Holiday Tragedy

I have always been mortified by news of school shootings, but yesterday’s tragedy struck me harder than usual. I’m in my first year as a teacher myself, and although my students certainly frustrate me, I love them. I want to provide a safe place for them. I want to build their confidence in themselves. I want to open their ears to the beauty of language and their eyes to the wonder of humanity. I try to be the kind of teacher parents would want for their children—and I feel the weight of their trust. Sometimes that responsibility haunts me, especially when I feel that I’ve failed. Because of that, I feel more profoundly the horror of what happened in Connecticut: The week before winter break, a crazed man open-fired on kindergarteners and their teachers. Some of the victims surely had presents waiting under the Christmas tree. They had probably worked on a variety of Christmas-themed crafts, and excitedly insisted they be displayed on the refrigerator. Their families will spend Christmas in mourning this year.

Sobered by that tragic thought, I went to the rehearsal for my church’s Christmas program. The first song we sang was I Heard the Bells of Christmas Day. I choked back tears as I sang these verses:

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,

and wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;

"For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men."

Christmas assures me that the day will come when “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away” (Revelation 21:4).

Carol of Joy

Green leaves all fallen, withered and dry;

Brief sunset fading, dim winter sky.
Lengthening shadows,
Dark closing in...

Then, through the stillness, carols begin!

Oh fallen world, to you is the song--
Death holds you fast and night tarries long.

Jesus is born, your curse to destroy!
Sweet to your ears, a carol of Joy!

Pale moon ascending, solemn and slow;
Cold barren hillside, shrouded in snow;
Deep, empty valley veiled by the night;
Hear angel music--hopeful and bright!

Oh fearful world, to you is the song--
Peace with your God, and pardon for wrong!
Tidings for sinners, burdened and bound--

A carol of joy!

A Saviour is found!

Earth wrapped in sorrow, lift up your eyes!
Thrill to the chorus filling the skies!
Look up sad hearted--witness God's love!
Join in the carol swelling above!

Oh friendless world, to you is the song!
All Heaven's joy to you may belong!
You who are lonely, laden, forlorn--
Oh fallen world!
Oh friendless world!

To you,

A Saviour is born!

First Christmas Thought

Even the most superficial reading of the Christmas story speaks of hope.  It is the story of a newly-united couple and the birth of their first child. A man and a woman begin a life together and a child takes his first breath; all three begin a journey of endless possibilities. For believers, this idea of new-life is, in some ways, the principle message of Christianity: Christ came so that we might “be born again” and “walk in newness of life.” And that rebirth is not limited to the baptismal ordinance, but it is repeated as often as necessary—God promises us that whenever we really want to, we can begin again (Mosiah 26:30). But even without that doctrinal significance of birth, new life and marriage, the story of Mary, Joseph and Jesus represents the hope of every life and new beginnings.

For believers, the birth of Christ exemplifies another aspect of hope. Since the days of Adam, believers awaited the coming of the Messiah. Most never saw their hope realized; as Paul says, “These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off…” (Heb. 11:13). Many people forgot what they waited for and many lost their hope. Christina Rossetti described this dreary and seemingly hopeless setting into which Christ was born:

In the bleak midwinter

Frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

Snow on snow,

In the bleak midwinter,

Long ago.

Into that metaphoric midwinter, Christ was born. This is another reason why Christmas is a holiday of hope—it represents the fulfillment of the long-awaited and hoped-for coming of the Messiah; the end of bleak winter. It is a celebration of the moment that the ancient saints saw “afar off” and a validation of their faithful lives. The hope with which they had both lived and died was realized that day.  Christmas says, “Hopes can come true.”

But it says much more too. Christmas is a celebration not only of the fulfillment of hope, but of its birth. In “Oh Holy Night,” we sing the words “A thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.” The hope of salvation and deliverance was born with the baby Jesus, and at Christmas we celebrate the break of dawn.

Today, we naturally look at Christmas through the lens of Easter, but at His birth, there was only a lens of hope—Mary, Joseph and the shepherds looked at that newborn child and could only imagine and hope for what He would eventually do and become. Christmas then is a celebration not only of what Christ did, but of the hope for what He would do—it is a celebration of the hope for Easter and for the fulfillment of all good hopes. At Christmastime we, like Abraham and Sarah and Anna and Simeon, celebrate that hope for what God will yet do. We still hope for deliverance, salvation and a day when there will be “peace on Earth, goodwill to men” in our own lives and in the whole world.

