Monday, March 20, 2017

Lent: Afraid

There are racoons who live in the storm sewers around here. I saw one jump into a tree once at night, as I pulled up in my car. It was a big thing, the size of a large dog.

I'm not afraid of the racoons, but the idea of something that large living in the sewer does strike an eerie chord, like the legends of the alligators that live in the sewers of New York, where they supposedly feed on rats and derelicts. In some ways it's reminiscent of the monsters that ancient heroes like Aeneas, Orpheus and Odysseus had to pass on their way out of the sunlight and into the Underworld.

God knows there's enough to be afraid of, without appealing to half-remembered monsters from the id. It's impossible to read the news without encountering some new outrage against immigrants and citizens whose appearance, religion or language makes them stand out. We also have a presidential administration that spreads falsehood and stokes those fears, rather than appealing for or working toward civility. And these are just the fears our nation has inflicted upon itself.

The monsters are no longer due on Maple Street. We've arrived, and we're all afraid.

I don't intend to descend into the sewers any time soon to meet the racoons, but I do remember one thing from reading "The Odyssey" and "The Aeneid," along with those other Greek myths. The heroes also found it terrifying when they began their journey into the unknown, but when they faced their fears, they found there was nothing to worry about.

Aeneas even found that the time he spent with those shades was the best part of his journey, and they gave him what he needed to see it through to the end.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Sunday, March 19, 2017

Lent: Celebrate

Two weeks ago, my crocuses were blooming. One week ago, my daffodils were bursting through the mulch and getting ready to soar. Five days ago, the entire city was covered in ice and snow that lay on my flowers like a burial shroud.

Think it's coincidence that Lent falls in the spring? This is a time for renewal, for fresh awakenings, and for new beginnings. A heavy snowfall this late in the spring can mean death, but this is a season of life and a season for resurrection. The flowers lost beneath the snow are rising once again.

And that, my friend, is a parable.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Saturday, March 18, 2017

Lent: Beloved

During a visit two summers ago, my mother fell and had to go to the hospital.

Once there an X-ray revealed that, at 75, she had broken her hip. A four-day visit to see the grandchildren perform in one of their shows soon stretched into several weeks as she needed first surgery to pin the broken hip together, and then therapy to rebuild her strength and endurance so that she could walk again.

The Wednesday after her accident, I arrived at the hospital a half-hour before visiting hours officially would end. My mother already had had the surgery, but earlier this day had developed an arrhythmia in which her resting heart rate unexpectedly had spiked and needed medication to slow it back down. When I arrived, she was in the intensive care unit with my father, who had stayed the entire day and only now was getting ready to leave for the night.

During that half-hour when we all were in the room together, I witnessed such tender expressions of affection between the two of them that I was left in awe. It was in the way she held his arm when he bent over by her bed, to pick up something off the floor. It was in the way he helped her to clean up after she had brushed her teeth. Those simple, unremarkable things were the poetry of love, born of more than 50 years together.

After my father had left, I lingered in the room for another hour, until hospital security finally told me that I had to leave. As we talked my mother shared how she first met my father on a blind date that a mutual friend had arranged, how my father had proposed after a courtship that involved sending letters to each of the hotels she and her parents were visiting on a European vacation, so that a letter always would be waiting for her when she arrived, and other details of their courtship.

I already knew all these stories, but I enjoyed hearing again. It was a privilege to bask in the glow with her for a while.

My parents' love for one another has been a given for my entire life, and for my brothers'. We don't even have to ask, we know that it's there, and that it's real. As I write this now, my parents are both 77 and my brothers and I once again are facing subtle reminders that our parents are mortal and one day will die.

But I'm certain of this: Their love never will.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Friday, March 17, 2017

Lent: Speak

It all started with the spoken word.

That must have occurred to Jesus a few times during his fast in the Judean Desert. The Torah had it that God had spoken the world into being, first with light and darkness, then the sky and the earth, and then sea and dry land. But his sojourn into the desert and its accompanying odyssey of the spirit also began that way.

Like hundreds of others -- some curious, some eager and some hostile -- Jesus had headed down to the Jordan River to see the prophet. Like many others, he had listened, and had felt his spirit stir, and decided to be baptized. That's where the similarities had ended.

When Jesus came up from the river, his clothes hanging tight to his skin, water dripping into his eyes from his hair and beading on the tip of his nose, there had been a noise like thunder. To some, that's all it was; just the rumble of a storm that might approach and bring rain, or that might blow past and carry its rain somewhere else. But Jesus thought he had heard a voice speak.

"This is my beloved son," it had said. "With him I am well pleased."

Jesus hadn't been that different from the other children growing up in Nazareth. Like the others, he'd enjoyed running and playing games when he was little; and when he became a teen he'd learned a good trade helping his father with the work in Sepphoris. He'd even picked up a decent amount of Greek there, to go along with his Aramaic and Hebrew. There was that embarrassing story his parents told about the time he'd stayed behind in Jerusalem when he was a child; but he'd stayed out of trouble for the most part. He hadn't been one of the boys trying to pull a King David when the girls went to use the mikveh, for instance.

But the voice had unsettled him. The rabbi had always been impressed with his understanding of Torah when he'd studied it, and looked at him wonderingly when Jesus asked some of the questions he had. "Jesus questions," the rabbi had called them. Now, in the aftermath of that voice, those Jesus questions were rising to the surface faster than the bubbles in a pot of boiling water. With no one to hear him but the open air and animals like the gazelles he stumbled upon, he spoke the questions fearlessly in a prayer that already had run for weeks and would continue for even more before it finally ran out.

"Who am I?"
"What do you mean, your son?"
"What is it you want from me?"
"What's the point to all this?"

Like those ancient words that sculpted mountains, formed fish, and gave shape to the jackal the questions that Jesus spoke became solid, fixed things. Over the weeks in the desert as he spoke them, they in turn birthed more complex questions, and then these too gained form, size and feel as he spoke them aloud, considered them, and settled them.

The fast began with the spoken word, and in the end, it was the spoken word that would end it. In a final conversation about his identity, in the words spoken to him, in the words he knew, and in the words he woud speak himself, Jesus would find his purpose.

And, speaking, he would remake the world.

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.”



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Thursday, March 16, 2017

Lent: Presence

Here's a secret that I remember when I'm not so busy that I forget: I don't need to go anywhere to experience the presence of God.

Some people think you have to go to a house of worship to be in the presence of God, and it's true that God is there.

Some people think you have to go out into nature to experience the presence of God, and it's true that God is there as well.

