Proof

Well, the world did not end yesterday . . . even though I waited patiently for its demise, but, it did mark something that had never happened before.  For a brief time, Westvleteren 12—a rare Belgian beer made by the monks at Saint Sixtus Abbey released their offering to beer connoisseurs in the United States.  This brief—and many say one-time offering—was seen as a blessing who believe this to be the best in the world.  There wasn’t much divine about its release, the abbey needed a new roof and selling their beer was the quickest way to raise the funds.  Though often misquoted as having been said by Ben Franklin—“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”—I doubt if the beer lovers of the United States or the monks of the abbey are going to disagree.  It seems to be a win-win situation for both sides.

But I wouldn’t know.  The closest retailer selling the so-called heavenly brew was located in Colorado, California, or Minnesota.  That a little drive for those of us in Montana!  Plus, I don’t know if I could have afforded the brew to begin with . . . about $85.00 per six pack!  That is a lot of Budweiser!  For that price I could get at least ten growlers of Red Lodge Ales best brews! Eighty-five dollars and one would get a six pack and two drinking glasses.  I imagine that the beer sold out quickly and that the first bottle was opened within minutes of being purchased . . . that is one expensive drunk!

God must be involved.  The monks needed a new roof for the abbey.  Have you priced a roof lately?  Especially one on an ancient abbey?  We are talking a few dollars here . . . we are talking big bucks.  So the monks got together over a few beers in the abbey pub—I mean, the monks got together for a little prayer and discernment, and decided that they had something that everyone else wanted—BEER.  Supposedly the world’s best beer and people—especially beer connoisseurs—would be willing to pay any price to get this brew in their refrigerators.  One of the monks—brother Brewster, I believe—said, “Let’s sell our beer . . . we can always make more!”  It was a divine intervention.

Actually, many believe that this is nothing short of a miracle.  Since 1945, the monks have brewed the same amount of beer every year: 3,800 U.S. barrels.  This was exactly the amount the monks needed to sustain the abbey.  The sale of this beer was tightly controlled and typically only sold on the premises of the abbey.  According to those who have been lucky enough to have had the opportunity to taste the beer, it would have been easier to find the mythical Holy Grail.  This was divine intervention or just good ol’ supply and demand.  Either way, it seems that everyone involved is happy.

Whether Ben Franklin said it or not, this has got to be proof that God likes us to be happy.  The Spirit moves in strange and mysterious ways . . . sometimes through the holy presence, sometimes through a bottle . . . this is definitely a case of the Spirit moving. 

In the end, I guess I am not too disappointed that I was not able to be a part of this miracle.  It was a costly miracle at a little over $14.00 a bottle.  I mean WalMart was selling Shock Top at $15.00 for a twelve pack.  Those who know me well would agree that I would never spend $14.00 for a bottle of beer no matter how good it was.  Shoot!  If I bought a $14.00 bottle of beer I would have to keep it in a sacred place in the refrigerator . . . or I would have to frame it, but never, ever, would I guff it down!  This is holy beer! 

Yet, for those who got to experience the joy of having a Westvleteren 12 . . . who got to be a part of the miracle . . . good for you.  God has blessed you.  You have come to see God and God is in the beer . . . isn’t that what a miracle is—the revelation of God?  Yep, the world did not end yesterday, but a miracle happened.  The monks got a new roof, Americans got to experience the world’s best beer, and everyone was happy.  Whoever said, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy”, got it right.  The world did not end, but God was revealed.  I know because I saw God in the bottom of my beer glass.  Ah, the Spirit moves . . .

 

Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum

The original ornament was lost long ago . . . somewhere in a move from here to there . . . only to be replaced with another that was close, but not quite the same.  But, that’s okay.  Though that original ornament was a gift, the actual gift went beyond the actual ornament to something deeper, something more holy.  Because of what it represents and means to me it is an ornament that must adorn the Christmas tree each year no matter where that tree may be . . . and, it has.

