Category: Christian faith

Doubly wise men

If I was writing a novel about the birth of God’s Son, I would not have him born in a stable, laid in an animals’ food trough, make his first visitors people with low status like shepherds, and later have him worshipped by people with uncertain beliefs who arrived from a foreign land. But that is the Christmas story as given in the Bible.

Today we call the people from another land ‘wise men’ or ‘kings’. They were wise men but almost certainly not kings. The New Testament story of the wise men comes from the gospel writer Matthew (chapter 2). He wrote in Greek, and he describe the visitors as magi, the plural form of the word magos. A lexicon (dictionary) will give the meaning of magos as sage, magician or sorcerer. Those definitions are not wrong, but that doesn’t mean each is appropriate for the men who visited Jesus. I will explain.

The Magi were a Median tribe, part of the Persian empire. They were people with great learning and understanding, so much so that as priests they became advisors to Persian kings. Hence it’s right to describe them as ‘wise men’. Part of their wisdom came from study of old disciplines such as philosophy, medicine and the natural world. The natural world included the stars which at least some magi observed very carefully.

These were the magi who travelled many miles to worship Jesus. They likely held ideas many of us would regard as strange, but they were good men, holy men. Decades or centuries later, the word magos also became used for less worthy people: sorcerers, fortune-tellers, magicians. (In fact, our word ‘magic’ comes from magos.) But there is no sign at all that the magi Matthew writes about were sorcerers or magicians. They were men who studied the stars, and one night they saw a star rise in the sky. We don’t know how, but they understood that star meant God had sent a new-born baby to be King of the Jews.

Where did the Magi[1] come from?

We know only that they came from the east. There has been no shortage of speculation about where exactly they travelled from. If you look on a modern map, then east of Israel are countries such as Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and eventually China. But ancient Persia – modern day Iran – is a very likely host country for magi such as the visitors to Jesus. In the centuries before Christ, Persia was vast in size. Its borders stretched from countries like those we now call Bulgaria, Romania, and Ukraine right across to parts of India, and also south into Egypt. By the time of Christ it was smaller, but still large. And a natural home for magi.

How far did they travel to find Jesus?

Since no-one knows precisely where these Magi made their home, the guesses of how far they journeyed to Jerusalem and then Bethlehem range from 500 miles up to 1200 miles. Starting from homes anywhere between those numbers means they had a very long journey. And, in those days, there were no cars, no trains, no planes, and no motorway standard roads.

How long did the journey take to get to Jesus and then back home?

We are not told, but we can assume that the wise men rode on camels. It’s highly likely, though, that they travelled as part of a larger party, and their attendants will have walked. Given the terrain, sometimes difficult weather, and the need of rest stops for both people and camels, they are unlikely to have covered more than 20 miles per day. If we assume their journey to Bethlehem was 1000 miles, we can make this calculation: 1000 miles ÷ 20 miles per day = 50 days. For the round trip, you should add in stops in Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and going home by a ‘minor road’. That means the journey out and back would take around 120 days, close to 4 months.

That is a long time to be away from home to visit a child you knew about only because of a star in the sky. The expenses (camels, servants, supplies) would be high. The risk – for there were many bandits dedicated to robbing rich travellers – was immense.

Put all this together, and it’s clear that these Magi made a major commitment of their lives for this journey. They saw a sign, and they went. All so they could kneel and give gifts to a very special child.

How many Magi were there?

Down the centuries, people have imagined there were three wise men. Paintings have always portrayed three, and later legend gave them names: Gaspar (or Caspar), Melchior, and Balthasar. Some have thought they represented the three continents recognised in ancient times, Europe, Asia, and Africa.

There may have been three wise men, but the gospel writer Matthew either did not know or was not interested in details of that kind. So their names, their origins, and even their number are all much later speculation. So, why has it been traditional to believe there were three wise men? Simply because three gifts are mentioned: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But three gifts doesn’t prove there were three givers. Perhaps six, or eight, or ten magi all contributed to these gifts. We simply don’t know how many wise men there were.

Did they kneel before the manger to worship Jesus?

Works of art usually show these wise and wealthy men bowing humbly before Jesus in the manger. It’s a moving scene.

But they didn’t. and they didn’t because Jesus was no longer in a manger in a stable. We know that for two reasons. One is that Matthew (2: 11) wrote that the wise men visited Jesus in a house. The word Matthew used was the Greek oikos and oikos always means a dwelling, a place of human habitation. It would never be used for a cave or stable.

The second reason we know the wise men never went to the stable is that by the time the wise men could have arrived to worship Jesus he would be several months old. Joseph and Mary with Jesus will have continued to live in Bethlehem, but, understandably, not in a stable. Two factors indicate the time lapse before the visit of these Magi.

First, the time it took for them to travel. the wise men told Herod they had seen the star rise “of the one who has been born king of the Jews”. (2: 1-2) The child from God had been born, and they must pay him homage. So, after Jesus’ birth, they prepared for their journey, and then rode or walked many months to reach Jerusalem and then Bethlehem.

Second, the age of the children Herod ordered to be killed. What the wise men told King Herod had troubled him deeply. He hated the idea that another king had been born. So, when the Magi never returned to his palace to report Jesus’ exact whereabouts, Herod ordered his troops to slaughter all the boys born in or near Bethlehem “who were two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi”. (2: 16) Matthew is quite specific that Herod targeted the boys born in Bethlehem within the time frame the wise men had given. That included those born up to two years previously.

Given these factors, the evidence is that considerable time elapsed before the wise men arrived. They were not visiting a newborn baby.

Is it not odd that holy men with generally contrary beliefs came to worship Jesus?

Yes, it does seem strange. In fact, it is also surprising that shepherds were the first to visit after Jesus’ birth. In those times, shepherds were not held in high regard. Spending day and night guarding their flocks meant they often failed to observe the ceremonial laws. But, in their favour, they were Jews, members of God’s ancient people.

The wise men were not Jews. We know they had high rank and considerable wealth because their gifts were expensive. But they observed no Jewish laws and had no part in Jewish heritage. They came, honoured Jesus, and then they disappear completely from the story. There is no suggestion they became Jesus’ disciples. Our only information is that these were magi from another land, from a wholly different belief system, who saw a sign in the heavenlies which they rightly interpreted as indicating the birth of the child who would become king of the Jews, and they came to worship him. It is remarkable that God revealed such news to them, and also remarkable that they made a long, arduous and risky journey to find Jesus and when “they saw the child with his mother Mary… they bowed down and worshipped him.” (2: 11)

Now, none of that could have happened unless these Magi already believed in God. Their ideas will have been mixed with other beliefs that didn’t belong with either Judaism or (what became) Christianity, but they had sufficient faith in God to understand he was speaking to them by a special star in the sky. When that happened, they didn’t just stand back in amazement; they knew God wanted them to find this special child, and when they did they worshipped him. These were men who sought God, and God brought them nearer to himself by leading them to his Son so they could worship him. The lessons I take from that is that God can and will do whatever he wants with whomever he wants, and does remarkable things to draw people to himself.

But didn’t the wise men put Jesus at risk because of their visit?