The presence of God also lies in the warm sunlight, in the cool of a cave, and in a dark puddle of mud. We can find God's presence in familiar places and in strange locales; among friends and family, by ourselves and among strangers; in times of plenty and contentment, and in times of need.

God can be found in all these places, and many more. Our every moment, waking or sleeping, from birth to death, is a moment that God sidles up next to us, not just to experience our joys, griefs and idle moments with us; but so that we also might enjoy the joys, griefs and quiet moments of God as well.

Sometimes the presence of God is easy to experience. Often it is elusive.

We can experience the presence of God when we reach out to the child who is alone and cold, and when someone else notices our tears, and holds us until the pain goes away. The touch of a human hand, the sound of a human voice: this may be one of the most transcendent experiences possible.

We all hunger in our own way for the Presence of God in our lives. One of the surest ways to find it is to be that presence for someone else.


Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Lent: See

There's so much I see from the table where I am seated at the computer: a glass of water, an empty cereal bowl, three apples and two oranges. Beyond that are the case for my glasses, a box of taco shells that no one put away last night, and the rest of the clutter that swarms over any surface left uncovered for more than 15 seconds.

Things accumulate with ease on the table because sometimes it's easier not to see than it is to see. Seeing the mess would prompt action to remove the clutter and clean the table. That's too much work; it's too unpleasant. It's much easier to pretend it's not there, at least until it's dinnertime and it's all staring me in the face.

Through the window I see snow on the railing, snow in the yard, snow on my neighbors' cars, and snow on their houses. Then there are the houses themselves. There's a house that came from a Sears catalog; a brick house that looks like it may have been built in the 1950s; and other houses like mine, many of them over a hundred years old.

Some of these houses are inhabited by people I don't see, because it's easier not to see them. We live our lives separately from theirs, in a parallel city that never touches theirs because they go to college and do things we never did when we were that age, or because their jobs are somewhere else and the place where they belong is, too. And others I don't see because they don't come out anymore, whether because of snow, age or fear.

If we saw each other, we might discover our common humanity, the needs and the fears that we all have. We might become advocates for each other in the face of xenophobia or racial animus, or feel that fundamental need to belong to a community. We might see one another's needs and strive to meet them. We might start working on bringing things to be on earth as they are in heaven.

There's a lot to see, and a lot to do. I'm going to start with the kitchen table.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Lent: Faith


Back in college I read a poem by Emily Dickinson that has stayed with me for 26 years. Popularly known as "Safe in their Alabaster Chambers," the poem describes the "members of the Resurrection" as they lie in state while days and years pass them by.

Some Resurrection.

This in many ways is the heart of faith for the Christian. It's a sort of intellectual dishonesty that says, "Yes, I know there is no evidence for God, but I believe in him anyway" or that says "I've been to the cemetery, and I've seen all the bodies that are still there, but I still believe the Resurrection of the dead is coming."

Our spirits may have faith that we will be raised, but in our bones we know a different, much colder and often stronger truth. It echoes through the dusty centuries and past the withered lives of generations past. The dead don't rise, and never have. It's a superstitition to say that they do.

Death is inarguable and inevitable. In its own way, the Lenten season marks this march toward finality, since each day of Lent brings us one day closer to the day the state executed Christ as an enemy to law and order. As for the Resurrection, there is no certainty of that, just a promise that may or may not have been made, written down by people living thousands of years ago who may or may not have known what they were talking about.

While a life of faith obviously requires trusting that promise, I have found it also requires acknowledging the cold realities of death. To do otherwise is to become a simpleton who meets Christ on the road to Golgotha and says, "Chin up, it's not so bad."

Faith doesn't mean looking at an abusive or controlling husband and saying "He's actually very loving and devoted." It does not mean having cancer and insisting that God miraculously has healed it. And it certainly doesn't mean death and suffering don't matter.

Instead, faith acknowledges the grim realities that face us -- the presence of abuse, the corruption of illness and the finality of death -- and sees beyond them, without proof, reason or evidence, not just to how things ought to be, but to when they will.

Denial? Not at all. Just faith.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Monday, March 13, 2017

Lent: Kindred

There's no one else here at the moment, but in the evening this table brims and bubbles with commotion. My wife and I have three daughters, and one of the most important rules we have is that everyone has to be present at the dinner table who is home.

It doesn't matter how much homework there is; whether the book sits at the zenith of literature, or its nadir; if you're so full of energy that you can't sit still; or even if you ate already at a friend's house. Dinner time is family time. Attendance is mandatory.

Thus it was that last night the girls sang a medley that ran through "Before He Cheats," "Set Fire to the Rain," selections from "Hamilton" and a dozen other songs. They sang in harmony and they sang over each other, but either way they were having a blast.

Sometimes at dinner the girls encourage each other, and sometimes they instigate. Often the youngest will switch from egging one sister on to egging on the other. Doesn't matter. I wouldn't trade a moment of it away.

The girls raise such a din that it can be a lost cause trying to communicate, but amid all the hullabaloo that they whoop up together, the girls are forging the same adamantine bonds that my brothers and I forged more than 30 years ago. They're one another's best friends, with a circle knit so tightly that no one and nothing can tear it apart.

Sisters can have a powerful bond because they were born to the same parents, but luckily there are times God sends us other kindred born to different parents, in a different culture, or from a different walk of life. Born together or discovered separately, the unbreakable relationship is something to be treasured and never cast aside.

There are times that it's the only thing that makes this life bearable.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Sunday, March 12, 2017

Lent: Celebrate

I was in New York today with my daughter, who was auditioning for a part in a movie at New York University. A day with my daughter is always a time to celebrate, but being in New York only makes it better.

It's not better because of the New York pizza we ate. It's not better because we went to Schmackery's, and it's not better because we visited the Rockefeller Center. It's better because New York, like other metropolises, is like a little slice of heaven. An imperfect slice, to be sure, but a very real one.

Walk down the street in New York and you will hear every language under heaven spoken there, by people gathered from every tribe, nation and tongue. You'll hear Hebrew, Arabic, Russian, French, Chinese and Spanish. You'll hear Kreyol, Portugese, Italian, Korean and Japanese. You'll hear Tagalog, Swahili and Urdu. You'll hear languages you never even heard of, spoken by parents to children, spoken by brothers to sisters, spoken from one friend to another, and even spoken among strangers.

Amd the people! Visit the boroughs and you'll see the old-school communities still nestled away in Brooklyn, the Bronx and Harlem. But you'll see unexpected variety blooming everywhere in a riotous garden of humanity. There are Syrian German women married to the Argentine-Indian men whom they met in Japan; French Egyptians married to Afro-Russians they met at a conference in Texas, and on and on.