At Christmas, we celebrate the innate hope of each life and the fulfillment of our hopes. We are reassured that our own life is hopeful and that the good things we hope for will eventually come true. The British poet Charles McKay wrote of this Christmas hope in his poem “Under the Holly Bough:”

Ye who have nourished sadness,
Estranged from hope and gladness
In this fast-fading year;
Ye with o'erburdened mind,
Made aliens from your kind,
Come gather here.
Let not the useless sorrow
Pursue you night and morrow,
If e'er you hoped, hope now.
Take heart,--uncloud your faces,
And join in our embraces
Under the Holly-Bough.

I believe in the hope of Christmas. 

Surprisingly Merciful God

The following is the text of a talk I presented to my congregation in Las Vegas:

In Alma 33:16, Alma refers to the words of the prophet Zenock who says, “Thou art angry, O Lord, with this people, because...” What would you expect to come next? Thou art angry, O Lord, with this people because of their sins, because of their forgetfulness, because of their faithlessness, their hard-heartedness, their stiff-neckedness, their iniquity? I think that’s the kind of thing we’d expect, but that’s not the prophet says. Rather, he declares, “Thou art angry, O Lord, with this people, because they will not understand thy mercies which thou has bestowed upon them because of thy Son.”

I have been guilty of this lack of understanding--and probably still am. But I’ve felt in my own life as I’ve thought more about God’s grace and mercy, that I have had a softer, more open heart (toward God and toward others). I hope that will be true for each of us as we take time to ponder on these things. So, in hopes of gaining a better understanding of God’s mercies, I refer to Elder Holland’s conference address from last year about the laborers in the vineyard. In that talk, he said, “surely the thing God enjoys most about being God is the thrill of being merciful, especially to those who don’t expect it and often feel they don’t deserve it.” We worship a God who is not simply merciful--He is surprisingly merciful; He thrills in being merciful to those who don’t expect mercy and forgiving those who don’t think they deserve forgiveness.

One of the most poignant illustrations of this principle is the parable of the prodigal son. While I think many of us remember the story and appreciate its message, I wonder if we fully understand the magnitude of the father’s mercy toward his wayward son. The story begins when the son says, “Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.” This demand would have been appalling in Jesus’ culture. As one Christian author wrote, “For a son in that culture to request his inheritance early was tantamount to saying, ‘Dad, I wish you were dead’...Any son who made such a breathtakingly inappropriate request...would have been regarded as the lowest form of miscreant...Bear in mind that the law of Moses prescribed death by stoning for incorrigibly rebellious children [Deut. 21:18-21]. So a son guilty of dishonoring his father to this degree could well expect to be dispossessed of everything he had and then permanently dismissed from the family [and] reckoned as dead” (MacArthur).  Christ himself referred to this law when he responded to one of the Pharisees’ and scribes’ questions. He said, “God commanded, saying, Honour thy father and mother: and, He that curseth father or mother, let him die the death” (Matt. 15:4)—while Christ may not have actually endorsed this practice, in this passage, he does recognize the law’s legitimacy. So, when the prodigal son first confronts his father upon returning, saying, “Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son” (Luke 15:21), let us not think this is simply self-effacing humility. The son was exactly right--he was not worthy to be called a son; he had chosen filial death and had willfully begun a very separate life. If the father were to permit him to do the dishes of the home he abandoned, the son would consider himself mercifully served--he could, little by little, work off his debt and, perhaps, eventually repay the money he had so prodigally wasted. That would have been very merciful—more than the son deserved. And yet, rather than giving him a servant’s cloth, the father ran to his returning son, embraced him, put a ring on his finger and robe on his shoulders. The son was reinstated in the household, not as a servant, but as an inheriting son. We worship a God who, when we don’t even deserve to be servants in His house, wraps Himself with the servant’s cloth, washes our dirty feet and welcomes us in as heirs.

In a poem inspired, I think, by this parable, George Herbert gives voice to the prodigal son within us all and to a loving, surprisingly merciful God. In this poem, he personifies “love”--so when he says “love,” you should think “Christ:”

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.

'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:'
Love said, 'You shall be he.'
'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.'
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
'Who made the eyes but I?'

'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.'
'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?'
'My dear, then I will serve.'
'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.'
So I did sit and eat.

At sacrament meeting [the meeting in which members of my church partake of bread and water, much like the Communion], we sit and eat at the Lord’s table, at the feast of love. Although we too are “guilty of dust and sin” and ultimately undeserving of the meal served here, we are all welcomed with opened arms:

Alma 5: 33 Behold, he sendeth an invitation unto all men, for the arms of mercy are extended towards them…34 Yea, he saith: Come unto me and ye shall partake of the fruit of the tree of life; yea, ye shall eat and drink of the bread and the waters of life freely;

Even though we don’t deserve to dine with the Lord and even though, with our works, we could not earn an entrée or even afford an appetizer, we are repeatedly invited to “come to the feast of love.”