Yes, looked at from a human perspective, they did put Jesus at risk. It’s a curious case of doing what was right by going to find Jesus, but in doing so they triggered Herod’s jealousy and murderous actions.

Let us be very clear: at no point did these Magi do wrong. They were right to make their long journey to worship Jesus, and, with the little they knew, it was understandable they went first to the royal palace to inquire about the birth of a new king of the Jews. They could not have known how alarming that would be to King Herod. And it was Herod who decided he must eliminate this risk to his throne. When he couldn’t find Jesus, he ordered (what we now call) the ‘slaughter of the innocents’ around Bethlehem.

Someone making a harsh judgment could say those two things – their visit and contact with Herod – cost the lives of many children. That person might say it would have been better if the wise men had never come.

However, the obvious truth is that the wise men did not motivate Herod to murder Jesus, nor his eventual decision to kill the young male children of Bethlehem. Herod, and Herod alone, is responsible for these dreadful deeds.

The horrific truth about King Herod is that these deaths in Bethlehem were not the greatest evil of his reign. All his life he’d done terrible things. Early in his rule he’d killed off half the Jewish Sanhedrin (the ruling court for the Jews). Later he’d had 300 of his court officers put to death. He also murdered his mother-in-law, his wife, and three of his sons. Finally, when he lay dying, he gave orders that one member of each family in Israel was to be killed. Why? To guarantee the nation would be mourning at the time he died. (Thankfully, with Herod dead, that last order was never carried out.) Herod has been described as “a man of ruthless cruelty…”. He certainly was.

This world has always had Herods, people with great power but few morals, people who will do anything to promote their interests, people who think nothing of sacrificing others to benefit themselves. That was true in the ancient world, true in the Middle Ages, true in modern times. Terrible people have always done terrible things to innocents who have done nothing to deserve it. In King Herod’s case his fear and jealousy were aroused by the visit of the Magi, but the wicked crimes that followed were Herod’s doing and Herod’s alone.

Did the wise men put their lives at risk by failing to return to Herod?

Yes, they certainly did. The Magi and their whole party might have been put to death by Herod’s soldiers.

After finding Jesus, the Magi were supposed to return to King Herod and reveal Jesus’ precise location in Bethlehem. He was very clear: “Report to me!” There was no option to refuse. This was a tyrant’s command, and failure to obey would cost them their lives.

The Magi had little time to consider their options. Bethlehem is only six miles from Jerusalem. That was only half a day’s walk, and Herod knew they could go one day and be back in his palace the next. Even if they’d stayed in Bethlehem for a couple of days, it needn’t be long before they stood in front of Herod again, this time with details of where the special baby could be found.

Herod, of course, had lied about why he wanted that information. He’d said he wanted to go and worship the child too. (2: 8) But the Magi got another divine message, this time a warning in a dream not to return to the palace, so they avoided Jerusalem and Herod, and took a back road to get out of the country.

That took great courage. First, they knew that Herod was a viciously cruel ruler who never tolerated disobedience. Second, he would certainly have them put to death if he caught them. Third, the wise men and their party could not journey inconspicuously. Herod’s soldiers would be hunting for them, and the local people might get a reward for revealing their whereabouts. There was a strong likelihood they’d be seen, reported, captured, and executed. Despite the risk, they took another route and headed home. It was a choice others would not have made.

So the wise men return to the east. But Jesus, of course, was still Herod’s target, and next time we’ll see how Joseph, Mary and Jesus became refugees who fled for their lives.

Last word on the wise men I think of these Magi as doubly wise men. First, they recognised God’s sign in the stars, and made an arduous and hazardous journey to worship a young child. They had the wisdom to obey a heavenly authority. Second, they then had the wisdom to disobey an earthly authority, accepting that decision could cost them their lives. But God’s priority was always their priority. You can never be wiser than that.

[1] I am giving an initial capital to Magi when referring directly to ‘the Magi’ of Matthew’s gospel, but using the lower case magi when referring to these priestly people more generally.

Christmas miscellany

There are only a few days to go before Christmas. In the UK, like many western countries, people seem geared towards an over-indulgent holiday season. Too much money will be spent on presents. Too much food and drink will be consumed. Too much effort will go into trying to ensure everyone has a wonderful time. Too much time will be spent watching special programmes on TV. And too few will reflect on the birthday of Jesus Christ, the event which should undergird everything we are celebrating.

But I’ve never believed in being a grumbler about Christmas. I enjoy Christmas though I admit that I don’t get close to crazy excited like I did when I was young. I’d wish more people thought about its origins, but even if they don’t it is still a wonderful season, including special time with family and giving and receiving presents.

For this last blog post before Christmas I’ve assembled a miscellany of things about Christmas. Some are serious, some less important. But I hope they’re all interesting. Enjoy reading.

Church or pub on Christmas Day

In the UK, only about 5 per cent of the population attend church regularly. That number may not be exact. Pollsters do not all use the same methods, and definitions of ‘regular church attendance’ aren’t all identical. Nevertheless, I suspect the 5 per cent figure is close to being right. My home nation is predominantly non-churched. Except, that is, at Christmas.

It’s not unusual to see full churches for Christmas Eve midnight services. I used to lead and preach at services like that. They could be eventful if some of those weaving their way home after an evening in the pub decided to join the service. All were welcome but not all were at peace with the world or church decorum.

Fewer attend church on Christmas Day. Other things capture attention, not least keeping children calm while they rip the paper wrappings off presents. Then there’s the massive task of preparing and serving a big meal for family and friends. Turkey is the traditional dish in the UK for a Christmas Day meal.

But ‘Statista’ asked people whether they plan to attend church on Christmas Day or spend their time and money in the pub. The answers they got surprised me. Take a look at the chart comparing church or pub attendance for the USA, UK and Germany.

Clearly the USA has the highest percentage of people who will attend church on Christmas Day – 19 per cent. To my surprise the UK trails by only 3 points at 16 per cent, but Germany scores only 12 per cent. However, what all three nations have in common is that church wins over pub. I don’t know why that happens. My guess is that, for some, there may be a long-observed family tradition of going to church on Christmas Day. Others may pass through church doors for a service of lessons and carols but that will be their one-time attendance until next Christmas. However, of course, most Christmas Day churchgoers are people with a real faith in Jesus. They make a priority of attending church to worship before other events overtake their day.  

The odd ancestry of Jesus

Some families have an unkempt uncle, an agonising aunt, or a grouchy grandparent, but Jesus had some really strange ancestors. Certainly Matthew, the writer of the first gospel in the New Testament, did not sanitise his list of Jesus’ forebears.

A few years ago I wrote two blog posts about those ancestors of Jesus. If you haven’t read those posts, I’d encourage you to do so now. I promise they’re interesting, challenging and encouraging. Here are the links:

The odd ancestry of Jesus, part 1
The odd ancestry of Jesus, part 2

Why is Christmas on December 25?

Why the 25th of December? Well, the first thing to say is that it’s unlikely that Jesus was born in late December. Scholars point out that shepherds wouldn’t have their flocks out in fields in mid-winter. It would also be a strange season  to travel with your heavily pregnant wife back to your hometown to be counted in a census (see the opening verses of Luke’s gospel, chapter 2, for mention of that census). For various reasons biblical scholars mostly consider that sometime between spring and summer is more likely for the time of Jesus’ birth.