New York is the mass of humanity gathered together, and laboring to make it work. That's something we look forward to seeing in its culmination, and it's something we celebrate.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Saturday, March 11, 2017

Lent: Led

When I lead my daughter somewhere, often we follow the principle that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. We get out of the car, we walk directly to the theater. She pays for the tickets, we walk directly to the seats. Short, to the point, and effective.

When she leads me, at times we have followed the principle that the best journey between two points is all around the universe: leave the house, visit the Pokemon gym at the Quaker Meeting House, walk past the bar and grab some Pokeballs to catch whatever is hiding three blocks away at the Victory Christian Center, pass the neighborhood church, meander around the library for a bit, pop into 7-Eleven for a Slurpee, play in the park for a while and then ask daddy for a piggyback ride because our feet are too tired.

I like it when my daughter can lead. It's not at all short or to the point, but it's definitely a lot more fun.

Other times instead of following my own feet, I allow others to lead me. That's not always wrong, but it often is a mistake because it gets me confused about the path I'm supposed to be on. By the time I realize how far off-course I am, hours, months and even years may have passed; and I'm mortified at how much time I have wasted. Faith means having the courage to be who we are, and taking the paths we know are there for us, even if no one else goes with us; or, going, they moan that they see nothing ahead of us, not even the shadow of a lion.

There is a fourth way to be led; John Bunyan wrote about it. As you follow the path set before you, it leads you at times into a darkness that grows ever deeper as the whispers amid it grow ever louder. That's a darkness that is terrifying not because of what hides in it, but because you were led there by someone you trusted, and now the light is failing, and now it is gone and one wrong step means ruin. When that happens, as it must, be encouraged! Others have gone before you and have seen the light of life on the other side. Be led, and by faith one day the darkness and the light alike will become a glory-song.




Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Friday, March 10, 2017

Lent: Free

We discourage the girls from taking the dog into the back yard with them without a leash because whenever he's out there, the old sinner is sure to pull a Count of Monte Cristo and escape.

When he gets out like that, Loki cuts loose. He runs down the street, squeezes through fences or just jumps over them. and does everything he can to avoid being caught. His legs remember that they have power, and he thunders like a dog twice his size across yards. It's a glorious time for him. He's free!

Over the few years we've had him, though, I've noticed something -- he never wanders too far. In fact, he'll cross one street occasionally, but never two. Sooner or later, we'll see him walking happily up the street toward our house, with an almost-innocent look on his face, as if to say, "What, you didn't think I had really run away this time, did you?"

Loki has grasped what we might call the Rule of the Leaf. The leaf may long to be free of the tree, but it never survives for long that way. When he's off the leash and out of the house, Loki is free to run, and possibly even to chase squirrels and connect with the ancient heritage of wolves that still stirs in his blood. But Loki also has strong ties to his pack. We feed him, care for him and love him; and in return he loves and protects us.

If all he wanted was the freedom to run, he'd discover that he'd surrendered his freedom to belong, and the freedom he'd chosen was not freedom at all, but a form of captivity with no way out.

We should all be as wise, and as free, as he is.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Thursday, March 09, 2017

Lent: Live

A little over 11 years ago I learned that I had cancer.

It was thyroid cancer, easily treated; but it was a reminder that, like everyone, I am under sentence of death. Six years ago I found myself staring down the barrel of 40. In less than four years, I'll be staring down the barrel of 50. Time is, time was, time's done.

With the time we spend on the business of living, sometimes it seems like it's not possible actually to live. And yet it is! I've met so many people for whom stagecraft is not a hobby or something they do. It's a driving passion.

The march of hours may demand its pound of flesh at work and even at home, but when they are on stage, time stands still. There, in their element, they transcend themselves and become life's master. If life is a light, that is a moment when it has the intensity of the noonday sun upon a winter's day where the world is blanketed in snow.

Life like this is rarely a solitary thing. It is something shared, something given. We impart our passions to another, and they elevate us in turn.

On Wednesday afternoon Youngest Daughter decided she wanted a flower bed of her own. So we set down some cardboard over part of the lawn, and added compost and a layer of mulch. Then I took a shovel and dug up a clump of daffodils from the front yard. Together we broke those up, and planted a dozen in the new flower bed.

Youngest Daughter's soul danced. Her face glowed. The flower bed is an aspiration for the future, as all gardens are at this season. Her only wish is that the flowers live and bring beauty. In that hour of working together on her garden, she didn't exist. She lived and I lived with her.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Wednesday, March 08, 2017

Lent: Preserve

We took the girls to Morristown back on Aug. 27, 2016, to see a few bits of American history. There is the Wick house and the Revolutionary war barracks at Jockey Hollow, for instance; and also there was this place, once the home of Elizabeth Schuyler and her husband, Alexander Hamilton, a couple fairly obscure historical figures of little importance and less fame.

Preservation is about keeping something of value around for later. That could be something like the fruit preserves they sell at the Baptist Haiti Mission in Fermathe, the wildlife preserves kept and maintained by the U.S. National Parks Department. Sometimes it's even ironic, like the Edmund Pettus Bridge, which deserves to be preserved not because Pettus is worth remembering, but because of the events of Bloody Sunday, and the triumph of dignity and civil rights over Pettus and his ideological heirs.

Preserving things takes work, sometimes hard work, and however worthy a cause it is, it eventually fails. The ancient Greeks once famously compiled a list of seven wonders. Of all these ancient things, only one remains intact.

We do what we can, and we preserve places and things of value. They remind us where we were, how far we've come and even the distance left to go; but in the end, preservation is just a shadow of what we've left behind and what is to come. A garden preserved for the ages is no Garden of Eden, and even the Garden of Eden from the beginning is nothing like the City of Eden at the back of the book.

Tuesday, March 07, 2017

Lent: Forgive

Anyone can forgive a rude customer or a cop who pulls people over because he can. You figure they're just jerks who don't know better. It's harder to forgive the friend who snubs you without explanation, the teacher who humiliates you in front of the entire school, or even the stranger who upends your life.

But each day of Lent moves us inexorably toward an act of supreme forgiveness, a pardon as grand as new flowers bursting up from the earth and heralding the arrival of spring. The remains of what was ruined when winter came are still there, but they're forgotten and don't matter. There are new blooms, and they're glorious.

When we learn to forgive, we will change the course of the world.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Monday, March 06, 2017

Lent: Wisdom

The word of the day is wisdom. In Greek: sophia; in Hebrew: Hokmot. I'm only 46, and my hair is only beginning to turn gray. What do I know about wisdom?

