Yes, I do! Really!

In the calendar of the Church it is the season of Christmas, which began Christmas Eve and ends January 5. Beginning Jan. 6 is the season of Epiphany.

In the Jewish calendar it is early in Hanukkah. CANN Anglican has a huge linkfest to sites related to Christmas and Hanukkah. I’ll mention two of them for Hanukkah because they would be easy to overlook on the list. One is written by my friend Gerard Van Der Leun, entitled, “Hanukkah Candles on Christmas Eve.” Gerard is one of the most literate people I know; he is a far superior writer than I. As compelling as his prose is, his poems excel even that. This is one of those times.

See also, “The real meaning of Hanukah,” by Ed Lasky at The American Thinker.

At this hour where I live, Christmas is nearly over. It’s a single day of celebration and worship for Christian people, now come and gone. But for the people of our mother covenant of Abraham, Moses and Jeremiah, the eight days of Hanukkah have just begun.

So I extend to all people of the Torah warm greetings and and best wishes for rich days of spiritual celebration!

Joe Katzman commemorates the beginning of the festival with, “‘Twas the Night Before Hanukkah.”

Then there’s this story from The Braden Files.

The two beggars
Two beggars are sitting side by side on a street in Rome. One has a cross in front of him; the other one the Star of David. Many people go by and look at both beggars, but only put money into the hat of the beggar sitting behind the cross.

A priest comes by, stops and watches throngs of people giving money to the beggar behind the cross, but none give to the beggar behind the Star of David.

Finally, the priest goes over to the beggar behind the Star of David and says,

“My poor fellow, don’t you understand? This is a Catholic country, this city is the seat of Catholicism. People aren’t going to give you money if you sit there with a Star of David in front of you, especially when you’re sitting beside a beggar who has a cross. In fact, they would probably give to him just out of spite.”

The beggar behind the Star of David listened to the priest, turned to the other beggar with the cross and said: “Moishe, look who’s trying to teach the Goldstein brothers about marketing.”

O God our Father, you have brought us again to the glad season
…..when we celebrate the birth of your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.
Grant that his Spirit may be born anew in our hearts this day
…..and that we may joyfully welcome him to reign over us.
Open our ears that we may hear again the angelic chorus of old.
Open our lips that we, too, may sing with uplifted hearts.
Glory to God in the highest,
…..and on earth, peace, goodwill toward all;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The United Methodist Book of Worship, no. 276.

Luke 2:8-20
…..And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.
…..But the angel said to them, “Fear not! I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”
…..Suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill to all people.”
…..When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”
…..So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them.
…..But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.
…..The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.

My name is Isaac. I was one of the shepherds on that first Christmas night. I had been a shepherd all my life. My father, Abraham, had also been a shepherd. There were five of us on the top of a low rise in the ground when the angels announced the Messiah to us. We were tending our sheep. We had brought together three flocks for the night. It was safer for the sheep for them to be brought together and easier for us to watch them. Three of us would keep watch while the other two got some sleep, taking turns, of course.

Just before darkness fell we made a makeshift pen for the sheep by setting out rope strung between stakes to make a broad circle. The sheep could have jump the rope or pushed through it, but sheep are fairly dumb animals and all had been raised from birth staying in pens like that at night. When a lamb is small you simply whack it if it tries to cross the rope. After a few whacks it will not try any more, even after it is grown.

So we built a fire near one side of the rope pen to give us light and warmth and we warmed some broth to sip. You might wonder how we planned to separate the sheep the next morning into their own flocks. After all, sheep all look alike. How could we tell one from another? Well, we couldn’t tell them apart, but they could tell us apart. Come morning we would open a gap in the rope and Eleazar, the youngest of us and with the smallest flock, would stand outside the gap and call his sheep. Every shepherd has a distinctive voice and a unique call. When Eleazar’s sheep heard his voice they would respond. A shepherd calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own he goes ahead of them and the sheep follow him because they know his voice. They will not follow a stranger. Our sheep would remain inside the rope until we each called them.

Around us were the hills of Bethlehem. King David had been a shepherd in these same hills about a thousand years ago, so Bethlehem was nicknamed the “City of David.” The grazing areas had been wilder in David’s day. He had contended with wild bears and lions. We never faced those beasts but there were plenty of wolves to prey on our sheep. There were plenty of sheep rustlers, too. At night the wolves and the thieves liked to come out. So two of us would sleep while three of us stood watch: one standing close to the fire where in the firelight thieves would know we were alert, and the other two walking quietly around the pen, armed with hefty staffs.