What is also interesting is that the date of Jesus’ birth was not celebrated or even considered by the early Christians. Matthew’s and Luke’s gospels carry the story of his birth, but there’s no mention of a date. In fact the date of the Saviour’s birth was never discussed by the church until at least the 2nd century.

Two or three theories are put forward now for why December 25 was later made Jesus’ birthday.

A Roman and Christian historian called Sextus Julius Africanus dated a lot of things. (He was born around 180 and died around 250 AD.) For example, he calculated that creation was complete on March 25, 5499 BC. Sextus stuck with March 25 as the exact date when Jesus was conceived in Mary’s womb. That day had already been considered as the date of Jesus’ crucifixion, and perhaps Sextus thought it appropriate to date Jesus’ conception and death on exactly the same date (not in the same year, of course!). How does that affect the date of Christmas? Think: if Jesus was conceived on March 25, nine months later is December 25. Simple really. Well, it was for Sextus, so for him December 25 was the date Jesus was born.

But there could also be another reason for the date. In 274 AD, the Roman emperor Aurelian marked the rebirth of the Unconquered Sun (Sol Invictus) on December 25. Why then? The 25th was just after the winter solstice, and therefore the beginning of days that would gradually get longer. For Emperor Aurelian, December 25 was when the sun had been reborn so there should be a celebration. Move forward to the next century when Emperor Constantine ruled. He was a convert to Christianity who had made his faith the religion of the empire. In 336, and perhaps because he wanted to wean his empire away from pagan gods, he overlaid the Sol Invictus festival on December 25 by marking that date as the birth of Jesus. Thus December 25 became established in the western Roman empire as what we now call Christmas. January 6 was favoured in the east, and the modern Armenian church continues to mark the January date.

There is a popular, broader idea that the date of Christmas was fixed to replace a variety of pagan feasts held in mid winter. That suggestion was never made until the 12th century, and today’s scholars point out that the early Christians didn’t have any interest in borrowing dates from pagan religions. If anything, they distanced themselves from other faiths.

What we shouldn’t confuse here are two very different things. One is the idea of borrowing the date of Jesus’ birth from pagan religions. The other is adopting traditions for Christmas from those religions. The obvious example of the latter is the use of the Christmas tree, which does seem to have originated in the worship of the Druids. They were Celtic priests who decorated their temples with evergreens as a symbol of everlasting life.[1]

No-one can say with certainty why December 25 became the date for Jesus’ birth. Perhaps thinking of March 25 as Jesus’ conception in Mary’s womb, on the same date as his death during Passover, is what led people to the nine months later date for his birth, but there is no complete evidence to support any theory. Since Victorian times we’ve been bombarded at Christmas with wintry images of reindeer, snow flakes, snow covered trees, and children building snowmen. Then, from 1941, we’ve crooned along with Bing Crosby singing ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’. Who would want to surrender all that for another date? I’d consider it. Australians don’t seem too sad about celebrating Christmas on the beach. I could get used to that too.

For more on the date of Christmas, you’ll find a well-written scholarly article – easily understood by non-scholars – here: https://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/daily/people-cultures-in-the-bible/jesus-historical-jesus/how-december-25-became-christmas/

Victoria, Albert and Christmas trees

Evergreen trees have always been popular because, well, they’re evergreen. Deciduous trees, like oak, chestnut and beech, flourish and then for half the year seem to lose their life. Evergreens are fully alive all the time.

So from the most ancient of times – long before Christianity – people collected evergreen branches to hang over doors and windows. In some cultures those evergreens were thought to shut out demons and other evil spirits, and even illness. During a long, hard winter the green branches were also a reminder that spring would come and plants and crops would grow again.

But how did that become the Christmas tree tradition?

There’s no single answer to that question, but there’s evidence that by the 16th century Christians in Germany were bringing evergreen trees into their homes and decorating them. There’s a story – possibly true – that the famous church reformer, Martin Luther, walked home on a dark but clear winter night feeling awestruck by the bright stars overhead. So he erected a tree in his home, and fastened lighted candles to its branches to recapture something of the magnificence he had seen outside.  

That German tradition slowly spread across Europe. But its popularity soared in the mid 1800s when Queen Victoria’s German husband, Albert, had trees erected in Windsor Castle and, in 1848, allowed a front cover painting to appear in The Illustrated London News showing the main tree covered in decorations and surrounded by the Royal Family. Other papers picked up on the story, and it massively influenced upper class customs in Britain and many other countries. Royal fever did its work.

Image in public domain

During the following decades and into the 20th century, the tradition of the Christmas tree spread quickly and widely. Across the western world almost all homes had Christmas trees. Local authorities mounted Christmas trees in public squares and on their buildings. Large stores placed trees on their balconies and in the main retail areas. Towns and cities publicised ceremonies of switching on the lights on large Christmas trees in prominent places. For example, since 1933 and continuing now, a large Norway spruce tree has been used for the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree in New York. The 2024 tree is 74ft (22.5m) tall, 43 ft (13.1m) wide, and weighs about 11 tons (24,250 pounds, 11000kg). After the Christmas period, the tree will be donated to Habitat for Humanity and cut into lengths to help with building homes. In Washington DC the National Christmas Tree is erected near the White House, and its lights switched on by the President and First Lady. Trafalgar Square in London has had a Christmas tree donated by Oslo, Norway, every year since 1947. The 2024 tree is 20 metres (65.6ft) tall and has already been scaled by a protestor dressed as Santa Claus.

For a long time now Alison and I have had only artificial Christmas trees in our home, principally for three reasons: that means a real tree is still growing in the forest; artificial trees leave no mess; they can be used for many years. We follow a common tradition of laying presents around the base of the Christmas tree. When our children were young, those presents sparked curiosity which led to exploration. The children would secretly examine the size and weight of each neatly wrapped present, probably hoping the biggest and heaviest was for them. One thing we never have done or will do is sing around the Christmas tree. The TV series Downton Abbey portrays how the aristocratic family would sing along with their servants beside a giant Christmas tree. We have never done that. Maybe it’s because we don’t have servants. Or because we’re not very tuneful.

‘Once in Royal David’s City’

Every Christmas Eve millions in the UK and around the world tune in to a service of carols broadcast from King’s College, Cambridge. The first TV broadcast was in 1954, and then the service televised regularly from 1963. For over 100 years one tradition at the start of that service has not changed. Since 1919 the opening carol has been Once in Royal David’s City, with the first verse sung unaccompanied by a boy soprano. For that soprano, the thought of your solo being heard around the world must be terrifying. What must make it worse is that no-one knows who will be the soloist until the choirmaster selects one of the sopranos just as the service begins. A nod or pointed finger in your direction, and seconds later your voice penetrates the silence. And millions are listening.