Knowledge is no good without her, but by her advice, a little wealth can increase and work much good in the world.

Disaster befalls those who ignore her, and a nation flounders when its rulers forget her; but those who treasure her become as tall and as strong as trees.

The people who claim to know her best usually are liars to the core, but you will find her in unexpected places and with people you never thought you'd see her associate with. Often that's where she stands tallest and most at her ease.

She gives her advice for free, but even though she stands by the roadside and offers it to everyone, we never want to listen until we've paid a great price. The more we know her, the lighter our load becomes; and yet our sorrow increases, because the better we know her, the less we find that we understand.

Sometimes I feel like she'll drive me mad, but I do know this. She's more precious than gold, property and even a good reputation. It's impossible to have enough of her.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Sunday, March 05, 2017

Lent: Celebrate

My close personal friend Ruth Hersey commented today that "celebrate" seems like an odd thing to associate with Lent. It does, because we've been taught to associate Lent with the droopy-dog sort of piety that Jesus used to make fun of.

Fast if you want to, but Lent is a time to celebrate! In the Christian faith, Lent traditionally mirrors the 40 days Jesus spent in the desert following his baptism. This was a period in which Jesus began to understand his unique relationship with God, and his sense of purpose began to take shape.

That purpose proved to be not just the Cross, but more fundamentally a life fully lived for others. Read the gospel accounts, and you'll find no one so lowborn that Jesus wouldn't spend time with, no one so important that Jesus wouldn't risk offending them, no one so hated that Jesus couldn't find something admirable to praise them for, and no one so outside that Jesus wouldn't welcome in.

That's a life to celebrate, and when it's joined to yours, your life is worth celebrating as well every single day.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Saturday, March 04, 2017

Lent: Treasure

I can't speak for anyone else, but I usually think of treasure as something valuable that a person owns. Usually that means money; for some people, it means mementos of happy times, like movie tickets or photos; and when we want to sound like our priorities are right, we'll say our children are our chief treasures.

Thing is, the people who hold onto their treasures are called "misers," or maybe "hoarders." Real treasure isn't what we hang onto for fear of losing, it's what we give generously from the soul. We give it to the rest of the world because we want to enrich the world and improve it by the gifting.

What's your treasure?



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Friday, March 03, 2017

Lent: Sacrifice

Let me tell you about two of my heroes.

My brother Steve and his wife, Rhonda, are the proud parents of three boys and one girl. Their daughter, Hannah, is the only one who was born to them. All three boys -- Caleb, David and Joe -- were born somewhere else, and Steve and Rhonda had to go find them. Put bluntly, the boys all were adopted, as teenagers.

Stop and think about that. For a child to be available for adoption in his teens, you can depend on it that the adoption process will be anything but smooth. Chances are higher than 99 percent that the child has been in the foster system for a while, and has moved from one home to another.

You can depend on behavior issues as the child pushes and tests the limits you've put in place. You can expect trust issues; after all, every time this child has trusted an adult, the adult has vanished. And you can bet your munsbüscher that there are going to be some challenges forming anything sort of a bond.

It takes an mountain of patience to adopt a child in his teens. It takes depths of love that the human heart rarely plumbs. It takes sacrifice to do it -- all that you have to give, and then more.

Anyone who sees the orphan standing alone, and then puts her hands on the orphan's shoulders and says, "This is my child" is a person who lives and moves in the very heart of God. She is someone who has discovered what it is to be shattered by the depth of humanity's need and to be cut on the shards of a child's pain.

It is because of such people that God is merciful to us all.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Thursday, March 02, 2017

Lent: Injustice

I realized a while ago how alluring injustice can be, and how easily it beguiles with its appeals to law and order.

There are students right now at my daughter's school who are scared of deportation. You know the drill. Some of them came here before they were old enough to remember. Others were born here, but their parents came without documentation or had it but overstayed their visa. Others are just scared because it feels like brown skin is all its takes these days to make you a target. (I doubt the undocumented immigrants in Manville, who come mainly from Poland and Eastern Europe, are having nearly these difficulties.)

Supporters of the Trump administration's aggressive posture on immigration point to the rules governing immigration. "We're a society of laws," they say. "Follow the rules, or pay the piper."

"Follow the rules." That's something we try to instill in our children from the day they're born. If you track mud on the floor, you're going to clean it. If you play ball in the house, you're going to pay for whatever you break. If you're out past curfew, you're going to be grounded. If the rule of law is upheld, then there is justice.

Well, no. Sometimes the law can be wrong, and upholding it is an injustice. When the law is kind to the wealthy and harsh to the poor, it is an agent of injustice. When the law is harsh and demands more than is reasonable, it is a vehicle of injustice. When the law acts without mercy and demeans the value of those it prosecutes and punishes, then the law undermines its own authority, cheapens its own value and makes Justice its enemy.

My faith teaches me that the principle of the law is more important to Justice than the letter is, and that people are the most fundamental part of all. When Jesus saw how the law was used to push people to the side, to shame them and to remind them that their place was outside, he took their place.

We all know how that worked out for him.

I have no doubt where Jesus would stand on deportation. May God grant us the opportunities to take his side, and the courage to seize them.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

Lent: Heal

I was bitten by a dog back in August, an encounter with a vicious little monster that left me with several tears on my fingers and hands that made it difficult to grip things.

The crew in the emergency room gave me rabies shots but said there was nothing they could do for the bites. Those would have to heal on their own. As you can see, they did.

Not all injuries are so obvious. Bullies leave marks that go deep, and relationships that don't work out leave broken hearts. The past three months we've seen how small-minded people with power can stir hatred so that the ignorant and the cowardly inflict fear and act out.

They vandalize cemeteries; they attack immigrants and threaten to deport them; they vilify Muslims; and they demean gays, lesbians and the transgender. They're like that dog, possessed by an outsize aggression belied by the small size of their spirits.

As a people we can heal the injuries that they inflict, by closing ranks and standing with those being targeted by the Donald Trumps, David Dukes and Steve Bannons of the world. We say of the Muslim, he is my brother; of the lesbian, she is my sister; of the transgender, they are my family. When you hurt them, you hurt us, and we will oppose you.

There are others who led the way to healing before, men and women who have seen that the world is bigger than themselves and contains more nations than their own. The movements that they inspire are a wine that heals and brings joy; and the Lee Harvey Oswalds, Nathuram Godseas, John Wilkes Boothes and Judas Iscariots who can't understand them always want to stir ashes into the bottle.