It was a simple ornament . . . carved of thin wood . . . a little drummer boy.  It was a gift given to me at a Christmas party for the youth group at the church I was attending.  We had moved for the third time in less than four months . . . from Nebraska to Panama to the Maryland suburbs of Washington, D.C.  My father was stationed in Panama, we were in Maryland.  Times we tough and it was the first Christmas without him.  It would be years later before I learned how tenuous my parents’ relationship was at that time.  It was a scary, lonely time . . .

. . . so my mother shoved me out the door to the church down from the apartment house where we lived.  There I walked into a strange church with my Bible—a Bible that the minister who is still there likes to say was the size of the state of Nebraska even though it was just a typical Lilving Bible, knowing no one . . . by myself . . . and I was welcomed.  I was welcomed by the minister and his wife, by the kids who came from several different high schools in the area, and, welcomed by the congregation.  They took me under their wings . . . cared for me. 

That first Christmas in that church, a few months after we had moved to Maryland, the pastor and his wife had a Christmas party for the youth group at their home.  After several silly games, a short devotional, and the munching of snacks they gave to each of us a small gift.  We each received an ornament, mind was a little drummer boy.

Maybe you know the song The Little Drummer Boy.  A little boy—poor by birth, gets caught up on the happenings around him.  There is a rumor of a “king” having been born.  People are rushing to give this “king” gifts fitting of royalty.  A couple of wise guys show up with expensive gifts.  What is a poor, little boy to give to a king . . . a poor, little boy who has nothing . . . nothing but an old beat up drum that he plays to pass the boredom and loneliness away?  Well, you give what you’ve got . . . so, the poor, little drummer boy offers the child the only thing that he has—a song:

Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum

A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum

Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum

To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,

rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

         

So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,

When we come.

Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum

I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum

I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum

That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,

rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,

On my drum?

Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum

The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum

I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum

I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,

rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum

Me and my drum.

The year was 1975.  In the gift of a simple ornament . . . in the gift of a simple song/story . . . I found a deep satisfaction that I was home . . . that I was wanted . . . loved.  That little ornament has always held a special place on each and every Christmas tree in my life since that party.  All I was, all that I had to give, was welcomed and embraced on that evening as we had gathered.  In the years since that minister and his wife, the church they serve, and the people who have graced its sanctuary have always been a part of my heart and journey of faith.  In that church I was ordained under the loving and graceful care of those people.  In what they gave me, they challenged me to go forth and do likewise.  I have done my best to live up to their hopes and dreams . . . I welcome those who need to be loved and accepted wherever I have gone.  Pa rum pump um pum.

It was two years later that this epiphany of faith came to me . . . and, in all places while I was sitting in front of a television watching old man Bing Crosby’s Christmas special.  Though today it would be considered to be a pretty hokey skit, it blew the doors wide open on my heart.  Tears filled my eyes . . . sort of melancholy, but mostly of deep joy . . . Ol’ Man Bing sang a duet with glam rocker David Bowie.  It is probably one of my favorite versions of Little Drummer Boy as the two of them weave the song with another song—Peace on Earth.  It sent shivers up my spine . . . the Spirit works in wondrous and mysterious ways as it touches our souls. 

Giving all I had . . . I was accepted, wanted, and loved.  I was home.  Home is where I know peace . . . and, that is what Jesus promises.  This song weaves the themes together wonderfully.  It was a simple ornament.  Who knew that it would change someone’s life forever?  Yeah, the ornament will be on the tree each and every year, and those who shared it will always be in my heart.  May you find such blessing in your life.

And they told me pa-ram-pam-pam-pam
A new-born king to see pa-ram-pam-pam-pam
Our finest gifts we bring pa-ram-pam-pam-pam
Ra-pam-pam-pam, ra-pam-pam-pam

Peace on Earth, can it be
Years from now, perhaps we'll see
See the day of glory
See the day, when men of good will
Live in peace, live in peace again

Peace on Earth, can it be

Every child must be made aware
Every child must be made to care
Care enough for his fellow man
To give all the love that he can

I pray my wish will come true
For my child and your child too
He'll see the day of glory
See the day when men of good will
Live in peace, live in peace again

Peace on Earth, can it be
Can it be

Sleep: The New Diet?