The writer of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ was born Cecil Frances Humphries in 1818 in County Wicklow, Ireland. ‘Royal David’s City’ wasn’t her only famous hymn  – I’ll mention two more shortly. They may surprise you. Keep reading…

Cecil began writing poems in her school journal from an early age. They were beautifully composed in style and content, and that led to the publication of her first book of poetry called Verses for Seasons, a kind of ‘Christian Year’ of readings for children. That was only the beginning. Overall she wrote more than 400 hymns, basing them on subjects like the Apostles’ Creed, baptism, prayer, the Lord’s Supper and the Ten Commandments. All of them were written in simple language so children could understand and enjoy them.

When Cecil was 30, her book Hymns for Little Children was published. Each hymn was written to bring out the truth of some Christian teaching. Of course, without music the hymns read like poetry. But one year after publication a gifted English organist, Henry John Gauntlett, read Hymns for Little Children, and so loved ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ he composed music for it. As a hymn it was immensely popular and before long it was being sung far and wide.

Its origins as a children’s hymn show by the many direct lessons or references to children in the carol. For example, Cecil writes:

  • Christian children all must be / Mild, obedient, good as He.
  • For he is our childhood’s pattern; / Day by day, like us He grew;
  • And He leads His children on / To the place where He is gone.
  • Where like stars His children crowned / All in white shall wait around.

Cecil tells the story of Jesus in the carol, but also applies lessons and truths of the Christian faith for the children who would read or sing it. And that, after all, was her purpose. Hymns for Little Children carries a dedication by Cecil to her godsons, in which she hopes that the language of verse which children love “may help to impress on their minds what they are, what I have promised for them, and what they must seek to be”.

Two years later, in 1850, Cecil married Rev William Alexander (hence her hymns carry the name Cecil Frances Alexander). He eventually became the Anglican Primate of Ireland, a very senior role. Cecil poured her energies into writing hymns but also care for the very poor. The disastrous Irish potato famine – known as the Great Famine or Great Hunger – lasted from 1845-1852.[2] The parishes of Ireland were filled with masses of the disadvantaged. Cecil poured her heart and hands into care for them. Often she’d travel miles in difficult conditions to bring comfort to the sick and poor, and to give them food, medical supplies and warm clothes. Along with  her sister, she also founded a school for the deaf.

Cecil wrote many hymns before she died in 1895. One of those was the classic Easter hymn ‘There is a green hill far away’. Another was the hymn loved by children and adults ‘All things bright and beautiful’. Many have regarded Cecil Frances Alexander as one of the greatest hymn writers in the English language.

Eating mince pies at Christmas

There is every good reason to eat mince pies, but no special reason to eat them only at Christmas. They are just as enjoyable at any time of year.

Plate of freshly baked festive Christmas mince pies with decorated golden crusts and spicy fruit filling served sprinkled with sugar, one broken open to reveal the filling. By christmasstockimages.com – http://christmasstockimages.com/free/food-dining/slides/mince_pie_plate.htm, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=97503821

Mince pies date from medieval times but back then they were shaped like a rectangular manger, with a pastry baby Jesus on top. I’d find it hard to bite into that. The round shape of mince pies came only after the Reformation in the 1500s.

People of old linked the ingredients of mince pies with the Christmas story:

  • meat (mostly lamb or mutton) represented the shepherds
  • dried fruit (raisins, prunes and figs), along with spices (cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg), all expensive items, symbolised the wise men’s gifts
  • the mince pies had 13 ingredients in total, equating to Jesus and his 12 disciples.

Eating a mince pie every day of the 12 days of Christmas was thought to bring happiness for the following 12 months.

Around the time of the Reformation, Puritans tried to ban everything associated with Catholicism. That included mince pies. The pies soon made a comeback.

We can all be glad that ban did not last. The popularity of mince pies today is immense. In the UK about 800 million are sold in the run up to Christmas. Add to that the very many which are made in the home. Assuming they’re all eaten, that’s a lot of mince pies and a lot of calories. Some eat none of course – they’re not food for babies, nor does my 102-year-old mother-in-law eat them now. And there are some strange people who don’t like mince pies. A reasonable guess, then, is that those who like mince pies consume an average of between 15 and 19 pies per person at Christmas. Personally I’m a fan of home made pies served warm, and I’m not admitting how many I eat each year.

Finally…

I can’t finish without saying that, for me, Christmas isn’t about carols, mince pies, or presents around a Christmas tree. It is about Jesus, God’s Son, entering this world. No other birth changed the world like his.

My hope and prayer every Christmas is that people will think carefully about the one whose birth began it all (whatever the precise date). I wish you the happiest of Christmases and a new year ahead with many reasons to be thankful.

[1] https://www.history.com/topics/christmas/history-of-christmas-trees

[2] History.com records the famine’s toll: “Before it ended in 1852, the Potato Famine resulted in the death of roughly one million Irish from starvation and related causes, with at least another million forced to leave their homeland as refugees.” For a fuller description of the famine, see: https://www.history.com/topics/immigration/irish-potato-famine

Where are the good Samaritans?

I didn’t see the accident coming. I fell forward, my head hitting the ground hard. Everything went dark for a few seconds, then I became dimly aware that I must have tripped and fallen on a path of hard clay and stones. My head hurt, and my muddled brain knew I could have other injuries too. Very slowly I moved. No shooting pains. I knelt, and then stood. I was unsteady but okay except that my eyes wouldn’t focus. Everything was hazy. Then I realised my spectacles were gone; no wonder I couldn’t see clearly. I stumbled around, but searching for glasses without glasses is difficult. I found them, remarkably undamaged, and again I could see properly. I’d fallen because I’d tripped on a root from bushes I was squeezing between.

I still didn’t know how badly I was hurt. My knees and elbows were painful but probably just bruised. My head hurt the most. I was in hilly countryside near home, walking our two dogs, so, obviously, there were no mirrors to let me examine my injured head. Gently I touched where it was most tender. Blood on my fingers showed I’d damaged my forehead and the bridge of my nose. For a few minutes I rested. My body and head ached, but I felt I could see and think clearly enough. Perhaps my thinking wasn’t actually that clear, because I decided the dogs needed the rest of their walk, so off we went again.

I met two other people during that walk. One was a young lady who passed me going in the opposite direction, and we each said ‘Good morning’. I also met a middle aged man who glanced at me, said nothing, and walked on. Eventually I returned to my car, got the dogs inside, climbed into the driver’s seat and, using the rear view mirror, saw my face for the first time. My forehead and nose were bruised and cut, and blood had been trickling down my face. I looked dreadful. Both the people I passed would have seen I was streaked with blood and obviously hurt, yet neither asked if I needed help. They just kept going their own way.