Healing takes time and always comes with a cost, but it's always worth it.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Mardi Gras: the last drink without ashes in it

If you're from the Caribbean, today is Mardi Gras, the last day of a weeklong celebration known as Carnival, which leads into Ash Wednesday and Lent. If you're from New Orleans or otherwise follow the lead of the Big Easy, today is the last day of Mardi Gras, a weeklong celebration that leads into Ash Wednesday and Lent.

Either way, tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent.

The cynic might look at the Mardi Gras celebration as an attempt by the faithful to squeeze in as much last-minute fun and debauchery as possible. After this, it's off to the confessional and time to put on an appropriately penitent show to satisfy the sad-sack priests during Lent.

This misses the point. While God surely does want us to keep ourselves free of wrongdoing, let's not forget that God wants us to enjoy ourselves and one another. Read the Hebrew Scriptures honestly and one thing you'll keep seeing is one festival after another, with both eating and drinking. Jesus' first miracle was even to provide a better wine for the wedding at Cana than what the groom's family had provided. People might overdo it getting Bourbon-faced on Shit Street, but Mardi Gras falls into that category. (There's even an entire book of the Bible about the unmitigated joys of having sex.) Enjoy yourself, God tells us. Live a little.

Lent is the 40-day period that leads up to the events of Good Friday, when Christians of all stripes traditionally mark the Crucifixion. It's a liturgical marker of the time between when first Jesus and then his disciples realized that things were not going to go the way they had first hoped, and when things got as absolutely bad as they possibly could.

Carnival is a time for wine and celebration, a season for living large and loving life for all that it gives us. Mardi Gras marks the end of that season.

Tonight is the night we celebrate. It is the last bottle, the last cup, the last drink we will have before we find that there are ashes in our wine.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Who is my neighbor? Terrorism in America

Trigger warning: This entry contains graphic descriptions of lynching.

They say that when the train pulled out of Texarkana, Henry Smith begged the lawmen accompanying him for protection.

Smith had reason to be scared. Only 18 years old, he had fled Paris, Texas, four days earlier, when he was accused of sexually assaulting and murdering the 4-year-old daughter of a sheriff's deputy who had beaten him on the head earlier in the week. The manhunt for him swiftly grew nationwide, with rail companies offering free passage to anyone involved in the hunt.

By the time the train arrived in Texarkana, there was a mob of 5,000 people waiting for him. A committee from Paris, where he was headed, prevailed upon the mob to let them pass so that Smith could face justice there.

Did I mention that Smith was also black?

Smith was never formally charged with a crime, never tried, and never allowed counsel. As for the sexual assault, that never even happened.

None of that mattered. When the train arrived in Paris, a reported 5,000 to 15,000 people were waiting for him. They marched Smith through town to a scaffold they had built, and there they burned him with red-hot iron brands, beginning with the soles of his feet and moving up his body until they finally gouged out his eyes. A writer for the New York Sun reported that every time Smith groaned or screamed, a cheer went up from the crowd.

After 40 minutes, the mob poured oil on Smith and set him alight. Reportedly he ran screaming off the scaffolding and only then did he die. Afterward, the people sifted through the ashes for souvenirs, including charred fragments of bone and pieces of the scaffolding.

This was a scene of horror worthy of ISIS. The perpetrators, it should be noted, were Christians.

Terrorism. That is the only word that adequately describes the scene that unfolded in Paris on Feb. 1, 1893. The horror visited upon Smith is more fitting for a scene from Dante's “Inferno” than it is for anything resembling justice.

If the concern had been for justice, Smith would have been tried and convicted first, or at least charged. But this wasn't justice. There was a message in Smith's execution for the rest of the black community, that the same could happen to them, and the law would do nothing to intervene.

Terror was the message on May 16, 1918, when a mob in Lowndes County, Ga., lynched Hayes Turner and a dozen other black men after a white landowner was shot through his living room window. Their bodies were riddled with bullets and left hanging on trees for days.

When Turner's wife, eight months pregnant at the time, decried her husband's murder, the mob caught up with her, hanged her upside-down from a tree and set her on fire. Most horrifyingly, a member of the mob cut the baby from her belly and stomped it to death. A 1918 report by the NAACP, titled “The Crisis,” notes that the people involved in the lynching wanted to teach her “a lesson.”

Between 1882 and 1964, there were nearly 5,000 recorded lynchings committed across the South, in a region of the country where the people prided themselves on a culture of grace and gentility, to say nothing of religious piety. The persecution of blacks by the larger white culture was so severe that thousands upon thousands of families fled North to Chicago, Cleveland and other major cities not just in search of work, as we commonly are taught, but in an effort to survive.

This was a concerted reign of terror, and the force driving the terrorism wasn't a maladjusted social view of race that led otherwise decent people to look askance at darker-skinned neighbors and to view them with suspicion.

The terrorism that struck in the South from Reconstruction down through the Civil Rights Era didn't have to hide from religious scrutiny that would have ended it. It flourished in the pews. Particularly in the view of those committing the acts of terror, but also in the eyes of their supporters, these were profoundly religious acts.

It has always been this way. Frederick Douglass, a 19th-century abolitionist who grew up on plantations in the South, had a special and well-earned contempt for the piety of the white Christians he knew. In his autobiography, “The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass,” Douglass noted that the cruelest slave owners and overseers invariably were the ones who enjoyed the greatest reputations among white church-goers.

“Were I to be again reduced to the chains of slavery, next to enslavement, I should regard being the slave of a religious master the greatest calamity that could befall me,” he wrote. “For of all slaveholders with whom I have ever met, religious slaveholders are the worst. I have ever found them the meanest and basest, the most cruel and cowardly, of all others.”

Fires burning along Archer and Greenwood
during the Tulsa race riot of 1921.
On May 31, 1921, spurred on by a fallacious report that a male black teen had assaulted a white teen girl in a department store where they both worked, the people of Tulsa, Okla., embarked on a race riot that lasted two days. When it ended, there were 300 people dead, and the Greenwood community was destroyed. Until that point Greenwood had been a center of black commerce and wealth known as the Black Wall Street.

Actions like that, or the Aug. 7, 1930, lynchings of Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith in Marion, Ind., weren't just terrorism. They were specifically Christian terrorism. That is a bold and even offensive assertion, but it's one I stand by. Let's break it down.

First, like much else in the South, segregation itself was profoundly religious in nature. As late as 1960, radio preacher Bob Jones Sr. took to the airwaves to argue that segregation was both biblical and essential for a well-functional society.

