At year's end.

Old Year's Day is meant, I think, for busy human beings to find a chair in a quiet corner, and think.
Think back on the year that was.
Think back on the person who was alive in it--yourself.
Think back on the things done, and not done.
Think back on the places seen, and the things discovered.
Think back on the new people met, and the "old" people lost.
Think back on the things that troubled body or soul, and that seem to have no end.
Think back on the good things that filled the heart, and be glad.
Think back on family and friends who entered the dark places of life, and saw little light.
Think back on a suffering world for which Jesus may be weeping still, and pray.
Think back on agents of goodness that reached out to arms outstretched, and give thanks.

We can only think back, for all our yesterdays are history.
We cannot think ahead, for all our tomorrows are mystery.

But we do have choice.
We can choose to make our life mean something, today and tomorrow too.
During these waning hours of 2010, it's good to remember the words of Jimmy Carter:

"I have one life and one chance to make it count for something.
I am free to choose what that something is, and the something I have chosen is my faith.
My faith demands...that I do whatever I can, wherever I am, for as long as I can, with whatever I have, to try to make a difference."

Maybe a difference for all the tomorrows to come.
In God's name.

a thought

People quarrel about all sorts of things.
Sometimes quarrels turn into heated arguments, then into warfare.
I don't like disputes when they turn serious, when they begin to hurt, when words turn into weapons.
But it happens.
It even happens among Christians, especially when they forget their name.
And when it happens in churches, in assemblies, at synods--I die a little.
Then I think of G.K. Chesterton, when he said:
 
              Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair.


Ah yes, so let it be!

Christmas and the Great Event Organizer

222 TALKING WITH GOD


Note: shortly before the final layout of Talking with God was decreed permanently and irreversibly, it became necessary to cut three pages; I chose these three.
Our character, the Great Event Organizer, knows how an incredible event of cosmic proportions should be planned.
Or, he thinks he does.

                                        
                                 Another Christmas?

I know you’re planning something special this season, Lord.
Well, I have an idea, ‘cause this is going to be the biggest and best celebration ever, right?
So this is what we’re going to do: a spectacular celestial fireworks!
Shooting stars streaking all over the sky!
Lightning flashes that make the whole globe glow!
Claps of thunder that will get the attention of even the most jaded!
It’ll be the kind of annunciation no one can ignore.
What do you say?

Just one special star?
I wonder if anyone will notice!

And an angel?
Well, that’s not how I’d do it, but an angel can be pretty special too.
Send it flaming down through the sky, blazing like a meteor, so that all eyes go up.
Then let it hover about a mile or so above ground, and give that angel a mighty voice that cleaves the night sky when it announces the birth of God on earth.

Say, have you thought of waiting 2000 years, when television cameras can catch this fiery flash from heaven and make the whole world watch in wonder?

The time is now; okay.

What? No universal annunciation?
Just one angel appearing to a young girl in Nazareth, of all places?
With no witnesses?
What’s the use of that!
Who’s going to believe her?

Okay, listen God, I have another idea:
send your best angel choirs down to give
heavenly Christmas concerts in every major population center.
Send the biggest ones to downtown Jerusalem and Temple Square!
Let the light of their wings radiate through the whole city
as a fitting symbol for the "light of the world."
Let their music waft through every cobblestoned alley and silence every speech.
Make the whole world listen and believe!

Good, you will send a choir.
But only one?

Where?!
To a forsaken field far from town?
To a bunch of tone-deaf shepherds?
Why?!
Who is going to believe an ignorant, superstitious shepherd?
Dear God, what kind of production planning is this?
I mean, let’s shoot for some results here!

Well, let’s talk about the blessed event itself, then.
This is going to be special, right?
Of consequence for the whole world, right?
The birth that is going to make the Big Difference for ever and ever?
So, let’s see.
No celestial pyrotechnics in earthly skies, you said.
A big mistake, I think, but you’re the Boss.
At least let’s do the Birth Day right, okay?
I know the palace is out—too bad but Pilate wouldn’t understand.
I think I can find a mansion fit for a king, though.
I’ve got connections, you know.
I know a rich young ruler with a beautiful pad.
Or Nicodemus of the Sanhedrin,
or Joseph of Arimathea—all well-heeled and prominent.
I can arrange for the peasant girl—yes, Mary—to get a special invitation;
just leave everything to me.

Not in Jerusalem?!
In Bethlehem!!

I don’t get it.
So, what are we going to use—Herod’s palace?
I didn’t think so.

Bethlehem—that rather limits the options, doesn’t it.
No Hiltons or Hyatts there yet.
You sure you don’t want to wait a couple of millennia?
We could have flashing neon signs all over; and CNN.
Well, let me see what I can do, though I must say you make it rather difficult.
I’ll pick the best place there is.
And I’ll arrange for the best doctors in town.
I’ll take care of a complete layette too.
Plus we’ll need a town crier or something.
And how about a fancy carriage with white Arabians for the temple ceremony?