Later, the fact that those folk did nothing to help reminded me of one of Jesus’ most famous parables, the one about the Good Samaritan. It’s best you read it for yourself – it’s in Luke’s gospel, chapter 10, verses 25-37. But here’s a quick summary. An expert in the Old Testament law quizzed Jesus about the command to ‘love your neighbour’. “Who is my neighbour?” he asked. Jesus answered by telling the story of a man travelling from Jerusalem to Jericho – journeying on a steeply downhill, twisty road notorious for robberies – who was attacked, and left half dead with nothing, not even his clothes. Two solo travellers came along. Both were religious leaders, one a priest and the other a Levite. Surely one of them would help. Neither did. Seeing the injured man, each crossed to the other side of the road and kept going. Perhaps they had pressing duties so no time to help. Perhaps the priest thought the man was dead, and touching him would defile him. Perhaps the Levite was afraid the man was a decoy and if he stopped to help, bandits would emerge and attack him. Whatever the explanation, both these men cared more for their personal agendas and safety than they did for the wounded man. But then along came a Samaritan. For the crowd listening to Jesus, a Samaritan would be the last person they’d expect to help. Jews considered Samaritans heretics because of their different beliefs, and because they did not fully observe ceremonial law. Jews and Samaritans did not get on with each other. But this third passer-by did not pass by. It was the Samaritan who took pity on the injured traveller, went to him, poured wine and oil on the his wounds and bandaged them, then, putting him on his donkey, took him to an inn and cared for him there. Next morning he gave the innkeeper a sum equal to two days’ wages to continue looking after the traveller, with a promise that when he returned he’d pay for any further treatment or accommodation the man had required. Such a level of care and generosity must have stunned Jesus’ audience. Then Jesus asked the legal expert: “Which of these three do you think was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The expert answered: “The one who had mercy on him”. It was the right answer. The priest and the Levite probably felt sorry for the man, but they did nothing. The Samaritan’s pity moved him to action which saved the man’s life. He did what a neighbour should.

So, where are the good Samaritans today?

Well, the obvious first thing to say is that in Jesus’ time someone stopping to help was exceptional, at least on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. The Samaritan did what others would not do. Certainly Jesus was also highlighting that those you would expect to help didn’t, and someone unlikely to help did. But it wasn’t just one priest and one Levite who would have passed by. Most people would have kept going, perhaps muttering ‘Not my business’. The sad truth is that good people, willing to care for others, have always been rare.

But, these days, is human compassion not in a very sorry state if hardly anyone will help a person in dire need? My answer is ‘yes’. It’s tragic if few will set aside their own priorities and give time and money to help others.

Occasionally the media carry horror stories of failure to care. For example, neighbours of a reclusive man in County Cork in the south of Ireland didn’t see him out and about and assumed he had moved away to England. His house was derelict, so it was boarded up. Twenty years later council officers found the skeletal remains of a man in a bed inside that house. For two decades no-one had checked inside. In Lombardy, near Lake Como in Italy, people were concerned when an elderly neighbour’s tree fell and other trees in her garden seemed unsafe. They called the fire brigade and police who broke into the home. The homeowner was there, seated in a chair in her living room. But she had been dead for two years. Once again, no-one had checked on her wellbeing. Neighbours just assumed she’d moved away.

Why do we not take at least an interest in other people’s lives? Why don’t we help when there’s a clear need?

Of course there will be many reasons. I will list seven.

We’re too busy with our own lives  That was probably one of the problems for the priest and the Levite. With somewhere else to be and urgent business to do, they had no time for a dying wayfarer.

Now, if we were captaining an aircraft through a dangerous storm, it would be reasonable not to leave our controls to care for an airsick passenger. No-one would dispute that our duties at the controls should have priority.

The problem is that we think like that even when our priorities are not indisputably more important than someone else’s need. Our appointment is not more crucial than helping the person who has fallen in the street. Our daily affairs are not more urgent than checking on an elderly neighbour who has not been seen for days. Our favourite TV programme is not more vital than helping our child with his homework.

But we allow ourselves to believe our agenda always supersedes the needs of others. That’s selfish. It’s a mindset that elevates whatever we’re doing over what anyone else is doing, as if our needs matter and their needs do not. The Good Samaritan did not think like that. If he had, he’d have been the third passer-by to leave a wounded man to die.

We’re anxious about what getting involved might lead to  If we knew that nothing more was needed than lifting a fallen pedestrian back to their feet, of course we’d help. But suppose they’re hurt and need medical attention? Or lost, and they will have to be taken home? Or they’ll want you to call their daughter and wait with them until the daughter arrives? Even worse, what if that fallen pedestrian was mugged and going to their aid might mean giving evidence to the police, and perhaps being a witness in court?

Most of us think our lives are so full we’ve no time for anything other than a one-off moment or a one-time activity. So we’d certainly help someone back to their feet providing we’re sure that’s all that’s needed. But we’re not sure. Perhaps it’ll get more complicated. We can’t afford to get involved, so we do nothing. We pass by on the other side.

But we delude ourselves. Often the truth is that our lives are not as full as we imagine. Or they’re not full of things that matter more than helping that poor individual who’s collapsed. We like to believe everything we’re doing is important, and it’s vital we keep our focus. But everything is not vital. We could take time to help. But we use our imaginary full agenda as an excuse not to get involved at all.

We’re frightened that helping short-term will create an obligation long-term  My friend Gordon was moving away permanently to another part of the country. He explained to me that he’d been visiting two elderly sisters, Anne and Susan, who were residents of a council-owned care home. Since he was relocating, he asked if I’d pay them a visit. “Of course,” I said, thinking I had time on Sunday afternoon to make my one-time call on them. I’d no idea what to expect in a council care facility. I found wonderful staff who were genuinely warm-hearted towards their residents, but, staff aside, there was a scarcity of any other comfort for those who had been left to spend their final years there. I walked into a large hall filled with high-backed chairs, each occupied by an elderly lady, the vast majority of whom sat in that one place most of the day. In a corner was a TV tuned to channel that never got changed, watched by those nearby who stared blankly at the screen. Anne and Susan were side by side, nowhere near the TV. Susan nodded occasionally when I spoke directly to her, but otherwise had little ability to communicate. Anne was frail, but once she started speaking her delightfully lively personality emerged and she was a pleasure to talk to. They had only each other in the whole world. Gordon had been their only visitor. And now I’d come. My one-time visit became a nearly every Sunday afternoon visit. How could I not give them an hour or two of my time once a week? Besides, I grew to appreciate the wonderful people they were. Then Alison became a central part of my life, and the two of us went to see Anne and Susan on Sunday afternoons. On our wedding day, we left our guests after our wedding meal to visit Anne and Susan. Apparently every resident in the home had already toasted us during their lunch, and they clapped when we arrived. Some of our most special photos of that day are of us alongside Anne and Susan. Not long after, Anne died. There was no service of remembrance, just a council-organised funeral using a church minister next in line on a rota. Her burial took ten minutes. There were only two of us who attended.

It’s true that what we think of as a short-term action can become a long-term obligation. But why should that not happen? Why are we so afraid that we might have to care or support someone for weeks, months or years? Is that not what caring human beings do? Sadly, it’s what some human beings don’t want to do. Hence they choose never to get involved.

We don’t want our present activities disrupted  The previous section was about taking on a long-term commitment. The ‘fear’ I’m writing about here is more immediate. It concerns having to do something big right now. The Good Samaritan was faced with exactly that situation. If he delayed, the mugging victim would die. So the Samaritan didn’t wait. He treated him on the spot, then hoisted him onto his donkey, and took him to an inn where he could be cared for longer-term. None of that was simple or without effort and expense. But he didn’t hesitate to do what was needed right away to save the injured man.