In his sermon "Is Segregation Scriptural?" which he delivered on Easter Sunday, Jones rooted his argument almost entirely on Acts 17:26, where the Apostle Paul declares “From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries” (RSV).

Organizations like the Ku Klux Klan, which worked to uphold this separation of the races by driving out blacks who ventured too far into white society or into positions deemed more appropriate for whites than blacks to hold, held themselves as definitively Protestant Christian organizations. Cross-burning was considered a religious gesture of positioning the light of the Cross against the darkness, and Klan rallies often were (and still are) treated as religious services, with prayers and hymns.

In this religion, every virtue accumulated to the white and every vice to the black. These views linger to this day, with unwarranted stereotypes of the black man who is lazy, predatory and angry; and the wanton black woman who tempts the virtue of white men and boys.

That's one reason why, when George Zimmerman killed Trayvon Martin, discussion quickly shifted from Zimmerman's actions to Trayvon's. Allegations of drug use immediately surfaced, along with claims that he brutally had attacked Zimmerman, and other details that served to define him as the aggressor rather than as a teen who was headed back to the home of his father's girlfriend after buying Skittles and iced tea. All this served to justify what essentially was an extrajudicial lynching.

At its essence, segregation was about protecting the purity of the white race, and particularly the purity of white women from black men. A segregationist like Strom Thurmond could — and did — have children with a black woman, and that was no shame to him; but a white woman who had a child with a black man was shamed for the rest of her life. Her children and her grandchildren forever would be viewed as black and tainted, as less than pure white. Lynchings were a way to avenge the stain brought upon the white victim, and a way to warn the rest of the black community to stay within their God-ordained borders.

And that is the reason why, when Henry Smith was lynched, it wasn't enough to accuse him of killing a child. It was necessary to invent the fiction that he also had sexually assaulted her. It wasn't enough for him to be accused of strangling 4-year-old Myrtle Vance; his crime had to be so horrible that murderous outrage was the only acceptable response.

A month after Smith's lynching, the Paris Daily News published a 184-page account of the event, called "The Facts in the Case of the Horrible Murder of Little Myrtle Vance and the Fearful Expiation at Paris, Texas February 1st, 1893,” with the intent of setting the record against Smith for all time.

To read this account, Myrtle Vance could not have been more angelic, nor Smith more demonic. No adjective was too pure to apply to the one, and none to foul too fit the second. Clearly, his lynching had divine sanction.

I know what some will say to all this. Some are going to argue that while lynching and race riots are horrible and inexcusable, they don't rise to the level of terrorism. Others will say that members of the Ku Klux Klan or other such organizations in America, Uganda or anywhere else, have no legitimate claim to a basis in the Christian faith for what they do and stand for.

The 16th Street Baptist Church
in Birmingham, Ala., was bombed
by terrorists on Sept. 15, 1963
Still others will say that terrorist actions like bombing churches, threatening people's lives to force them to convert, blowing up abortion clinics and murdering people are so contrary to the way of Christ, that those who engage in them cannot possibly be Christians.

A few may allow a wider dispensation and agree that the offender still could be a Christian, but one who has been horribly misled and deceived about what it means to follow Christ.

I'd agree with all those people on this one point. Christianity is a religion of love, not hatred. It's a perversion of the Christian faith to engage in actions like the ones I've just recounted.

Can anyone think of another religion, besides Christianity, that's been perverted by a small faction for spreading hatred and terror?



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Who is my Neighbor? Understand the Narrative

Imagine a world where everyone but you knows for a fact that hamsters are vicious monsters.

It's not something that's up for debate. Every time your child goes to school, she has to sit next to someone whose father everyone knows died in a hamster attack. At work, the woman in the next cubicle tells you of the horrible experience she had at the park when a hamster attacked her without warning, sinking its teeth into her face over and over again until her boyfriend was able to drive it away.

You might not want to believe her, but the scars are on her face. You noticed them the first day, and although you didn't want to ask what had happened, she saw you staring and answered your unasked question.

“A hamster did this,” she said.

All around you people live in fear of hamsters. Pet stores have been banned from carrying them, ever since a father yielded to his daughter's pleading and bought her one. One night when the little girl accidentally left the cage door unlatched after feeding her little pet, the hamster left its wheel, climbed out of the cage and attacked the girl in her bed while she slept.

“Hamsters aren't like that,” you would argue. “They're herbivores and don't eat meat!”

A few zoologists would agree with you, but who's going to listen to them? Everyone knows that hamsters are a menace. It's a fact. Hamsters constantly gnaw at anything they can because their teeth, which can chew right through the shell of a peanut, never stop growing. Imagine what teeth like that can do if the hamster starts gnawing on your throat.

“They're tiny rodents,” you try to tell people. “They're no more dangerous than gerbils.” (You will give up that argument once people start viewing gerbils with suspicion as well.)

You watch helplessly every day as anti-hamster views spread. Signs appear in parks warning of wild hamster populations and advising hikers to avoid certain trails, to minimize the risk of being mauled. News commentators on Fox and CNN start talking about the threat hamsters pose to the security of America's wildlife and ecosystems, and before long there's talk of efforts to eradicate the hamster menace once and for all.

What no one knows is that you have a hamster of your own. He's a small puffball named Hooper and he weighs only a few ounces. After sleeping all day, Hooper runs around on his wheel at night, drinks from a water bottle and eats seed from a small plastic dish that you fill every night.

Hooper is your little secret, one you haven't told anyone about, because you know how your neighbors and your friends are going to react if they find out you have been harboring a hamster.

It's crazy. There's no basis to it, but this is the narrative that has stuck to hamsters, and nothing you say or do can alter that narrative. Hamsters are a menace to our children, and to our very way of life. Everyone knows this.

One day, you go to put Hooper in his exercise ball while you change the litter in his cage, and he bites you. How do you think you're likely to react?

That's the danger of narratives. They don't allow facts to shape them; they force the facts to fit them. The more we repeat them, the stronger those narratives become, until they become unassailable. These narratives influence our actions and our attitudes, even when we know better.

It's not just hamsters. We hear and we tell misleading narratives all the time, about other people, other races and other religions.

It's possible to replace the narrative with one more accurate, but more information isn't enough for that. For us to really change the story, we need to get to know the people in it.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Who hates Jesus? The answer may surprise you

I usually like "Coffee with Jesus," but today's strip is one that I feel misses the mark and misunderstands the essential appeal of Jesus.

