Tag: Gospel

we quit on christmas too soon

[5 minutes, 871 words]

Entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother, and falling to their knees, they worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Matthew 2:11

The Magi’s journey didn’t end when they arrived in Bethlehem. It ended when they worshiped the Christ. Christmas isn’t over until we bow and worship King Jesus.

We often bemoan the last hours of December 25th, mistakenly thinking Christmas is over. And why not? The very next day, radio stations go back to regular programming and department stores stop their holiday hours. It’s as if the magic of the Christmas season dissipates all at once. The lights start coming down, the Christmas tree is lugged up into the attic, and the wrapping paper tossed into garbage cans and dragged out to the street.

Back to normal.

Switching gears.

New Year’s resolutions!

Sinclair Ferguson writes, “When I was a child, Christmas seemed to die every year by bedtime on December 25th. The anticipation seemed long; the realization all too brief. I even tried wrapping up my presence again and opening them the following morning.”1

We quit on Christmas far too soon. A large swath of the global church, however, stretches their Christmas season through January 6. Epiphany: the traditional date given to mark the Magi’s arrival at the house where the newborn King was waiting to be worshipped. The Wise Men learned their trek across mountain and desert wasn’t quite over2; they still had a few miles to go. He’s not here; He’s in Bethlehem. Christmas wasn’t over until they worshiped the newborn king.

That’s what is missing from the modern celebration of Christmas: the worship of Jesus. We keep ‘doing Christmas’ year after year, failing on all fronts on this matter. Parties, presents, Hallmark movies, wassail and caroling, all make the season bright. But by Christmas evening we ruefully reflect on how quickly “it all went by.” The lights on the tree seem less twinkly somehow, the last gift has long since been opened, and the trappings are slowly whisked away. That’s the last of the eggnog, someone announces.

But what does it actually mean to worship Jesus at Christmas? It means remembering why He came in the first place. So…how did we do? Was Jesus worshipped? Or was He a quick detour at the candlelight service, only to be forgotten once the family gathered around the Christmas tree? Perhaps we sang “O Come Let Us Adore Him” without actually adoring Him. Perhaps we read Luke 2 as tradition rather than as an invitation to wonder.

The incarnation is about God taking on flesh, receiving a body, in order to become the worthy sacrifice for sin. Not only is God with us3, He is for us, as in our Sinless Substitute4 for our salvation. John wrote, “For God so loved the world that He gave His Son Jesus…”5 Gave him. For us.

The world isn’t really celebrating Christmas unless they celebrate the reason He came. Christmas, for them, is temporary merrymaking but not worshipping. It’s a Christmas Eve ceasefire for twenty-four hours, singing carols to your enemy across the trenches, only to resume hostilities the next day.6

We need to take our time through the holy days. Inhale. Marvel at the manger. Feel the awe of the shepherds. But ponder7 with Mary. There’s more than just one silent night that must be attended to. It’s not too late.

The Magi, embodying the true Christmas spirit, had to see it through to its end. Christmas wasn’t over for them on December 26th. They needed to see Jesus, bow before Him, and give Him everything they had.

We’ve all felt it—that letdown on December 26th when the magic evaporates and we’re left wondering why Christmas never quite delivers what we hoped for. We pile expectations onto a single day, asking them to satisfy longings that run far deeper than any season can reach.

Alistair Begg names the real issue:

“The reason that not even the joy of the Christmas season can satisfy us is that our very selves are made for the God who makes Christmas meaningful.”

—Alistair Begg, Let Earth Receive Her King, 173

January 6th seamlessly moves us into a new anticipation: Even so, Come, Lord Jesus. The incarnation gives way to the promise of Christ’s return to earth. Jesus didn’t just come the first time to save us from our sin, He will come again to visibly rule upon the earth, fully and finally defeat all evil, and make everything permanently new. Having been to Bethlehem, we can now set our sights on the Eternal City whose architect and builder is God.8

We are the Magi. The called. Journeymen and pilgrims, relentlessly pursuing the Object of our Magnificent Obsession. Pausing, perhaps; misdirected at times; but never stopping. Not until we come face to face with Jesus, thus emptying ourselves of all that we are and have and lay our crowns at His Blessed Feet.

We might consider adding one more day to our Christmas season this year. It isn’t Christmas until we have worshipped Jesus. So let’s not quit too soon.

Selah, beloved.