But, dropping everything to help someone frightens many from helping at all. It’s easy to throw a few coins in a street beggar’s hat and walk on. But what if something more, something more demanding, is needed right now?

One evening – when I was about 18 – I went for an evening run. That was a rare event. By the time I’d jogged my way right round the parkland in Edinburgh called The Meadows, I was sweaty and exhausted. My flat was close by. I needed to get home, wash and rest. But just before I left my run, I saw a man hundreds of yards away stagger and fall. Maybe he was a drunk. But maybe he’d had a heart attack. I stopped, stared. The man didn’t get back to his feet. Should I go over and help? I really didn’t want to. I was tired and getting cold. But the man couldn’t just lie there. Yet, what was I going to do when I got to him? What would that mean for everything else I planned for that evening? Yet I couldn’t just walk away, so turned back in the fallen man’s direction. At exactly that moment I saw someone else hurry over to the stricken figure. Someone else was going to help. I went home. ‘Someone else’ would do the caring, which I’m sure he did. But, later, I couldn’t forget how unwilling I was to have my plans disturbed.

Nearly helping, or waiting for someone else to help, isn’t helping at all. The priest and Levite in Jesus’ parable could have claimed they got close to doing something, but in fact they did nothing. They were too concerned with moving on to other things. One time Jesus was on his way to save a dying girl when a woman with a serious medical condition interrupted him. Jesus stopped and dealt with her need. Only after she was healed, did Jesus return to and complete his previous mission. (It’s the story of a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years, who touched Jesus’ cloak while he was on the way to heal Jairus’ daughter – Mark’s gospel, chapter 5, verses 21-43.)

Nothing is more important than doing the right thing at the right time.

We shun getting involved with people we don’t know  I often hear people talk about ‘fear of the stranger’. They might be referring to immigrants, or people of a different colour, or simply those from another part of the country. For many, stopping to help someone who is a stranger to us is difficult. We know nothing about them: where they live; what they’ll want; whether they’ll be violent; even whether we’ll understand what they’re saying.

Recently, a friend told me of two young people who never hesitated. My friend’s nan (her grandmother) collapsed in the street. The only people who helped the old lady were two schoolboys. Mid-teens youngsters might be thought the least likely to assist an elderly person, but not these two. They helped the lady sit upright, then got her back onto her feet. She’d dropped her shopping bag, spilling its contents, but they gathered everything together. They offered to help her get home, and only left her when she insisted she was fine. That lady was a complete stranger to those boys, but she was a person in need, so they came to her aid.

Neglecting a stranger, just because they’re a stranger, is an unacceptable excuse for inaction.

We believe their problems are their own fault, so they don’t deserve help  Why should we support those we think have brought their troubles on themselves? Why is the person slumped in the shop doorway homeless? What kind of drugs has that young person been taking? Why is that malnourished lady begging for food? Our suspicions that they’ve brought their troubles on themselves allow us to walk away.

The Good Samaritan could have done that. The Jerusalem to Jericho road was infamous for solo travellers being robbed. That near-naked wounded man was a victim of his own folly by walking that road alone. He brought his problem on himself, so why help him now?

There are at least two reasons why that’s not an acceptable excuse for passing by. First, many experience troubles which might easily have been ours. Perhaps, during a recession, someone was laid off and could not get another job. That redundant person could have been us. Bad things can happen to anyone. Besides, the priest, the Levite, and the Good Samaritan, were also solo travellers. The wounded man was no more guilty of foolishness than they were. Second, it’ll be a sad day when assistance is dependent on deserving. Many of us bring troubles into our lives because of bad decisions, a poor lifestyle, or challenging relationships – and we’re grateful to those who help us no matter our level of blame. Loving our neighbours should never be conditional on how nice, good or wise they are.

We simply don’t care  I can’t prove it, but, sadly, I fear that not caring is the single biggest reason we don’t get involved with needy people. There could be several reasons for that. One might be compassion fatigue. We feel bombarded over and over with images of starving children and stories of innocents harmed by war. Our responsiveness to another cry for help diminishes because of that. Another reason could be our own sense of need. We experience cost of living hardships. We feel overwhelmed by work demands and family needs. We get sick. We have accidents. And so on. So we feel there’s no space for anything else that takes our time or money. A third reason could be simple self-centredness. We care for others, but not nearly as much as we care for ourselves. We don’t want our lives disrupted or diminished by getting involved with strangers. For these reasons and more, our care sensitivity is low. The result? We’re not open to helping, whether that’s our immediate neighbour, or starving or refugee families in far-off lands.

I believe not caring – doing nothing for the needy – is selfish. Apathy and inactivity  have terrible real life and death consequences. And how would we want others to respond if we were in trouble? Imagine you and your family have a terrible car crash on a lonely road. You skidded off the road, overturned in a ditch, and now you, your spouse and your children are trapped. One or two are unconscious. Others are screaming in pain. Your car is upside down and crushed; you can’t get out. But – wait – another car is coming along the road. It sees your skid marks, slows down and people look over. Help is here! No, it’s not. The car accelerates away. Its occupants don’t want to get involved. Another car comes, and drives away. And it’s the same with the next car that comes along, and the next, and the next.

Perhaps you find that last paragraph upsetting or offensive. But is it so different from what happens with people’s lives when no-one will stop and help them? Passing by on the other side is a luxury a suffering world cannot afford us to have.

One final story. Not more than a few months after my failure to help the man who collapsed in The Meadows (which I described earlier), I set off to save the ‘down and out’ rough sleepers of Edinburgh. I knew where to look for them. Back then many of those with nowhere to go would be in the Grassmarket, a wide street set below Edinburgh Castle. There was a hostel there where some got overnight beds. But not all the homeless could afford even its modest charge, and some were too drunk to be admitted. I set out to find those slumped at the side of the road or in doorways. It was 10.00 on a freezing November night when I walked the full length of the Grassmarket, then turned around and walked back on the other side of the road. No-one was lying in a gutter. No-one was sleeping in a doorway. All I noticed were students serving soup from a caravan. I did the circuit again. No-one in need. And again, and again. I almost felt cheated that here was I ready to save and no-one needed to be saved.

So, I abandoned my task, and started walking up the road away from the Grassmarket. That’s when I saw the body of a man lying on the cold, stone steps of a large church. I crouched down, not sure if he was alive or dead. There was faint breathing, accompanied by the strongest reek of alcohol. This man definitely came into the category of someone who had brought his trouble on himself. But that didn’t mean he deserved to die. Which he certainly would if left there.

