Be the Christmas Message
Not long ago a youth pastor of our church asked me if I could host a large group of students at our house that evening. I said yes. Great. And mentally I began to draft a to-do list for a busy day.
You know the saying, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans." That morning the washing machine overflowed, and I had to call a repairman. As the repairman came into the house, the dogs bolted, heading down the street with me behind them.
But the washing machine and the dogs were merely prelude. Just before the kids were to show up, I realized I had no snacks. And snacks are essential given that teenagers move through a kitchen like locusts.
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And I thought: I can do this. I can run to the grocery store, get in, get out, get back.
Now rain was falling. So I drove to the store in a downpour and, of course, every parking space was taken. Finding a spot at the far back, I stomped through the rain, exasperated. I went straight to the drinks and chips aisles and then to the front of the store with fewer than 10 items, planning to zoom through the express lane, get to my house, unpack snacks, and be there to open the door as kids showed up.
Reaching the express register, I saw only one shopper ahead of me, a woman. All good, I thought, except she was excruciatingly slow, showing no sense of where she was, pulling each item from her cart and setting it on the counter. And she clearly exceeded the 10-item limit.
Okay, I thought. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. I all but stepped up to do it for her. Each item came out of her shopping basket one by one. When she needed to pay, her credit card was missing. She dug for it. Then she couldn't locate her wallet and the line piled up behind me. Everyone in the store had places to go, people to meet, things to do.
This woman, I thought, has no regard for anyone here. She just takes her time. And I kept the thought to myself because I was a "good Christian," but my mind said over and over, "This is crazy!"
Now the woman was back fishing in her purse, and she turned to me, right behind her, and said, "My daughter, she had her first chemotherapy treatment today, and I was trying to find something she could eat, maybe something she could keep down. I'm sorry."
And I thought, "What have I become? This woman is in pain and needs patience, and I'm caught up in my little world, my schedule, my plans for a little Christian event." On a hit and run past any need she might have, I'd shown no kindness.
I helped the woman—the mother—collect her things, and then I checked through with my items. Then I trudged back outside, this time unaware of the rain, not caring about the puddles. And I got in my car and cried. I thought, "I can host Christian events at my home every night of the week (and I'm still for that) but if what I say I believe never graduates beyond words . . ."
I thought: we Christians must be the message. We. Us. Ourselves. Unless we live and believe what we're talking about, it's all for nothing.
And this is my Christmas message: don't be who I was. During Christmas especially, as the message surrounds you, don't just sing it in a hymn, or catch it in a movie or cantata, or sway to it on your music mix, or nod in agreement in a sermon . . . Be it. Be Christ. Be the peace-filled spirit of second chances and compassion; be open to how God can take any frustration—a census, a birth in a stable, a checkout line on a short fuse—and hand you a miracle.
Be the message. Be the Christmas message.