Halfway to midnight I had spent two shifts patrolling the perimeter of the sheep pen and it was my turn to stand by the fire. Then I would get some sleep. We would walk around the pen for two shifts then stand by the fire for one shift. That way would go to bed warm. I stood with my back to the fire, scanning the sheep pen. Occasionally in the starlight I caught a dim glimpse of Benjamin or Jacob walking their posts. All was normal. The heat from the fire behind me warmed me well, but it diminished as the wood burned. The flames began to flicker low. One reason for the fire was to show my silhouette standing guard, so I decided that when I saw the shadowy figure of Jacob reach the left side of the sheep pen I would put more wood on the fire.

Before Jacob reached that point I noticed the light from the fire began to increase, so I knew that either Gedalya or Penuel, sleeping behind me, had stirred enough to add some wood. I kept watching into the darkness.
Something was odd. The firelight had increased quite a bit now but there was no more warmth. If the fire was burning more brightly there should have been more heat. Just when this thought occurred to me I heard Benjamin’s urgent voice come from the darkness:

“Isaac! Isaac! Behind you! Behind you!”

My heart leapt to my throat. Someone must be approaching me from the rear! Without a thought I lunged quickly to my left, whirling and bringing up my heavy staff, ready to strike.

I stopped frozen with astonishment. I was struck dumb and almost blind by what I saw.

Gedalya and Penuel were sitting bolt upright, hands raised before their faces, shielding their eyes. Without thinking I was raising my hands before my eyes, too, because from a single point about five feet above the fire shone a light of such white purity and dazzling intensity that I could not look directly at it. It seemed to grow larger and even brighter until it shone round about us.

There was no sound except the pounding of my heart. I was suddenly aware that Benjamin and Jacob had run up and stopped, open mouthed, beside me. I was more frightened than I had ever been in my life. In fact, I was terrified.

Penuel found his voice and gasped, “It’s the glory of the Lord!” And then my terror almost overcame me, for I remembered suddenly the words of Isaiah: “And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.”

Gedalya must have also been thinking of the prophets; he uttered the words of Haggai: “Thus saith the Lord of Hosts; Yet once, a little while and I will shake the heavens, and the earth, and the sea, and the dry land; And I will shake all nations, and the desire of all nations shall come.”

The light began to change before our eyes. Its blinding brightness became softer until we could look directly at it. As we watched the light expanded in size. In mere seconds it took a shape much like a human being, but far larger. It hovered above the ground and then the light actually spoke to us:

“Do not be afraid! I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the city of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

I caught my breath. Our visitor was an angel of the Lord God Almighty! A messenger announcing a Savior born of God! It was too glorious to comprehend!

Suddenly another, tiny point of light appeared beside the angel, incredibly bright though as small as the tip of knitting needle. Another appeared, then all at once so many shining points burst into view that I could not keep up with their advent. They swirled and swarmed about us in every direction, up, down, right, left, back and forth - a small galaxy of angelic visitors!

We were only shepherds yet we were encompassed in every direction by thousands of heavenly lights! I laughed aloud and I heard my friends laughing, too. I raised my arms giddy with joy, astounded that the God of all creation would favor such lowly ones as we shepherds with the announcement of the birth of the Savior and this celebration by angels too numerous to count.

I raised my face toward Heaven, overcome by joyous excitement, and shouted, “Glory to God in the highest!”

Immediately, the multitude of the heavenly host took up my phrase . They sang in the purest tones of praise, “Glory to God in the highest!” Then they added, “And on earth peace, goodwill to all people!” I have never heard voices like those before and I know that in this life I never will again. But that night was enough. The angels sang it again and again and we joined in, too, beside ourselves with amazement and thanksgiving, nearly delirious in our rejoicing. In a time - I don’t know how much time - we noticed the lights were dimming. Their singing grew growing softer until at last there was only darkness again and the whispers of the chorus, “goodwill to all people.”

We stood speechless for moments, warmed all the way through even though our fire was only embers. At last Jacob said with softly, “We need to go the Bethlehem.”

“Yes,” I breathed, “Let us go down to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

With no further thought we hurried off to the city of David. “What of our sheep?” Penuel asked halfway there. Benjamin huffed while we trotted, “The Lord will never abandon them. The angel told us to go.” That was good enough for us. Was not our Lord a good shepherd for his flock?

We found the manger quickly, almost as if we were led to it. And I suppose we were. We found Mary and Joseph and the baby, who was lying in the manger, just as the angel had said: Christ the Lord.