I spoke to him. No reaction. I tried rocking him back and forth. Still nothing. I could never have picked him up to get him to safety, and everyone walking past kept walking past. They didn’t want any involvement. I had no idea what to do. Then, strolling up the same hill as I had ten minutes earlier, I saw two policemen. What a relief. They would take charge, and have the man transported to safety. When they were only 30 yards away, and clearly had seen me and the unconscious man, one officer whispered to the other, and they crossed to the other side of the road and walked on. I was so shocked I couldn’t speak. They’d seen a man lying still on stone steps and me bending over him, and decided they would do nothing. The man’s breathing had not improved. In fact his breath now sounded coarse. I did not know how I could save him. Then, at last, a passer-by did stop, and in the broadest of Edinburgh accents (which I cannot fully replicate!) said: “Are ye needin ony help, Jimmy?” (The name Jimmy could be given to any stranger.) The words were heavily slurred because the speaker was thoroughly drunk. He was so unsteady on his feet I feared he’d end up lying on the steps too. There was no way this man could help me lift the unconscious figure I knelt beside. But I replied: “There are students down the hill serving soup. Maybe you could get them to come.” “Ay, richt – I’ll see whit I can do” and off he staggered down towards the Grassmarket. ‘That’s the last I’ll see of him or his help,’ I thought.

I was wrong. Ten minutes later, two students appeared beside me. “We didn’t know whether to believe your drunk friend, but thought we should come and see,” they said. By now I had managed to stir the man on the steps. With the help of the students, we got him upright, and by putting his arms over our shoulders, we half-carried him down to the soup caravan. A little soup was drunk but the man was still hopelessly unable to tell us where he lived. Someone found a note in his pocket with an address, and off we set in one of the students’ cars with the drunk man propped up beside me. It was well after 11.00 when we rang the doorbell at the address on the note. A light went on, the door opened, and a woman peered out at three young men supporting an obviously drunk man. She clasped a hand to her shocked face, and stumbled out the words, “Bring him in”. We did, and she pointed to a bed to lay him on. Before we left, the lady said, “He’s my brother. He’s spent months in a drying-out unit, and today was his first day out on trust”. As we left she was full of tears. I have never forgotten that night, and especially two things. One is the look of complete horror and disappointment on that poor woman’s face. The other is that the fine citizens of Edinburgh, Scotland’s capital, would leave a man to die on the steps of a church rather than get involved and save him. We cannot, we must not, be those kind of people. There must be a new generation of Good Samaritans, people willing to give time, money, and compassion to save anyone who has fallen by the wayside.

Why we can’t bargain with God

Bill stunned me with his story. He told it at an informal church service when people were describing how their relationship with God began. Bill’s account was unlike anyone else’s. It dated from World War II. One evening he was huddled in a trench, knowing that at dawn his unit would go over the top and rush the enemy. Sleep was impossible. In a few hours Bill would be running into a hail of bullets. Most likely he would die, and he was not ready for that.

Bill didn’t know how to pray, but that night he made this promise to God: “If you keep me safe through tomorrow’s battle, my life will always be yours”. Next morning Bill charged forward. Bullets hissed through the air. Comrades to his right and left fell, some screaming in agony, others deadly silent. But Bill was never hit and his unit accomplished their mission. “I survived,” Bill said, “and I never forgot the bargain I made with God. I’ve tried to please God with my life all the years since.

Bill’s pre-battle prayer in the trenches is not unusual. “There are no atheists in the trenches” is a common saying. But others also make promises to God when facing terrible circumstances. They might be people about to undergo high-risk surgery, or lost on a mountain, or in a boat sinking at sea, or seeing a tornado approach. “Spare me” is the prayer of anyone fearful of dying, reaching out to the God in whom they have hardly believed before. Why do that? Perhaps because, deep down, they think of God as the ultimate power. We cannot control where the bullets fly, or the storm strikes, or how rescue might come, but God can. Hence the instinct to promise God future faithfulness in return for a miracle now.

I have nothing but heart-felt sorrow for people facing extreme danger, and fully understand why, even at the eleventh hour, they appeal to God for help. After all, one of the two thieves being crucified alongside Jesus asked Jesus for mercy when he came into his kingdom. In return Jesus promised that the thief would be with him that very day in paradise (Luke 23: 42-43). At any moment, even a last moment, it is good to reach out to God.

But that is not the same as trying to strike a bargain with God. I don’t dispute the real change that occurred in Bill. He was my mum’s cousin, so we knew how he’d lived his life. But it seems to me inappropriate to attempt to strike a bargain with God. Here’s why.

God is not someone with whom we can bargain

Mutually beneficial deals are done all the time in business and personal life. They fit under the Latin term quid pro quo which means ‘something for something’. ‘I’ll do this if you’ll do that’. ‘I’ll do the cooking if you do the washing up’. Two people, with equal standing, make an offer from which each benefit.

But we can’t bargain like that with God. We are not God’s equals. Yes, there are characteristics of God to be found in human beings. The Bible’s creation story says: “God created mankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them” (Genesis 1:27). Theologians have always debated the meaning of humans being in the image of God – the imago dei – but being made in God’s image does not put humankind on the same level as God. He is the Lord, not us. We are not equals.

God is not someone with whom we can bargain because he is so much greater than us

Many Bible verses make that clear. Here are some of them.

God created us, and all the world: “The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth” (Isaiah 40:28).

Our human minds cannot comprehend everything about God: “Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise; his greatness no one can fathom” (Psalm 145:3).

Given our failings and limitations, it is remarkable (but true) that God cares for us: “When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them” (Psalm 8:3-4).

God existed and was at work before (what we call) time began “…the hope of eternal life, which God, who does not lie, promised before the beginning of time” (Titus 1:2).

Many more parts of the Bible stress the ‘otherness’ of God, that God is not simply a greater and higher version of us, but a being utterly beyond comparison with frail humans.

As many do, we taught our children that God was their ‘best friend’, someone who’d always be with them and care for them. That’s fine. God as your best friend involves language and concepts that children can understand. But, as we mature, while still being confident of God’s presence and love, we need to understand that God is much more than our best pal. He is utterly bigger and superior than we are. The fact that he loves us must never mask that truth.

A God so great cannot be brought to a bargaining table.

God is not someone with whom we can bargain because God cannot be made to do anything

God is all-mighty, and therefore nothing is impossible for him. So, God could make every bullet fired by the enemy swerve and miss Bill. God could give Bill immunity from harm on the battlefield.

But just because God can do anything, we must never think he can be made to do anything. With human relationships, we can beg, bribe or bully someone into giving us what we want. By various means, we can impose our will on another person.

We can’t do that with God. We can no more make God obey us than King Canute could forbid the tide to come ashore.[1]

But surely God would want to grant a good request? Why would he deny an honest prayer for evil to be avoided and good to result?

At this point we wade into deep theological waters. Countless lengthy books have been written about what God will or will not do. All I can offer are brief personal responses why God may not grant to us what we believe to be good.

Who judges what is good? It’s a humbling and sobering truth that we’re not always right in our opinions. If that’s true at a human level, how much more true it must be when we compare our judgments with God’s judgments. God is not only omnipotent (all powerful), he is omniscient (all knowing), with wisdom far superior to ours. Isaiah wrote: “‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord. ‘As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts’” (Isaiah 55:8-9).

My mother died unexpectedly, aged 55. I remember little that was said by the minister who visited us the next day, except this: “God makes no mistakes”. His words were trite, but they were not wrong.

