Christmas

"If you don’t hear in the message of Christmas something that must strike some of blasphemy and others as sheer fantasy, the chance are you have not heard the message for what it is." (Frederick Buechner)

Forget Not

Praise the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all his benefits.
Ps. 103:2

The florescent lights in the nursing home cafeteria buzzed and flickered. Sleigh Ride or Holly Jolly Christmas or some other such jingle played in the background. Dishes clattered as the girl in blue scrubs slid leftover beef stroganoff and crumpled napkins and half eaten dinner rolls and bits of jello-salads into her bin. And my dear old friend, Jon, slumped in his wheel chair, picked at the table cloth, and muttered something I could barely make out. Work to do. Mother is at home. Put that over here.

We were there to offer him the sacrament--the body and blood of our Lord. But we didn't know how it would go. Before arriving, I had been optimistic. But I was becoming less and less sure by the minute. Jon seemed rather baffled by the three men sitting before him. He couldn't remember the name of his son--never mind his pastor and his elder. When I tried to explained that we were there to celebrate communion and set a small crystal tray of cubed bread on the table, Jon reached for one and put it into his mouth--as if it were just some leftover morsel from his lunch that he hadn't gotten to yet.

As Jon nibbled on his bread, I began to think that it was all a silly idea--the old form from the back of the Psalter Hymnal, the little cup of juice, the zig-zagging conversation. What good would it be? How could these things be meaningful for a man who couldn't even remember that his wife of seventy-some years had been dead for months?

I had my doubts. But even so, I began to read my photocopied notes. And as I did, something changed in Jon.

As I went through the old form--the institution from 1 Corinthians, the explanation of what was being proclaimed and remembered, the prayer for the blessing of the Holy Spirit--Jon became suddenly aware. He interrupted--only occasionally--to offer the reference of the scripture passage, or to request a favorite Psalm (139). When we got to the Lord's prayer he said every last phrase--clearly. When it came time to say the words--Take, eat, remember and believe--Jon held on to his bread and juice until the appropriate moment. And then offered his thanks. To me, perhaps. But mostly, I believe, to Christ.

After we had swallowed our bread and sipped our juice, I began to read the traditional thanksgiving Psalm--103. It didn't take long--two verses--before the words caught in my throat and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. Praise the Lord, says the Psalmist, and forget not all his benefits. When I read those words, I nearly lost it--right there in the nursing home cafeteria. I nearly lost it because I knew that of all the things that Jon has forgotten--the name of his son, the place he attended church for ninety (or more) years, the death of his wife, what year he was living in--Jon has not forgotten Christ and all his benefits. He was able to take, eat, remember, and believe. Dementia has taken so very much from him--but by God's grace, it hasn't taken that.

Praise the Lord, oh my soul. Praise the Lord.

Parking Lot Prayers

The greatest tragedy in life is not unanswered prayer, but unoffered prayer. (F.B. Meyer)

The habit of not praying is far more difficult to break than the habit of praying. (Philip Yancey

When Art and Dolly told me that they always prayed for parking spots--and that they had never been disappointed--I simply smiled and nodded. I didn't ask if they felt guilty about cluttering up God's inbox with their petty parking petitions when they might instead have chosen to bring him a request for--oh, I don't know--world peace. I didn't challenge them to explain why God would take the time to cut down their walk to the front doors of Wal-Mart when he apparently hadn't been able to fit the healing of a friend from church into his ca lander. I didn't ask. In fact, I didn't even raise an eyebrow.

But a part of me wanted to.

I know that I'm supposed to be all for prayer (no matter what it's about)--especially since I'm a preacher and all. But even so, there was something about the way the lovely old couple phrased things there in their doily-filled living room that I found unsettling at the time. It seemed to me that somebody in the prayer equation had their priorities mixed up. Either Art and Dolly did (because they were content to offer up petitions about one of the more trivial matters in life and were neglecting (I assumed) the weightier things). Or God did (because he was so busy managing parking lots that he couldn't seem to be bothered with world hunger and genocide). It would be better, I thought, if we didn't bother God with parking spots or Settlers games or even head colds at all. After all, all of us--and God especially--have more important things to worry about.

Well, last Monday, while my legs dangled from the ski lift and I scrunched my shoulders up against the cold, I found myself praying that my car would start. I didn't mean to--honest. It just happened. I sat there on the lift, thinking about the drive home--hoping that I wouldn't
have to find someone to give me a push start in the parking lot like I had the previous week.* And the prayer just happened. Dear God, please, please, please, let it start today... For the most part, it was a silent prayer. But every now and then, I may have muttered my plea into the pulled up collar of my winter coat.

I felt rather silly about it at the time. After all, I knew there were many other things I should be using my time to pray for. Even as I muttered that prayer for my car, my iPod was piping into my ear an NPR news story about genocide and child soldiers in some far away corner of the world. Shouldn't I pray about that instead? It sounds strange to say it, but suddenly I found myself feeling guilty about praying.

That incident has run through my mind nearly every time I've tried to start my vehicle the past week (which has worked every time, by the way). And I've concluded that, the next time I'm in the mountains and am worried about the car starting, I'll probably pray about it. Here are a few reasons why:

• God invites us to pray (and is offended when we don't). He apparently likes to be asked--even for seemingly mundane things like daily bread and dependable automobiles.
• Every action (or nearly every action) is habit forming. Every choice not to pray moves me toward a life of non-prayer. Every choice to pray moves me toward a life of prayer.
• Furthermore, when I pray for the "little" things, I'm reminded to pray for the "big" things. And when I learn to trust God with those "little" things, I'm a step closer to trusting him with those "big" things.
• Prayer helps us learn to see reality more clearly. More specifically, it helps me see that God is a apart of my reality. He is at work in my world and in my life--no matter how big or how small the issue may be.

Does all that mean I'm planning on always getting a good parking space or a life free from car trouble? Not likely. But it does mean that I believe God hears me--and wants to hear from me. And for that, I'm grateful.

*Actually, I didn't even need to find them. I prayed that God would help me get my vehicle started then too, and these kind folks showed up and offered a hand. Coincidence? Or providence?