Produced by Radio Free Babylon, "Coffee with Jesus" is a webcomic about prayer that appears on the Facebook page of its creators. The strip features a regular cast of characters as they talk with Jesus over a cup of coffee. The strips aren't funny as much as they are thoughtful, occasionally poignant, and more often thought-provoking.

Today's strip features Kevin, who until recently was the strip's skeptic, a fellow who spoke with Jesus honestly and pointed out the problems he had with Christians, with the church and with belief. His prayer brings up a topic I've noticed a lot in the churches I've attended: that people are okay with spirituality and spiritualism, but intolerant of any mention of Jesus.

I've always found this complaint a little odd. People don't appreciate being prosyletized, but that's true whether you're pushing them to accept Jesus, to become a vegetarian, or to pull up their roots and move to Alaska with you because there's supposed to be good fishing in Skagway.

But once it's clear that you're not pushing, people are by and large fine with hearing about what you've found in Jesus, Buddha or Shintoism; they're generally impressed that you decided to become a pescetarian, a vegetarian or a raw vegan; and they're downright excited to hear your plans to move to Skagway, Sitka or Haines -- just as long as you're not going to Kake.

It's a popular theme in evangelical circles especially that people hate Christians and that everyone had it in for Jesus, but that's not what the Bible shows. The gospel account is that Jesus was arrested and tried in secret, and then crucified, not because he was unpopular but because he was insanely popular with the people and the priests feared a riot.

And why wouldn't they? Jesus' message of justice and renewal is one that should and does resonate with many people. When it doesn't, I think it says more about the audience (too comfortable) or the messenger (the church) than it does about the message.

The crowd that picked the release of Barabbas over Jesus on Good Friday wasn't doing this because they hated Jesus. They were demanding the release of a popular hero against Roman rule, one whose followers knew he had been arrested and who had time to organize a group to petition Pilate for his release. Jesus was arrested late at night in secrecy and sentenced that morning. In other words, the crowd was stacked, and not the fickle, flip-flopping capricious mob of Good Friday sermons.

But doesn't the Bible say that the world hated Jesus? Doesn't Jesus himself warn his disciples and the church that they will be hated on his account? Well, yes, it does. It's right there in John 15: “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you."

But let's make sure we understand what Jesus is saying. The Bible was written in Greek, not in English; and as anyone who speaks more than language will attest, not everything translates perfectly. In this case, the Greek word we translate as "world" in John 15:18 is kosmos. Kosmos doesn't mean "everyone," it means "everything"; more specifically, the way everything is arranged.

A man like Jesus, someone who disregards social conventions for who is in and who is out; whose presence ends disease and the finality of death, and who threatens social hierarchy by treating outcasts with the utmost respect, is someone the kosmos will hate. He's a threat to the way things are, now just as much as then.

How individual people respond to him often depends on where they stand in the structure of the kosmos. The powerful feared Jesus would lead a popular uprising, and doubtless some zealots and others thought he would as well, but for all the emphasis we place on that view, it was hardly the only one at work. There were many others with different understandings of who Jesus was and what he was about, including prophet, teacher and holy man, and not political revolutionary.

It's pretty evident that the people loved Jesus because of the kind of guy he was. He healed the sick, talked to outcasts, and treated the poor with the same respect he afforded the wealthy. The common people approached him with appeals to his compassion for healing, not from an anti-Roman bent asking him to drive out the local garrison.

Jesus isn't trendy the way the latest pop artist is, or in the same way as the hot new show on Netflix. But his message of radical acceptance, and apocalyptic restructuring so that justice breaks forth right now, is a message that billions have responded to in faith since it was first proclaimed in the desert of Galilee.

It's a message with universal relevance and appeal to the weary and the discarded, and it doesn't get cooler than that.


Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Thursday, January 26, 2017

Digging a little deeper

About 23 years ago, I was a teacher at a private Christian school in Bethlehem, Pa.

There admittedly were a few problems with this scenario. For one thing, the school used the A Beka curriculum published by Pensacola Christian College, and  I just couldn't get on board with its narrow and dogmatic approach to everything. Among other things, I objected to its simplistic view of history and to its rigid insistence on one worldview instead of allowing students to develop their own.

We were an evangelical school, and among other things officially believed in the six-day creation described in Genesis 1. The school had been founded by an Assemblies of God church, and the church took the Bible literally, even the poetic bits.

This may seem odd to people not familiar with creationist thinking, but it's unwise to underestimate the human mind's ability to find logical consistency. Skeptics will ask how Noah fit all those animals onto the ark, for instance, but this isn't really a challenge. Just imagine Noah taking juveniles or eggs, and the species differentiating as they spread out after the flood, and the whole thing becomes a lot easier to believe.

As a teacher I favor giving people the tools to find truth rather than just telling them what to believe. I was expected to teach the creationist viewpoint, but I still wanted my students to understand the principles behind evolution even if they didn't believe them.

This meant that I often had to find or create my own materials to supplement the curriculum. The A Beka test on Darwin asked, "Explain why evolution is wrong." The test I gave asked, "Which model of life's origins do you believe? Support your answer."

I wouldn't even tell my students where I stood on the issue. That upset a few students, but what really caused problems for me with the other staff was my approach to staff devotions.

Devotions typically are shallow readings of Scripture or other stories with the weight of Peter Rabbit, intended more to make us feel good than they are intended to challenge us to think more deeply about God or a life of holiness. Poems like "Footprints" or "The Touch of the Master's Hand" are popular material for devotions. These things reassure us that God is in control of things, and no matter how it seems to get, everything will turn out all right in the end; that we are special to him; and so on. "The Velveteen Rabbit," with its focus on how love makes us real, makes for a good devotion.

I've never been a big fan of such an approach to matters of faith when it comes to adults. I've always felt that the purpose of reading the Bible is to discover something new about holiness and our pursuit of God. Its messages of social justice and liberation should afflict us when we feel comfortable and make us think of a better way. Too often we use it to lull ourselves further to sleep.

If you read a story like Joseph and all you come away with is that Joseph forgave his brothers for mistreating him, and we should also forgive people who have been unkind to us, you have failed dramatically at understanding the story. There is so much more to learn by digging into the material, understanding the motivations that drive the characters to act the way they do, and grasping the authorial intent behind the story.

We were required to attend devotions every morning before school would start. The other teachers hated when it was my turn.

The other teachers read essays by authors like Max Lucado or short stories from books like Chicken Soup for the Soul. These were stories about the legacy a good teacher can have, or the value that lies hidden within each person. I shared readings that had made me think, or that shed light on something familiar from an unexpected angle.