“Angels sent us,” I said to Mary.

“In a dream or in person?” asked Joseph.

“In person,” I answered, puzzled at the question.

“Only in dreams for me,” Joseph muttered, but I didn’t know what he meant.

Mary smiled. “We don’t doubt angels sent you here,” she said. “We’ve had some experience with them ourselves.”

I said, “The angel told us that this child is our Savior, who is known as Christ the Lord. What does it mean?”

Joseph said, “When an angel appeared to me in a dream, he said that this child was conceived from the Holy Spirit. We have named him Jesus, as the angel said to do, because he will save his people from their sins.”

Mary added, “The angel Gabriel told me, ‘He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.’” She fell silent for a moment, then said, “That’s really all we know.”

We stayed no longer, for it was late and the Savior was sleeping. Mary and Joseph looked like they wanted to sleep, too. We had seen the child and so we left the manger. But it was impossible to keep this amazing thing to ourselves. We went about the Bethlehem spreading the word concerning what had been told us about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what we said to them. Then we returned to the fields, where our sheep safely waited, and we glorified and praised God for all the things we had heard and seen, which were just as we had been told.

When our Christmas season is over and we have returned to our usual routines, let us remember that the gospel we have and the salvation we are given is just that which we have been told. The grace of God is not mysterious or incomprehensible. It is just as we have been told in God’s Word: A savior was born in Bethlehem two thousand years ago.

Like the shepherds, we live in a world when the memory of Christmas will be overcome by other events. The shepherds’ sheep would still get sick or be attacked by wolves. Our cars will still break down and we’ll still have bills to pay. On the outside, everything will seem the same. But now our lives are different. God is with us!

The glory of the Lord has shone around us, and through our doubts and fears there are heavenly words: Fear not, for behold, there are glad tidings of great joy. Unto you is born a Savior!

Merry Christmas!

In England self-described atheist Simon Heffer writes, “Stop apologising for being Christian,” noting that even the very liberal archbishop of Centerbury, Rowan Williams, has belatedly urged the Church’s members to stand up for Christmas. Notes Heffer, “[I]t was a rare instance in our lifetimes of the Church of England actually standing up for something, and actually being right.”

Heffer then dissects the anti-Christmas, hence anti-Christian, movement of the Left.

[T]he offence [non-Christians] are alleged to take about it is, instead, taken on their behalf by politically motivated wreckers, who do so without actually asking Muslims, or Jews, or atheists, whether they mind this sort of prejudice being promulgated in their names. And, sadly, they seem to be encouraged in this offensive behaviour by the cowardice of politicians.

Then the real key analysis:

The modern Left exercises a militant anti-Christianity not so much because of a cultural cringe in the face of immigrant minorities, but because of its general wish to dismantle history. Once you have erased Christianity, you have erased (or at least made appear irrelevant) much of the past 1,400 years. “Modernisation” in all its political forms is about the tabula rasa, and there are few ways of creating one of those so effective as the destruction of the traditional faith.

Exactly so. Read the whole thing.

British Foreign Secretary Jack Straw (or is he a former foreign sec.?) writes in The Times to, “Have a little faith in the ‘C’ word.”

But I have just noticed — alas, for the first time — that the card I sent out in my capacity as Foreign Secretary has the anodyne, non-Christmas message of “Season’s Greetings”. And I was horrified to learn from an American friend that in the circles in which she, at least, moves it is considered not the done thing to wish people one does not know well “Merry Christmas”, still less to send out “Christmas” cards saying so.

It’s mad, in my opinion.

Indeed, but there are some signs that the madness is receding. Yesterday I drove to middle Tennessee’s largest mall, not to shop for the holidays Christmas but to look for new shoes. No luck, so before leaving I walked into Sears to check on another article I was thinking of buying. Four attendants were standing near the entrance. As I walked by one of them cheerily wished me Merry Christmas, which I cheerily returned. Oh, in Nashville this week the city council passed an ordinance making the legal designation of the city’s Christmas tree to be, well, “Christmas tree,” not “holiday tree,” as the Mayor Bill Purcell kept calling it. However, at mid-month the mayor had no problem taking part in a civil ceremony to light Nashville’s official Hanukkah menorah. The Tennessean reported (no link),

In what many in the Jewish community hope will become an annual tradition, Nashville Mayor Bill Purcell took part this week in an official ceremony to light a Hanukkah menorah. “Hanukkah is a time for celebration, but it’s also a time for rededication,” Purcell told a small crowd in his office at the Metro Courthouse …

Wait, Bill! Be consistent - that’ not a “menorah,” it’s a “holiday candlestick.”