According to an article at MSN.com, researchers have determined that getting more sleep may help reduce overeating.  The researchers suggest that depending upon how long one sleeps will affect one’s appetite—the longer one sleeps the less one wants to eat, the shorter one sleeps the more one’s appetite increases.  Apparently short sleep (four hours) leads to increased levels of the hunger-stimulating hormone in men . . . in women it reduced the levels of satiety (feeling of fullness) hormone GLP-1 . . . which, for both, creates the urge to overeat.  The researchers state that the “findings support the idea that amount of sleep has a direct effect on eating and weight control.”  In the brilliance of what I consider my mind, I deduct that this could mean that sleep can become the next new diet fad.

Two things I do well: eat and sleep.

I eat well.  For years eating was not an issue with me.  I could eat whatever I wanted and not gain an ounce . . . then, a couple of years ago, age caught up with me.  I can still eat anything that I want, but now it has a tendency to stick around longer—usually around my waist and tummy.  The Pillsbury Doughboy and I have something in common when it comes to looks . . . a pasty white belly that protrudes to the point that people want to poke us and watch it spring back out.  Over the last couple of years eating anything I want, the body has decided to give me a reminder of the joys of eating.  To put it simply, I have put on some weight over the past couple of years.  I’d blame it on my eating habits, but those are the same habits that have kept me alive up to this point.  Instead, I blame it on a body that is getting old, tired, and less efficient at processing what I eat.  I’ve got the middle-age bulge.

Well, one would think that that would be enough incentive for me to lose a little weight.  I don’t like the way I look.  The doctor doesn’t like the way that I look.  Together we determined that I should lose a little weight through the usual practices of diet and exercise.  The doctor told me to watch what I eat, cut back, and to exercise more . . . and I do.  I watch everything that I eat as it goes from the plate to the mouth . . . I appreciate the food that I eat, but just watching it does not help one lose weight.  That is where a diet comes in . . . die at it . . . diet.  I cannot diet no matter how often I try—I like to eat too much and God created so much good food to eat.  Besides, it would hurt my wife’s feelings if I restricted my diet because she is a wonderful cook.    Exercise . . . well, my knees, lungs, legs, and head all start to hurt whenever I think about exercising.  Pain is something that is to be avoided . . . exercise produces pain.  Let’s just say that I have not really begun to exercise.  The bulge is winning on all fronts!

I sleep well.  Always have slept well.  These researchers are suggesting that the more one sleeps the less that he is going to overeat.  The less one overeats, the less one gains weight . . . probably even begins to lose weight.  Who would have thought!  Sleep to lose weight!  A person can’t eat while sleeping . . . why didn’t someone come up with this idea sooner?  This is a diet I can probably stick to . . . I sleep well.

Except . . . and this is a big “except” . . . I don’t sleep enough.  I am closer to the short sleep than the long sleep.  I average about six hours of sleep a night . . . sort of a limbo land I imagine in the research that varies from person to person.  I think that I fall into the category that has a strong desire to eat when I wake up.  At least that is what my stomach tells me every morning—let’s eat!  Let’s eat and not that whole grain, high fiber crap that people pass off as nutritious and good for you.  My stomach wants bacon, eggs, hash browns, and toast . . . or a couple of Egg McMuffins.  Apparently I am not sleeping enough.

So, if sleeping has the potential to help me control and maybe even lose weight, then I am all for sleeping more.  The problem is finding the time to sleep.  Lots of people catch up on their sleep at church, but I am the minister and that would look bad if I fell asleep during the worship service.  Others do it watching television, I would have to start watching television to pull that one off.  My father used to do it when reading the newspaper.  Every night after he got off of work he would announce that he was going to the living room to read the newspaper . . . turns out that that was code for “I’m taking a nap now and you had better leave me alone!”  I could sleep in staff meetings at work but we only have those every two weeks.  The issue is not wanting to sleep more to lose weight, but finding the time to sleep.

But I have hope . . . renewed hope . . . I can lose this weight.  I think I will start right now . . . I feel a nap coming on.  Who would have thought that a little sleep could whittle the weight a way?