What?!
No room in any inn?
Not even for the Heavenly King?
What kind of start in life do you plan to give your only Son!

A cattle shed?!
Is this supposed to be some kind of divine joke?
No doubt it’s going to make many laugh themselves silly.
For who’s going to bow their knee to a deprived infant in a smelly barn?

Oh, the shepherds—of course.
And who’s going to believe that this underprivileged baby is the Savior of the world?

I mean, dear God, do you know what you are doing?

your ways are not my ways...
therefore, whoever humbles himself like this
child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.
And whoever welcomes a little child like this
in my name welcomes me. 

To ponder: What can we learn from God’s "different" ways?

The words of Job

Maybe one powerful reason that Job was strong enough to survive the loss of everything but his soul, when even his life had become loathsome to him, was what his life had stood for, what the quality and the worth of his very being had meant to others.
Job never heard the words of Jesus: "I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me."
But Job lived by them.
He honored the great commandment: love each other.

"I delivered the poor who cried out,
The fatherless and the one who had no helper.
The blessing of a perishing man came upon me,
And I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy.
I put on righteousness, and it clothed me;
I was eyes to the blind,
And I was feet to the lame.
I was a father to the poor,
And I searched out the case that I did not know.
I broke the fangs of the wicked,
And I plucked the victim from his teeth."
                                          -Job 29: 12-17

"For God so loved the world...."

Christmas is on the calendar, and we rejoice.
Better still that Christmas be in our hearts.

More Sinterklaas

The young boy dreamed of being Sinter Klaas some day.  He would ride his magnificent horse from town to town.  He would stop wherever he wanted, especially where the people seemed poor.  He would just walk into someone’s home.  The parents would be startled at the unexpected visit but they would smile, and the children would stare, awe-struck, fear and excitement in their big eyes.  But he would make them laugh and squeal as he would tell his helper, Peter, to hand out the presents.  He would watch their faces shine as they’d take the wrapping off and discover a toy or some goodies and of course something warm they’d need in the winter time.  Then Peter would scatter handsful of pepernoten (gingernuts or balls) all around, the children would whoop and go diving after them while Sinter Klaas and Peter would quietly make their exit.  It was a wonderful dream, and the young boy was sorry when the morning light ended it.

One day his older brother Sietze asked him if he could keep a secret.  Of course he could!  All right then, he could come along; they would go shopping.  Eagerly he followed, brimming with curiosity what his big brother was up to now.  They went from one store to another.  Sietze bought masks in one store: a Sinter Klaas and a black Peter’s face.  He bought pepernoten and chocolate letters in another, games like a set of dominoes and checkers in yet another, and a fancy pair of girl mittens in the last one.  He had everything wrapped as presents except the pepernoten.

The young boy was flabbergasted.  On the way home, his brother explained.  On the eve of Sinter Klaas  they would dress up as the kind old saint and Peter and pay a visit to several homes in their town.  But not a word to Dad and Mom!  They were not to know about it because they probably wouldn’t allow it.  So they would have to hide all the purchases carefully.

The boy was impressed.  He asked no questions, not even where the money had come from to buy all the stuff.  He was all too eager to be a part of his brother’s grandiose scheme.

Two days later brother Sietze was able to persuade his parents to let their two sons “run an errand” in the late evening for an hour or so.  Sietze had hidden all the treasures in a nearby ditch earlier in the day.  Now they stealthily retrieved the bags, donned some clothing articles Sietze had gathered to resemble an appropriate costume for each, put their masks on, and stuffed the presents in the big burlap bag.  The two were on their way as Sinter Klaas and Peter.  Alas, on foot.  Sietze had not asked for permission to borrow the farm horse for the occasion.

The young boy walked his dream, though in the role of the saint’s helper.  But behind the anonymity of the mask, he watched the expressions of those whose homes they visited.  He saw the smiles and the surprise on the faces of his brother’s friends when presents were opened.  He scattered his pepernoten with abandon.  And his heart soared!

When the bag was empty at last and all the pepernoten gone, they made their way home in the dark along the back paths, for it was wartime and past curfew now.  It was winter and it was cold.  But the young boy didn’t think of war or danger, nor did he feel the cold.  There was the warmth deep inside of him with the memories of cozy living rooms and happy faces and the joy of scattering pepernoten all around.

Sometimes dreams come true.  Or almost.

Sinterklaas

Of course, everyone knows about the old bearded saint on horseback.
But not everyone lived in the land where Sinterklaas feels most at home,
where children went to bed in excited anticipation of the saint's visit and gifts.
Maybe they still do.
Dec. 5, yes; and it's coming up.
And hence, this story--a recollection of sorts.