2Nephi 9: 50 Come, my brethren, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters; and he that hath no money, come buy and eat; yea, come buy wine and milk without money and without price.

We are invited to come unto Him and to partake of His offering, even when we can’t afford and don’t deserve it. In our record of Christ’s earthly ministry, there are many examples of this idea. In closing, I want to talk briefly about one—the story of Peter and his denial of Christ. Remember, that Peter was one of the blessed few who was chosen to witness the glorious events on the Mount of Transfiguration--and he too had been partially transfigured. He was also chosen to accompany the Savior further than the other apostles in His experience in the Garden of Gethsemane. He had witnessed more miracles and more proof of Jesus' divinity than anybody else. And he still denied Him. There’s a terribly pathetic moment when Peter, after already denying Christ twice, is asked once again if he had been associated with this Man in question. And Peter begins to curse and swear that he doesn’t know this Jesus, and, right then, Christ turns and looks at him. I can’t imagine the shame Peter would have felt--first, on a personal level: He had a significant relationship with Jesus and had closely followed and worshipped Him for the past several years. He had seen those eyes crinkle in laughter and fill with tears. Only hours earlier, they had looked on him, exhausted, to ask, “Could ye not watch with me one hour?” And now, they turned once more to him, catching him in a moment of shameful and selfish denial. “And Peter wept bitterly.” I think we understand the personal connection Peter betrayed, but there’s another level too. During the Sermon on the Mount, Christ had declared,  "Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven. But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 10:32-33).  Peter had denied Christ before men--and he knew that Christ knew it. I have to wonder if Peter thought that he had lost his salvation.  Because of his denial of Christ, would Christ deny him before the Father? Perhaps Peter had seen enough of Christ’s mercy that he still clung to the hope that, somehow, he could “make it up” to Him, and, eventually, be worthy of salvation once more. Perhaps he thought that, because of Christ’s infinite mercy, he’d merely be dismissed from the apostleship (after all, what kind of special witness of Christ denies any acquaintance with the Man?), but assured of his ultimate salvation—that would be probably more than Peter thought he deserved. And yet, once again, we are told of the surprising mercy of our God.  In a personal conversation with the Risen Lord, Peter was given three chances to declare his love for Christ who then said simply, “Follow me.” Those were the same words he spoke when originally calling Peter to be an apostle. Peter had lost neither his personal salvation nor his apostolic calling. I wonder if a part of the conversion Peter lacked prior to the Day of Pentecost included an insufficient or impersonal understanding of Christ’s astounding mercy.

I like to think that every Sunday, as we partake of the sacrament, we too, are brought before the Risen Lord. Like Peter, our past is littered with mistakes and shortcomings, but we are called nonetheless to follow Christ. Come, follow me: That is Christ’s invitation for all sinners, whether they be adulteresses or apostles. I believe that as we personally work out our salvation before God and, ultimately, at Judgment Day, we will be 1. surprised by God’s mercies with regards to our past mistakes and 2. invited to come unto and follow Him. Our willingness to accept that mercy and that invitation will make all the difference now and then. May we not dwell on the past with shame and regret, but look, with hope, to the future—a future when every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus is the Christ and we will know perfectly and personally the mercies which God has bestowed on us because of His Son.

Fasting

What do you think about fasting? In my church, we are encouraged to fast for 24 hours once a month, generally on the first Sunday of the month. I have recently been thinking about a scripture that equates fasting with rejoicing: After explaining about the the Sabbath day and the practice of fasting, it says, "Verily, this is fasting and prayer, or in other words, rejoicing and prayer." Thus, fasting = rejoicing. Normally, when I think about "rejoicing" it involves feasting, not fasting. So how is fasting joyful? One answer is that, perhaps, when we fast, we realize that we are not merely physical beings. By fasting, we assert control over our bodies and remember that we are also spiritual beings, created by a loving God, with a divinely orchestrated destiny. And that is a joyful thought.

What do you think?

The Most Important Things

Although I am not a parent, I've recently thought about the responsibility of raising children. In my personal scripture study, I've taken to thinking about the ways in which I could teach what I'm reading to my future children. What would I want them to know? How could I explain it to them? So today, I just wanted to ask that question: What do you think are the most important (religious) concepts/principles to instill in a family?

I'm still thinking about it, but the beginnings of my list are as follows: 

1. The love, mercy and grace of God 

2. The Atonement (which is certainly related to 1)

3. The story of the life of Christ

4. The story of the fall of Adam

5. Divine revelation (personal, prophetic, scriptural, etc.)

What do you think?