  1. Sinclair Ferguson, Child In The Manger: The True Meaning of Christmas, p 41 ↩︎
  2. Matthew 2:7-8 ↩︎
  3. Matthew 1:23 ↩︎
  4. 2 Corinthians 5:21; 1 Peter 3:18 ↩︎
  5. John 3:16 ↩︎
  6. www.worldhistory.org/The_Christmas_Truce/ ↩︎
  7. Luke 2:19 ↩︎
  8. Hebrews 11:10 ↩︎

black and blue

Credit: Getty Images

[900 words, 5 minutes]

One of my former parishioners, a longtime friend, contacted me about some books I left behind in our former church’s library and asked if I might be interested in receiving them back. One of them looks like a Father’s Day gift from Graham, he said. Of course I wanted it!

Seven-year-old Graham thought his dear old dad could use a book of devotional readings geared for men. Although I read many of its 365 entries in 1997, I never finished it. I thought it might be a good idea — in honor of my son’s wishes — to plow through its 400-plus pages again.

Its daily readings feature a selection of writings from various respected Christian authors and ministers. Some are unfamiliar to me but others I know all too well.

Here’s the thing. I built up a good head of steam reading the daily selections, feeling nourished by some insights I found therein, but one day I hit on one that stopped me cold. The writer was recognizable to me as a man who had just filled the headlines with substantiated charges of adultery. I decided to skip that day.

A few days later, another blighted pastor was featured. I skipped that one too. Two days hence, yet another disgraced man of God. Three fallen preachers in one week, in a book designed ‘for men seeking integrity.’ The irony was crushing. I mean, What are we even doing here?

These discoveries forced a question: What testimony am I building? I’ve catalogued a great many blog posts, spiritual essays, and sermons through the forty years I’ve been preaching. Do I want someone to come across something I’ve written twenty or thirty years from now and have them say, “no thanks, I’ll skip this guy”?

I’m privileged to be a part of a rotation of teachers for our church’s Thursday night men’s discipleship gathering. Each of the last two weeks I shared from Paul’s final words to Timothy.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

2 Timothy 4:7

It’s telling that I haven’t spent my time condemning those men who failed, but instead I’m taking stock of my own testimony. Lord knows I still have things the Spirit is working to redeem, and while I certainly have my share of disappointments and failures, I’m grateful to have the public testimony of a preserved faith. I’m holding on to that like a precious treasure.

A proverb reminds us to “Guard your heart above all else, for it is the source of life” (Prov 4:23, CSB). If the citadel is taken by the enemy, the whole town has to surrender. If the enemy overtakes our spiritual loves and affections, our entire testimony will collapse into rubble. People won’t remember our glory days; they’ll only recall how we fell on our swords.

It’s a fight to remain faithful. It doesn’t come naturally nor does it come passively. Paul’s last recorded words are solemnly directed at a pastor to get serious about death and judgment, the faithful proclamation of the scriptures, and faithful attendance to his own testimony. All else is prelude.

Prisoner Paul then makes a bold admission. He says “I’m ready, Timothy. I’ve been a lifelong warrior and I’m going out on my feet! I’ve done all that God commanded me to do. I’ve finished the race, gutting it out to the very last mile.”

There were a lot of battles and bruises that preceded such a declaration. In one harrowing passage, Paul recounted all the bloody miles of his marathon that led up to his finish line. Fought the good fight, indeed.

And then I remembered another fight the apostle had: with himself.

I run the race then with determination. I am no shadow-boxer, I really fight! I am my body’s sternest master, for fear that when I have preached to others I should myself be disqualified.

1 Corinthians 9:26-27 (JBP)

As if the world, the flesh, the devil, and religion aren’t enemy enough, we’ve got to face off with the man in the mirror every day of our lives. We’ve got to box ourselves, beat ourselves black and blue (the Greek in verse 27 means to bruise your eye), and train ourselves in godliness.

Paul said his hardest opponent was Paul. Alexander did him much harm, but Paul needed to be brought to the mat. Demas forsook him, but Paul needed to go all Rocky on himself. Hymanaeus had to be turned over, but Paul needed a black eye. The Corinthians were a source of endless consternation, but Paul stood toe-to-toe with himself every day of his life.

One of the great things about coming to the finish line — for me — will be to finally be done with this world, the devil, and myself. I get so tired of me. But if the word of God is true – and it is – it’s a good fight, a noble fight, a necessary fight.