The boy lived in a land that was sometimes visited by saints.  At least one saint, anyway.  His name was St. Claus, or better known in that small northern country as Sinter Klaas.

On December 5 each year he’d come riding on his beautiful Arabian horse, his long white beard flowing down to his waist, his red robe a bright symbol of cheer under the pale winter sun.

In the daytime he would be everywhere—in parades waving at all the little children clutching their mama’s hands; in children’s hospital wards, bringing presents and telling Zwarte Piet (Black Peter), his helper, to throw an extra handful of pepernoten (gingernuts) on their beds; walking slowly on city streets, his tall staff tapping the cobblestones, his eyes always searching for children who needed a kind word.

But the young boy knew that the busiest time for Sinter Klaas came after the sun went down.  Then he would visit every home, at least the homes where children lived, where he would surprise and delight everyone with presents.  But he couldn’t get to every home before the children’s bedtime.

So, before going to bed, the young boy would fold his clothes carefully and leave them neatly by the bed.  Then, under the warm wool blankets, he would think of Sinter Klaas coming in the night, stealing softly up to his bed, pick up the pile of clothes, stuff them full of presents from his bottomless bag, and hide the clothes throughout the house.  Soon, his eyelids grew heavy, and thoughts of good things to come turned into sweet dreams of a kind old saint who didn’t rest till he had made all the children happy.

For some reason he would wake up earlier than usual the next morning.  He would look down to the floor for his clothes pile.

Nothing.

His heart jumped, for now he knew that Sinter Klaas had indeed come.  He’d be out of bed in a flash, shivering in his underwear in the unheated bedroom.  But he didn’t mind much because the most exciting adventure was ahead: finding his clothes and the surprises hidden inside.

He’d look in the kitchen first where the stove was hot and beginning to melt the frost off the windows.  Maybe Sinter Klaas had been extra kind and hidden most of his clothes in a warm place.  Yes!  He found his short pants (for young boys don’t wear long pants there) under his own chair by the kitchen table.  His hands quickly examined its contours.  There was something inside, wrapped, for it crinkled when he touched it.  He eagerly reached for it, unwrapped it before taking time to put his pants on, and hauled out a warm winter cap that would cover his ears as well as his head.

Now he was most eager to find his stockings, not only because his bare feet were getting cold, but because he knew that Sinter Klaas liked to put candy treats inside the long wool stockings that young children wore in wintertime.  After a bit of looking, he found one stocking on the kitchen shelf behind the stove.  It felt toasty warm to his fingers, but the bag of sweet licorice and piece of nougat inside made him even happier.  He quickly stepped into his stocking and continued the search for his shirt and other stocking.  He could find nothing more in the warm kitchen, so with one bare leg and no shirt he ventured back into the unheated living room.  He couldn’t find anything until at last he spotted his blue shirt wedged behind the family pump organ.  This time he took the wrapped present out and first pulled his shirt on.  Then he hurried back into the warm kitchen to open it.  He beamed when he unwrapped a tall gingerbread man.  He broke off a little piece and stuck it in his mouth, though he knew he should eat his breakfast first.  But wait, there was more!  His very own checkers set!  Wow!  Maybe he could take it over to his friend’s house to play a game.

Now there was only the one stocking left.  His toes were really cold by now, and he had to go badly.

He searched more frantically now in the unheated living room and bedroom, looking into corners, on  shelves, in drawers, in the closet, but nowhere did he find his warm stocking;

He decided he couldn’t hold it anymore—he’d have to go to the toilet first.  He slipped into his wooden shoes in the hallway, opened the door to the cowstalls, and awkwardly clomped along the gutter behind the cows that led to the inside outhouse.  He hurried in, closed the door, and then he saw the lost stocking hanging right above the toilet seat.  He stopped and stared a moment, wondering: did Sinter Klaas himself have to use the toilet during his visit?  Did saints really have to go to the bathroom too? And had he forgotten to take his stocking back inside the house?  Strange.  But then eagerness to know what was inside took over again, and for the moment he forgot why he had come here.  He snatched the stocking down, reached inside, and hauled out a small box with an H on the outside and a dark chocolate letter on the inside.  Immediately he forgave Sinter Klaas for hanging the stocking in the family outhouse.  Maybe he’d done it to be funny.  But he’d been good, for the young boy liked his presents very much—every one of them!

When and Where?

November 10

Think of this at the end of the day:
25,000 children under the age of five died from hunger and hunger-related causes
over one billion people will go to bed hungry
over one billion people will have lacked access to safe and clean drinking water
nearly 5000 children died because of water-borne disease
over 40 million people are displaced from their homes and lands
over 14 million children are orphaned by HIV/AIDS
5500 people will have died that day of AIDS
thousands of children will have died of malaria.

When, Lord, and where, Lord, did we see you?