God's immediate and eventual goodness

This week, I was struck by a phrase in the Book of Mormon: "the immediate goodness of God" (Mosiah 25:10). For whatever reason, that really jumped out to me and I've thought a lot about what it means.

I like the idea of God's immediate goodness--His miracles and grace can have immediate efficacy, as witnessed by each of the Evangelists:

Matthew 20:32-34 "And Jesus stood still, and called them, and said, What will ye that I shall do unto you? They say unto him, Lord, that our eyes may be opened. So Jesus had compassion on them, and touched their eyes: and immediately their eyes received sight, and they followed him."

Mark 2:11-12 "I say unto thee, Arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way into thine house. And immediately he arose, took up the bed, and went forth before them all."

Luke 5:12-13, "And it came to pass, when he was in a certain city, behold a man full of leprosy: who seeing Jesus fell on his face, and besought him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean. And he put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will: be thou clean. And immediately the leprosy departed from him."

John 6:19-21, "So when they had rowed about five and twenty or thirty furlongs, they see Jesus walking on the sea, and drawing nigh unto the ship: and they were afraid. But he saith unto them, It is I; be not afraid. Then they willingly received him into the ship: and immediately the ship was at the land whither they went."

However, we are also told that sometimes He waits until "the fourth watch." Some Mormon authors have even called Him a "fourth watch God"--a God who waits until "the right moment" to deliver us, a God who allows us to struggle, question and endure. This seems to emphasize what we could call "the eventual goodness of God." Sometimes answers are not immediate, and sometimes God's goodness seems indiscernible and distant.

These two concepts (the immediate vs. the eventual goodness of God) are not necessarily contradictory, but they do seem to be somewhat in tension. The way I resolve that tension is by defining "immediate" as a locational adjective, not a chronological one--referring to proximity rather than temporality. Thus, even when the chronology is confusing, God is immediately near to us. Even when deliverance is delayed until the fourth watch, God is always beside us. He is "immediate" even when He seems only "eventual."

Happy Easter!

In Provo this year, it snowed on Good Friday—I walked to school with my ski-jacket and scarf. On Easter Sunday, I woke up to a clear Spring day—looking out my window I see budding locust trees and further East the nearly snowless mountains; there will be no need for a jacket today.

These past three days illustrate what I feel is the message of the Gospel: Winter eventually yields to spring; sin can be replaced by forgiveness; death opens to life; and apostasy gives way to restoration. Rebirth, renewal, and redemption.

All things denote there is this God—the God of Easter; the God who so loved the world He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life; the Christ who, though sinless, chose to take upon Himself the sins of the world, who descended below all things, …that he might be in all and through all things, the light of truth; which truth shineth. (D&C 88:6-7). 

Which truth shineth!

In Romans 6:4, Paul said, “Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life.”

We will each die physically, but we will walk in newness of life. We each also sin and in so doing die spiritually, but we can walk in newness of life: though your sins be as scarlet [or] red like crimson, they shall be as wool (Isaiah 1:18). We may each, one by one, come and reason with the Lord. And God assures us, “As often as my people repent will I forgive them their trespasses against me” (Mosiah 26:30). Indeed, it was He who taught that we should forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven (Matt. 18:22). Surely He is no less merciful than what He requires of His disciples.

As individuals go astray, so too can entire churches and nations. In Matt. 24:11-12, the Savior foretold a time of apostasy: “And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many. And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold.” Yet even this kind of wintery apostasy will melt away. No matter how cold the winter or how widespread the wandering, the Sun will rise, “for [God] maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good.” In fact, His Son did rise, and He goes in search of lost sheep and anxiously awaits prodigal sons. The God of Easter is a God of restoration, restoring wayward children to their forfeited inheritance and reestablishing truth and understanding among His children. 

Alma, a prophet in the Book of Mormon, spoke of yet another restoration: Although we will all die, “The soul shall be restored to the body, and the body to the soul; yea, and every limb and joint shall be restored to its body; yea, even a hair of the head shall not be lost; but all things shall be restored to their proper and perfect frame” (Alma 40:23). Just as God restores truth to the Church and brings wholeness back to the body of Christ, the resurrection of our physical bodies will be an act of restoration. Although truths may be lost and although we will each lose our lives, ultimately “the gates of hell shall not prevail against” (Matt. 16:18) us or against the Church. On Easter, we celebrate Jesus’ triumph over death and hell: because of Him, “the prisoners shall go free,” (D&C 128:22) and the captives shall be delivered (Luke 4:18). 

I believe that winter eventually yields to spring; sin can be replaced by forgiveness; death opens to life; and apostasy gives way to restoration. Rebirth, renewal, and redemption. In this—in Him—I believe. Alleluia.