It always happens - right after I announce one of my rare recesses from blogging I find a topic so compelling that I break my own vow to take time off writing.

In this case it is the combined media project between Time magazine and the Rocky Mountain News. They shared coverage of the procedures of US Marine Maj. Steve Beck, on whose shoulders falls the sad duty to notify families of Marines over a few western states that their loved one is dead.

Time’s version is almost exclusively a photo-essay with minimal narrative while RMN’s is a fairly detailed written narrative with extensive photo-illustration. Both are gripping, compelling pieces that should be read by every American.

They took me back to Dec. 2 when 10 Marines were killed and 11 wounded by bombs in Fallujah.

My son is based in Fallujah. Would I have heard by now that he is one of the ten? I don’t know. I don’t know how long notification takes. …

Now I know how long: not long. There is a frenzy of necessary confirmation activity by Headquarters, Marine Corps and the headquarters of the officer who make the notification, then the two-Marine notification team drives to the next-of-kin’s home and makes the notification. If the NOK isn’t there they wait. Out west, where Maj. Beck is assigned, the longest delay is often the time it takes for him to travel to the NOK’s home, which may be one or two states away.

The stories also took me back to the one time that duty fell to me. It was peacetime, the early 1980s - before cell phones or GPS to navigate. I was a first lieutenant assigned to Fort jackson, SC. My name reached the top of the installation-level duty roster just in time to be tabbed for NOK notification. I reported to the post’s casualty office for instructions. There I was assigned a government van and driver and given a written packet of information about the deceased soldier, the address of his NOK, a map and a government credit card.

My instructions were simple: “Memorize this paragraph. You are required to state it verbatim, without notes, to the next of kin. That’s all you have to do.” Unlike the Marines, the Army assigns different officers to notification duty and survivor-assistance duty. An assistance officer (actually a senior NCO) would be assigned to help the dead soldier’s parents with the funeral and settling his affairs; the soldier had not been married.

I got one final instruction before departing: “You must make the notification between 0600 and 2200. Use the credit card for any expenses related to this mission, including food and lodging if you need it. Don’t come back until you have made the notification.”

The dead soldier had been a member of the 82d Airborne Division at Fort Bragg, NC. He had died in an auto accident (fact was, he was DWI, but relating that fact was not my problem). The civilian casualty staffer at post HQ told me that tthe soldier’s father already knew his son was dead (via unofficial grapevine channel from his unit), but that it didn’t matter: the Army always sent an officer, in Class A uniform, to deliver the official word. Unlike Maj. Beck, I was alone; my driver was a driver, that’s all. I was also distinctly forbidden to call the NOK by phone, even to ask directions.

We set out for rural northwest South Carolina. The NOK’s address was an RFD box from a very small farming town. Because it was wintertime darkness had long fallen when we arrived. Absolutely everything was closed for the day; there wasn’t even a place to get a cup of coffee.

The van needed fuel and we did manage to find the town’s one gas station. It was, thank heavens, still open. I asked the attendant where Mr. “Smith” lived and showed him the address without telling him why I wanted it. The man shook his head and said he’d never heard of “Smith,” but that the RFD route started along a certain state route heading out of town, so maybe if we began at the first mailbox and kept going, we’d find it.

I remember clearly the RFD box number: 479. What a plan.

Refueled, I bought some snack crackers and a coke for my driver and myself and we drove off to find the state route. Much to our surprise, once we left the town the first mailbox was number 100. (Apparently, all the RFD numbers were three digits.) But the next was, yes, “101.” We kept going.

Believe it or not we followed the mailboxes all the way to number 479. There were many stops, wrong turns and restarts as we tried to stay on the state road; intersections were often not marked which road was which. Many mailboxes also were not marked at all and we simply proceeded on faith. Sometimes we drove a long way without seeing any box, then there would be one.

After almost four hours of navigating in the darkness, a mailbox marked 479 in simple handwritten, white paint ghosted into the headlights. It was 2145 hours. The house was set off the road about 40 yards. Bright lights shone through every window from interior lights. We turned in and parked near the front stoop. When I opened the door my ears were assailed by soul music coming from the house, very loud. I reached into the back seat and got out my Class A blouse (coat for you civilians) and saucer cap.

“Good luck, sir,” my driver called as I turned to go to the house.