If Scott Mitchell doesn’t want his testimony to be ‘skipped over’ some day, he’s going to have to daily go toe-to-toe with himself in the ring and punch himself in the nose, not box the air.

Winning takes training and discipline. It takes black eyes and bruised faces and broken noses to be able to say, “I’ve fought the good fight.”

That’s how I want to go out: black and blue and…ready like Paul.

Selah, beloved.

all the way home

[5 minutes]

Thirty six years ago a baby boy was born in the same city where I first spotted the girl I would marry and who would later be his mommy. That baby was born to someone else, but that someone already gave him up to Jesus so that we could have the rapturous joy of bringing him home. That was then.

He was the answer to his mama’s many prayers and the happy surprise of his disabled daddy. He’s perfect, we said. All his fingers and toes and not a flaw to be seen. He actually favored me. I had only wanted daughters, not a son, but he changed all that with my first look. That was then.

Graham learned how to walk by steadying a pudgy hand on my wheelchair tire, trailing trustingly along as I s l o w l y rolled across the living room floor, him putting one foot gingerly in front of the other. His favorite way to travel was to perch himself between my legs and ride on my footrests, giggling and bouncing at the world in front of him. We were Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. Speed Racer and Chim-Chim. My favorite way for him to ride was when Gra-Gra climbed on my lap, pulled himself upright, facing me. When he grabbed a fistful of my shirt and pumped his legs up and down, that was my signal. Off we went, doing wheelies and spinning and carving donuts in the carpet. That was then.

We could take him anywhere. He smiled at everybody he saw and they usually smiled back. Our little guy loved to sing Jesus songs and was never off-pitch. He made friends easily. He told other little boys on the McDonald’s playground about Jesus. He loved church, he loved his cousins, and he loved Christmas and Halloween and birthdays and pretty much any other day of the year. That was then.

The boy could pick up any instrument and learn how to play it by ear. Like his mama, music was inside him and moved him. He wasn’t a great student, didn’t have the handwriting skills of his mother, but he was the spark of life in every classroom. From kindergarten through elementary school, he was rewarded as the student with the most personality, aka class clown. That was then.

The angels God assigned to our Graham had their hands full. Rambunctious, daring, and always scoping out the next epic adventure, we never knew for sure if we had a tight enough hold on him. He was so adaptable, which is a good thing on the one hand, but not always on the other. Don’t get me wrong; Graham wasn’t a troublemaker, but trouble often found him anyway. That was then.

He gave his heart to Jesus before he became a teenager. I may have mentioned it earlier, but our son didn’t shy away from telling people about Jesus. He went on mission trips, laid hands on people and prayed for their healing, traveled hut to hut with the gospel, and left his only pair of shoes in Honduras for another who had no shoes. That was then.

Prodigals aren’t as rare as you’d think. Especially not the ones who grew up in pastor’s homes. Like many of us, Graham had high hopes but he got mad at a God whom he accused of ruining his dreams. He didn’t know what to do with that, where to take all that anger. It molested him, throttled him, imprisoned him. He became addicted to it, wore it all on both sleeves, and it became the death of him. That was then.

The thing about God’s mercy is that it keeps following us and hounding us and nipping at our heels. All the way home, the psalm says. All. The. Way. Home. God’s lovingkindness never lets up. I shared with another parent of a prodigal just this week the same words that encouraged Sandy and me when our beautiful son died: the power and strength and determined will of God’s hold on us is eternally stronger than our will to walk away from him.

The other thing about prodigals is that some of them, perhaps more than we think, come home. Graham sure did.

God’s merciful love did that. It followed him all the way home, praise Jesus.

Graham would be 36 today. Sandy is in Georgia this week to celebrate still being his mom. She has many things on her docket, but none more important than sitting by Graham’s graveside and reminiscing about all the “that was then” moments. It’s been almost twelve years now, but still we grieve — and that’s okay. Some years are harder than others to celebrate his birthday while mourning his passing. This is one of those years. Sigh.

Were it not for the rich mercies of Christ Jesus, we might just stay by his cemetery plot and never leave, chained to unremedied sorrow. But a hope greater than our grieving is beating in our chests and beckoning us on. We can drive away from that plot of ground, assured and at peace, because there’s a new now, not then, past the veil and scrim of this side of eternity, where Graham is waiting for us to get Home too.

Selah, beloved.