Launching

November 26

To launch--a universe, with constellations, planets, life, people.
At the launching pad, a Creator?  Or Nothing? 
From inanimate to animate by Mystery?  Or Science?
Eons later, still trying to figure it out.

To launch--a baby, a new-born life with heart beating, blood circulating, limbs moving.
At the launching pad, parents.
Everyone, watching in wonder.

To launch--a poem, with a dance of the imagination and the strong beat of a feeling heart.
At the launching pad, a truth-seeker, a language lover, a burden-bearer.
A few, observing, pondering, responding.

To launch--a world, a life, a poem, a story, a ship, anything.
Purpose-driven, with unknown destinations.
With unknown consequence.

To launch a book--one with much thought, hard questions, and currents of gratitude:
Talking with God...
At the launching pad, a God-seeker.
Holding to the light on Thanksgiving Day before family and friends
a volume of prayers and reflections and meditations.
Purpose-driven, with unknown destinations.
Its consequence known only to God.

Thanksgiving

November 23

Confession: my life is not a constant litany of praise.

For some of us have more than others, and when I look

at those whose burdens look much larger than their blessings,

I feel they need my prayer more than you need my praise

for all that’s good and right with me.

Then my moments of grateful adoration often turn into

contending with a God of inequalities.

It’s the all-night struggle at the Jabbok that still engages

me more than the green pastures where sheep do safely graze.

Serenity eludes me in a world where beasts of prey

transform green pastures into bloody killing fields.

Dear Lord, I want to revel more

in all that’s good and Godly and gracious,

even when I smell the sewers

and see the fissures of this broken world.

                                                                  -from Talking with God...

Average

I'm neither tall nor short.
I'm average.

I'm neither brilliant nor dumb.
Maybe, though, I was born in Wobegon.

I'm neither a leftist nor a rightist.
But I wonder: is the middle of the road a good place?

I'm neither an optimist nor a pessimist.
Yes, of course: a realist...I think.

I'm neither an idealist nor a cynic.
Just keeping hope alive.

I'm neither always merry nor a constant scowler.
Just trying to smile more.

Average?
Is anyone?

Sometimes there's the echo of a voice from the past:

"I will drink life to the lees.
...this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star...
...my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset...
Made weak by time...but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find...."

Ulysses: he was not average.

Autumn

Monday, November 8, 2010

Autumn

as Mildred Zylstra put it in her “Autumn” poem:

            The lily bulb is buried deep in earth.

            Onion-layered skins, brown-tissue thin,

            Will crumple off.

            Green shoot emerge, tall stem,

            White bell will ring out joyfully

            In blue spring sky

            With tongues of gold.

            This fragile sheath of skin,

            Brown-spotted, wrinkled flesh,

            Will shrivel up.

            What flower, with what form

            Will blossom forth in unknown joy

            In new spring sky

            Only the Gardener knows.

                                                        -from Talking with God

Why can't I

November 3

I know a man of 80 who biked from one ocean to the other.
He pedaled up steep mountain grades, mile after mile.
He pedaled into winds strong enough to make trees sway.
He pedaled when the pelting rain lashed his cheeks and nearly took his sight away.
He pedaled when the summer sun shimmered on the desert and parched his tongue.
He pedaled when the rising sun painted the sky in
He pedaled, all the way, from coast to coast.
Why can't I?

I know a man who learned to carve in his retirement.
Birds at first, and horses.
But later, with finer tools and more creative skill, a Beethoven bust.
And Mozart playing the violin, and a whole nativity set....
Each so finely detail-crafted that it takes your breath away.
Why can't I?

I know a man who writes three books at once.
Words keep gushing from the deep wells of imagination.
No parching droughts or lengthy rewrites.
Award-winning, compelling reading--all of them.
Why can't I?

Well, yes, at last I have a book.
But it's a "different" book.
Talking with God it's called.
It seems that Enoch did that easily.
And so did Tevya.
Why can't I?

Someone said, "Be perfect."
Why can't I?
Because my wife would have none of it?
Maybe.
Because we know of only one who could?
I think so, yes.

Re-start

Having been made aware, on November 28, that the blog I started has a different URL than my book, Talking with God indicates, I begin again.
I'll try to import blog entries from the henrybaron.blogspot.com to this one.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

in the making

There's bad weather in the making this morning--tornado watch, warnings of damaging winds, and heavy thunderstorms.
Life's in the making too, all the time.  And we're part of it.
But there's also my book that is in the making, and that's pre-occupying.
My brother's book is made; I picked up 20 copies from the local printer yesterday, my eyes being the first to behold the final product that had been in the making for a long time.
Yes, I checked out my three stories in "Through Dark Places" first.
In a few weeks I'll be holding my own "baby" in hand.
All that He made was good.
All that we make is not.
But we try, as our life continues to be "in the making."