“Thanks.” I walked up the wooden, rickety steps to the front door. I paused and ran my hands along my blouse to make sure it was straight and checked my cap. Then I knocked on the door loudly so it would be heard over the music. Momentarily a middle-aged (or so he seemed, hard farm labor can age you quickly) man opened the door. He was bleary-eyed and I immediately saw why: there were several open bottles of liquor on side tables behind him.

“Sir,” I said to him, “I am Lieutenant Sensing from Fort Jackson. I am told this is the home of Mr. ‘George Smith.’ If so, I would appreciate very much speaking with him.”

The man motioned for me to come in and said, “That’s me.” I stepped inside two steps, removing my saucer cap as I did. A young man in the room yelled at a boy to turn off the music, who quickly complied. I recall that there were a couple of women in the room, too.

“Mr. Smith,” I said very formally, “on behalf the secretary of the Army, I extend to you and your family my sympathy in the death of your son, Sergeant ‘Jim Smith.’” I don’t remember after so many years the paragraph I had memorized then. I know I said that another officer would contact them about making arrangements and settling their son’s affairs, and that he would be able to answer all their questions.

Uttering those words was 100 percent of my duties. I finished and Mr. “Smith” mumbled, “Thank you.” He offered his right hand. I shook it and said, “I really am very sorry for your loss, sir.” We dropped hands and briefly looked at one another face to face: he of a weatherbeaten black face, an uneducated farm laborer who had toiled in tobacco or bean fields all his life, who had worked dawn to dark to see his eldest son graduate from high school and become a soldier with a bright future. Then his son got killed one day on a rural road in North Carolina. And the next day I, a lily-white young officer, walked into his home from the night’s darkness. With no personal connection to his son, I stood in his sharecropper’s home purely by random chance of a duty roster to tell him that the secretary of the entire US Army mourned his young son’s death.

Mr. “Smith” turned away and so did I. There was nothing else for either of us to say to one another. I stepped out the door and walked back to the van, placed my blouse and cap in the back and slid into the front seat. The driver asked, “Home, sir?”

“Yes,” I answered, “if you’re okay to make the drive. We’ll stop for supper on the interstate.”

“Roger that, sir.” He turned the van toward the road where mailboxes were, or were not, marked with plain white numbers that haunted the roadside at 2200 hours, local time.

Before we reached the pavement, the former home of the dead soldier was reverberating again with loud soul music, booming through the darkness.

I won’t have new content here until the 8th or 9th of January. My real job and work related to this are taking every moment I have - and I do want to spend some unencumbered time with my family over the next two weeks.

I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas indeed, and a joyful, prosperous New Year!

Grace and peace to all,

Donald Sensing

PS - Unlike last New Year’s Eve, when Glenn Reynolds and I were forlornly exchanging emails while blogging until late evening, I will this N.Y.E. actually have a life. Please, Glenn, at least throw some confetti!

PPS - Our Marine son in Iraq will be out on missions over both Christmas and New Years. Please keep him and all our troops in your prayers. America has certainly supported them materially; Stephen told me that they have all been overwhelmed with boxes, so much in fact that he told us not to send anything until further notice.

Joel Mowbray writes at The Washington Times,

Inside a South Florida Wal-Mart last Thursday, union-sponsored protesters handed out empty, gift-wrapped boxes to children and made them cry, according to multiple witnesses — and it appears that the arrests of two of the protesters may have been part of a grand strategy designed by Big Labor-backed WakeUpWalMart.com.

Yet despite internal WakeUpWalMart.com communication — obtained exclusively by this columnist — indicating that the union-funded front instructed its protesters to test police patience, the organization is now playing the race card since the two protesters arrested (out of 15 total) are both black.

The rest of the column has many more details. HT: Marshall Manson Edelman, a Wal-Mart employee, via email.

An English newswoman snagged a TV interview with Baathist “resistance” fighters, but it went badly, seriously, terribly wrong. Dreadful, actually. I mean, awful. Really.

An online database of almost 1,000 milblogs of every type is online.

Okay, putting the name of Barbara Walters next to a special TV documentary about Heaven (ABC, 9 p.m. EST) is not something that would occur to most people. She’s not a religion scholar or even a religion correspondent. I had already checked “skip” on this one until I heard Barbara being interviewed on Sean Hannity’s radio show this afternoon. There was a guest host whose name I don’t recall. They played a long audio clip of Barbara’s interview of a failed Islamist suicide bomber. For those of us who’ve been studying Islamist suicide bombers, the revelations are not new. But for the general viewing audience they might be quite eye opening.