Once it was a passage from Orson Scott Card's "Speaker for the Dead" in which Card retold the familiar story of the woman caught in adultery and explored the tension between justice and mercy. All things considered, it was a decent meditation on how Christ strikes the perfect balance between justice and mercy, and thus brings us neither death nor corruption, but a full life.

As John the evangelist tells the story, the Pharisees brought the woman to Jesus as a test to see if he would uphold the Mosaic law and approve of her execution. Instead, Jesus famously replied, "Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone," and pointedly ignored the woman's accusers until everyone had dropped their stones and walked away.

In Card's first retelling of the story, the teacher in Christ's place spares the woman's life because he is corrupt, and sees an advantage in letting her live. In the second retelling the teacher kills the woman himself because justice must be upheld or the law will lose all meaning. That actually elicited a horrified gasp from one teacher.

A different time I shared a passage from Don Richardson's "Eternity in their Hearts," a book about redemptive analogies found in pre-Christian cultures. The book contains dozens of these, and argues that they providentially serve as a doorway for the gospel story to enter new cultures and grow organically in the culture without the baggage that comes with traditional missions work.

I am a former missionary and I find this sort of thing fascinating. The other teachers found it tedious. Evidently some of them must have remarked to the administration what a bad fit I was at the school.

"You don't do devotions the same as everyone else," the principal observed during one conversation we had.

No, I suppose I didn't, and I still don't. As I've aged, I've found that the Bible has found new ways to afflict me in my comfort. One of the most constant themes in the Bible is the divine obligation we are under to look out for others and to oppose injustice whenever we see it rather than turning a blind eye to it.

I live in one of the wealthiest countries in the world, where my chief concern each day is not whether we'll eat, but what I'm going to make my family for dinner. If I get pulled over by the police, I can be confident that the worst I'll get is a ticket but there's a good chance I'll just get a warning. Not everyone is that fortunate. Particularly in the past week, the question "And who is my neighbor?" has become one with profound implications for how I live.

The school in Bethlehem was actually my second year teaching at a Christian school. My first year was at Cradle of Life Christian School in Haiti. We had staff devotions there only three times a week, instead of every day, and because we had a much larger staff, it took longer for each of us to have a turn. The only guidance there was the same as at my second school: Share what God is teaching you.

So one time, when it was my turn, I did. I shared the questions that had been piling onto my shoulders the entire time I had been in Haiti, about whether the evangelical gospel of forgiveness was really relevant in a country with such crushing poverty, or if it was incomplete and missing something.

I read a page or two from "The Grapes of Wrath," and shared how Jim Casy and Tom Joad had affected my thinking when I had read the book six months into my Haiti experience. I read passages from the book of Isaiah, and how they were challenging my understanding of the gospel. And mostly I shared about the need I saw every time I stepped outside the school gates or left my apartment on Rue Pelerin 7.

No one in the staff objected in my hearing to what I shared, but the school administration didn't seem very happy with it. I was put on probation the next day. A month later I was fired after I shared the same thing with my students.

I've never been a fan of devotions, but I'm pretty confident I did that one right. I pray that we all get it right during the next four years.


Copyright © 2003, 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Thursday, January 05, 2017

Epiphany: Feast of the Three Kings

I wonder if the three magi were disappointed when they finally found Jesus.

The magi, traditionally referred to as the wise men, would have arrived in Bethlehem around the time Jesus already was toddling around on two feet and speaking in two-word sentences. Jan. 5, also called Epiphany or Twelfth Night, celebrates their arrival in the traditional Christian calendar. In Mexico and the Caribbean, this is also known as the Feast of Three Kings.

We don't know much about them. The Bible never tells how many of them there were, where exactly they came from, or even what their names are. It tells us that they saw a star that they understood was announcing the birth of a new king, and they came to find him and to worship him.

Over the years, people have tried to fill in the gaps. Because the Bible mentions three gifts, tradition has asserted there were three magi as well. It also gives us names: Balthasar, Melchior and Caspar. Lew Wallace, the author of “Ben Hur: A Tale of the Christ” suggests that they were from Egypt, India and Greece, respectively, to stress the universal message and appeal of the gospel, but there's no basis for any of that.

The gospel uses the Greek word magi, the plural of magus, so it's a fair assumption that they were occultists of some sort. Given that they were following a star, they very well may have been astrologers. At the same time, I've read scholars suggest that they may have been wealthy merchants, magoi, who came to sell expensive wares to Herod; and other claims that they were Jews living in Babylon who saw the connection between the Star of Bethlehem and a prophecy in Numbers 24:17.

These are all interesting ideas, but what I can't help but wonder is how they reacted when they arrived. The gospel of Matthew says that they initially went to Jerusalem and met with Herod the Great, which seems like a fairly obvious thing to do. If you're looking for a newborn king, the home of the current reigning king does seem like a logical place to look.

Except Herod had no son young enough to meet their expectations, and his own people reportedly cited a prophecy from the prophet Micah that the messiah would come from Bethlehem.

I can't help but think that the magi must have felt some sort of letdown when they finally arrived. When my own children were 2, their personalities were truly starting to emerge. This was the age when they were starting to speak, follow simple directions, and start to explore the world with enthusiasm. It's also when the tempers began.

Over the weeks and months that the magi had been following that star, did anything really prepare them for the sight of a child who still didn't have all his teeth, who walked confidently but still fell down and cried when the ground was uneven, and who liked to bang his bowl on the table to get attention at dinner?

I wonder how they reacted when Jesus kept screaming his head off because an exhausted Joseph was trying to carry him on his left shoulder (not his right) while walking (not bouncing) inside the house (not around it outside) and talking soothingly to him (not singing). If you don't have children yourself, you can trust me on this. That's exactly how Jesus would have behaved when he was 2.

Talk about first impressions.

One presumes from the gospel that they had expected some sort of god-man who lived in a mansion. Instead they found an ordinary child with working-class parents who lived in a small house in a godforsaken little town on the outskirts of nowhere.

You can almost imagine the three of them arguing outside in the street about whether they had the right address, if they had misunderstood the message of the star entirely, and even whose idea it was to bring all these expensive gifts for a Capricorn, anyway.

God can be so disappointing when he doesn't do things the way we expect him to, and yet that's what keeps happening. He exceeds our expectations by reaching so far below them that in the end we're stunned by how sublimely perfect his wisdom is.

At some point the magi realized that they did have the right address. The Bible records that they gave their gifts and worshiped, one presumes while Jesus grabbed their beards, pulled their noses, and played with their lips.

And when they realized the threat this completely ordinary child posed to the people in power, the Bible says that they snuck out by another route.



Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.