invited them.

If I had my way, it is all the regulars who would sit in the overflow seating. The regulars would spend the Mass or Service actively waiting on those who don't regularly attend, and telling them how glad they are that God asked them to come. And asking them to come back next week because they are loved and God misses them when they aren't there.

This year, we are going to Mass on Christmas day. CEOs tend to come on Christmas Eve. That's where the action is, because that's where Jesus is needed and sought after most. The regulars can sometimes take Him for granted.

Next year I want to go on Christmas Eve. I want to get their way early and save seats. And I want to wait until the last minute and then find some family in the overflow seating who hasn't been to church since Easter. And I want to welcome them and tell them that I am glad they are here and God is, too. And I want to tell them that He would be tickled if they would move closer to the front so that they could participate more.

And I want all my churchy friends to do the same thing.

Imagine that.

"We're doing the same as normal." "That bad, huh?"

Han was awake and recovering from being frozen in carbon. The hibernation sickness cost him his sight, at least for now.

"How are we doing?" he said.

"Same as normal," Luke said.

"That bad, huh?"

-----

When Jesus came, he came to a teenaged woman, a girl really. She had ridden all night on a donkey to a strange place. She was within days of giving birth and the ride was brutal and uncomfortable. It was sometimes hard to breath normally, sitting up on the donkey, and she had to pee too often, with the weight of the child on her bladder.

Joseph hadn't sent her away, in spite of the fact that the child she carried was not his. But there had been moments when she'd seen doubts in his eyes. Today, she hadn't seen doubts. He'd been kind and patient, mostly. But walking all that way and taking care of her hadn't been easy. He was tired, too.

When they'd arrived, all she wanted to do was to lie down. The days of travel had really done a number on her. But because of the stupid census, all the beds were taken and there was no place for them to sleep.

"Can't you find anyplace?" she demanded, though she knew Joseph couldn't. He looked at her with sadness and compassion and a some fair irritation.

"I'm looking."

They wound up in a barn. It was relatively warm, and if you got past the itchiness of the hay, it wasn't bad. Except for the fact that she was carrying around 25 extra pounds. And sleeping on the floor, and it took her about three and a half minutes to get down there and even longer to get up. And once she got there, she had to pee again.

Finally, she slept.

It wasn't fun being the mother of God. It was not smooth or scripted or easy. It was a page straight out of the Indiana Jones school of project management: "I don't know, I'm making it up as I go."

How much is that like every day life? If only this or that, things would be smoother and it wouldn't be so irritating. But that's the life that God chose to come down and be part of. He could have been born in a palace. He could have waited until now, so He could have heat and indoor plumbing and Pedialyte and ointments for diaper rash.

Instead, He chose then and came to a barn. And struggled. And when he was doing as well as normal, He could probably say "That bad, huh?"

There are as many messages in the Christmas story as there are people who have though about it. But maybe there is room for one more.

If you are struggling at a noble cause... If you wish that--just this once--it would be easy for just a little while... If finding the spit and bailing twine and duct tape required to keep things together one more day takes much energy as doing the work of the day... If you lie down at night exhausted and daunted at the prospect of another day of this tomorrow...

...then you have good company. And though you can't see it, your humble efforts to keep things together just one more day could have profound impact beyond your imagination. Imagine that teenager lying uncomfortably on the barn floor, having to struggle to her feet to pee--again. She couldn't have known.

She couldn't have known the extent to which the object of her discomfort would change the world.

Your efforts are not meaningless, either.

Releasing Righteous Anger

I am holding a fair amount of anger toward someone in my church. I have had run-ins with this person in the past. I doubt he remembers them, but I do. He is one of the leading voices in a movement, to the best of my ability to see, makes people feel inadequate coming before God.

Without going into detail--which might not be fair--I went through a period earlier this year where I felt like church was a performance appraisal and I wasn't measuring up. As one of the leading advocates of the primacy of the liturgy in all things related to the church, I got angry with him, and with a number of other people.

He was a part of Mass this past weekend and I was so angry at him that I could barely concentrate on the Mass. But the reasons we get angry at people tell us at least as much about us as the people at whom we are angry. And part of the reason I was angry at him was because it was relatively easy to make me feel like I wasn't measuring up and was maybe an embarrassment to my parish.

But as much as I am responsible, I don't operate in a vacuum. And I am not the only one who is put off by this. Getting put off by religion does not give you the right to go on a rampage against it. However, I believe that some of the things going on in my church are building walls between God and His people and are helping to keep hurting people from the relief they might find.

By being angry, though, I lose the ability to view this situation with the detachment required to do something about it.

And until I can view it that way, I am hampered by my anger.

The Bumper Sticker

We had just told two sets of parents that their babies, which we'd just baptised, were welcomed into the Church because God is love. We applauded them because they were there and were joining us.

As I drove out of God's house and into the real world. And I strained to read the bumper sticker back of the red SUV three cars up from me. You can't be Catholic and pro-choice, it said.

It was the fourth Sunday of Advent. We were getting ready for the coming of Jesus, the man whose death launched a new religion and a lot of thoughts, some of the accurate.

Jesus died, I am told, so that I could dare come before God and hope to emerge as more than a smoldering black spot on the ground. That means, according to the first reading we heard that day, that we have received grace so that we could have the obedience of faith (Romans 1:5).

Apparently, Paul forgot to mention the part about the abortion litmus test.

I need to figure out what other parts Paul might have forgotten about.