Christmas Comes in a Box

Christmas has evolved over the years in our household . . . I do not mean it has gotten easier.  It will never get easier because I married a woman who loves Christmas and has amassed a huge array of decorations to commemorate the season—who believes she has to use them to decorate every inch of the house—and, who happens to be an artist (which means everything has to be done just right).  Despite the zealousness of the wife with her Christmas decorating and spirit, I have to admit that she does a wonderful job of transforming our home into a beautiful tribute to the season.  Still, Christmas has evolved over the years in our household . . .

From the first years of attempting to scrape together enough decorations to decorate our one bedroom apartment at seminary to the extravaganza it is today, the wife has gotten it down to an art.  We have a system . . . our Christmas comes in a box, actually a whole heck of a lot of boxes!  It works like this: I lug all the boxes up from storage in the basement; I unpack the tree from the box and put it together (it comes complete with its own lights so that I do not have to spend hours cussing and swearing attempting to make the lights work and look just right); and, then I disappear until the holiday whirlwind is complete several hours later.  It is a system that works for us and it helps keep my blood pressure down.

Our Christmas comes in boxes . . . lots and lots of boxes.  The boxes hold everything from ornaments for the tree to the crèche.  We have ornaments that go back to our childhoods, the children’s childhoods, and everything in-between.  We have religious ornaments, storybook character ornaments, homemade ornaments, ornaments tied to the places where we have lived, ornaments with sports themes, pet themes, and even Santa Claus.  We have enough ornaments to decorate several 8 to 9 foot trees—which we used to do when we lived in larger homes.  There is no shortage of ornaments in our household, which is kind of nice because every year it is like opening a present to see what we have forgotten.

We have boxes of lights . . . which we no longer use, but I hate throwing away anything . . . you never know when you might need a string of useless lights.  We have boxes of figurines . . . everything from the baby Jesus to the critters in the stable to help us get into the spirit of Christmas.  We have boxes of pinecones, greenery, Christmas plates, tinsel, stars, and moons.  We have blankets, stuffed animals, and even a trout for the season.  You name it and we probably have it . . . somewhere in a box.

Out of the boxes we unpack our Christmas.  The transformation takes several hours . . . lots of whine (sometimes even the type that comes in bottles) . . . and a few non-Christmas-like statements.  Years ago I was banned from the decorating . . . I think of it as being in self-exile, because I do not have an artist’s eye and have a tendency to group the decorations incorrectly.  It seems that the kids’ action figures do not belong in the crèche with the baby Jesus.  Nor should too many blue (or any color) be grouped together as it ruins the feng shui.  So, I slap up the tree, make sure all the lights work, and I retreat until I am told it is safe to come out.  That is a part of our system, too.

Yet, the wife and I, the children and visitors, have always commented that our home looks beautiful . . . that it is Christmassy . . . and, it is.  There is no denying that fact.  Each year our house makes Martha Stewart cry in appreciation for the artistic endeavor that transforms our home into a Christmas wonderland. 

So it is this afternoon that the transformation has begun.  The snow is softly falling like a velvety carpet across the landscape.  Christmas music is playing . . . the wife is humming along to the music and the task at hand.  Christmas is in the air and in a couple of hours it will be done.  Then later this evening we will all sit in the living room looking at the lit tree, contemplating the season . . . this Christmas that came out of boxes.  As we sit in the silence and beauty of the moment, deep down we realize that the season did not start with the unpacking of boxes.  No, it began with the unpacking of our hearts as we all worked together to bring this transformation about.  It came with the laughter and music . . . it came with the family gathered together . . . it came with the snow gently falling. 

Though it seems as if we got our Christmas from boxes, it wasn’t their unpacking that makes it Christmas . . . that comes from within as all of unpack our hearts.  It takes a while for most of us to understand this . . . at least for me it did.  For too many years I was always worrying about making sure Christmas was about the things in those boxes . . . making sure it realized the dreams of my children . . . of fitting into what most of us think Christmas should be.  Christmas is not about what comes out of a box, it is about what comes out of the heart.  Christmas is not a destination, it is a journey.  As I said earlier, Christmas has evolved in our household . . . I wish I had learned that sooner.  It sure is beginning to look and feel like Christmas around here!