Why would God be good to us and not to others? Why should Bill avoid injury or death in the battle while others fall around him? Are we asking God to favour us over everyone else? That’s not a valid plea we can make to the God who loves all people equally. “For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality and accepts no bribes” (Deuteronomy 10:17). Note the words I’ve put in italics. God is not biased in favour of some people and against others. God can’t be bought with promises of what we’ll give him or do for him.

What are we really asking for? Bill was asking that God prevent his enemy from harming him. So, God should prevent a German soldier from sighting his rifle on Bill and pulling the trigger? Let’s narrow the case down more. What if Bill had reached the enemy trench, and there he stands aiming his rifle at his German foe who is simultaneously aiming his rifle at Bill. Is God to allow Bill to fire while stopping his enemy squeezing his trigger?

I’ve spoken often with people who say they’d want God to prevent all harm from occurring. What would the world be like then? Someone thinking of stealing my phone would find he couldn’t lift it. Someone angry, wanting to punch me on the nose, couldn’t move his arm. Or, on an icy night, I find I can’t drive my car faster than 20 mph.

What kind of world would it be if God simply stopped all evil from happening? It seems to me that instead of being a world in which people were free to make choices, good or bad, it would be a machine-like world inhabited by robots able to act only as they had been programmed. God did not make us to be machines. He made us humans, and thus allowed joy and sorrow, happiness and pain to be part of his world. That certainly hurts, but it’s a far better world than one in which we had no freedom to act.

There will be a day when the evils of this world will end, but that day is not yet.

God is not someone with whom we can bargain because promises made in a crisis are often forgotten once the crisis is past

I’ve often heard it said that addicts don’t change until they reach rock-bottom. They won’t alter their behaviour until they feel the pain and recognise the hopelessness of their lifestyle. Thankfully, when that happens, some do change. But here’s another truth. As soon as their lives are no longer in crisis they’ll experience a strong pull back to their old ways, and, sadly, many fall again. (That’s why addicts usually need constant support, help, and encouragement to live a new life, often through support groups to whom they make themselves accountable.)

A large crisis provokes a big response. When the large crisis is gone, often the response is gone too. I wonder how many made promises to God before battles and, having survived, kept their promises for the rest of their lives? I cannot know the answer, but I fear many did not.

God is not someone with whom we need bargain because God can be trusted

On the day I surrendered control of my life to God, I never imagined my future life would be endless bliss, untroubled by pain, difficulties or regrets. My life was going to be God’s, whatever happened from that moment on.

I have never been disappointed. I’ve known stress and relaxation, joys and sorrows, success and failure, good health and bad health, and so on. But I never felt I needed any ‘bargain’ with God because I was confident of two truths.

Truth One  God is a good God no matter what. The prophet Habakkuk knew that:

“Though the fig-tree does not bud
    and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
    and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the sheepfold
    and no cattle in the stalls,
18 yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
    I will be joyful in God my Saviour” (Habakkuk 3:17-18).

Habakkuk’s list were of life essentials in his day. If any of them failed, he and his family would struggle. Yet, even if they all failed, Habakkuk knew God would still be God and his Saviour. Knowing God and trusting God like that changes how we face any hardship.

Truth two  God can be trusted with our lives. In Jeremiah’s time, his nation was in trouble and his own life threatened, but Jeremiah felt safe because God’s work in his life would always be positive. “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (Jeremiah 29:11). Whatever lay ahead, God would always be with him and for him.

I don’t pretend to know why, in a battle, one person lives and another dies. Nor do I think it wrong, when facing any danger, to pray for God’s help, My only concern is when someone suggests they’ll do something for God provided he does something for them. The right thing to do is surrender everything about our lives to God, and let him work out exactly what that’ll mean for our future.

[1] The King Canute story is from Henry of Huntingdon in the 12th century. Canute positioned his throne at the shore line and forbade the tide to come any nearer, which, of course, failed. It’s often supposed Canute was trying to demonstrate his power over the elements, but actually the opposite was true. He was proving to the members of his court that not even a King had power over what God alone had control, in this case, the tide.

I wish you a merry Christmas

On the eve of one of the most special days of the year, I wish you and all those you love a very merry Christmas. Not everyone in our multicultural and multifaith faith world celebrates Christmas, and I respect their views while disagreeing with them.

For some, Christmas is happening in the midst of terrible trouble – war, famine, poverty, abuse, homelessness, or other dreadful experiences. It’s worth remembering that the first ever Christmas – the birth of Jesus – happened during a cruel occupancy by an invading force (the Romans) and under tyrannical and savage local rule (by King Herod who massacred all Bethlehem-born male children aged under 2). The angels who announced Jesus’ birth spoke a message of peace, but we are still far from seeing that fulfilled everywhere.

For me, God’s Son entering this world tells me God has not abandoned us. We get so much wrong because of our selfishness, prejudice, and wickedness, and God might have given up on us and all humankind. But God hasn’t done that, and he sent his Son into the world to change lives. Many resist that change, but billions have found forgiveness, hope, freedom and love in knowing God.

To me that’s Christmas with real meaning. It’s serious and wonderful.

But, while listening to music in the build-up to Christmas, their messages are often light-hearted and fanciful. Yes, they give reasons for celebrating Christmas, but those reasons are not what this season is about.

Here’s the kind of thing I mean.

From my youngest I liked the idea that Santa Claus is coming to town. But, wait a minute, apparently Santa has a list, and he’s studying it to see who’s been naughty or nice, bad or good. On that basis, I don’t think I’d ever have had presents. And the idea that you only get something if you’re ‘good enough’ is not a healthy message.

Of course the theme of children and presents comes through a lot. I wish it could be Christmas every day paints a rosy picture of Christmas – the kids starts singing, bands are playing, bells are ringing. And how do we know It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas? We know because there are toys in every store. If you are Barney you’re hoping for ‘hopalong’ boots, and if you’re Ben you want a pistol that shoots. Really? A pistol? Not the ideal present, IMHO.

But, no scary thoughts allowed. Christmas – just because of the season it is – must surely mean joy, joy, joy. Merry Christmas Everybody says everyone is having fun, and Merry little Christmas tells me my heart can be light, and all my troubles out of sight. Nice thoughts. If only they were true. But I’ve met too many people who found Christmas stressful (too much work and getting into debt), or sad (as they remember those no longer with them), or lonely (after I sent an elderly person a Christmas card, I got a thank you letter from her because my card was the only one she had received).

Surely, though, Christmas is the season for romance? Countless films suggest romance blooms at Christmas. The standard story-line is that lonely single woman meets handsome widower, and after some to-ing and fro-ing of feelings, they kiss and embark on an always happy future together. And, if that’s not quite working, then you can ask Santa to put Mr Right on the doorstep – or so All I want for Christmas says. But, Last Christmas warns us to be careful who we give our hearts to. Heart given on Christmas Day; heart taken away the very next day. So, this year, it’ll be given only to someone special. That’s certainly a good idea, but I’m not sure why it would be true only at Christmas.

I apologise if these last paragraphs sound mean. Actually, I quite enjoy most of these songs. My complaint is only when they suggest fun, presents, tradition, Christmas trees, Santa, parties, romance is what Christmas is all about.

For me, there’s so much more. One Christmas, many years ago, I knelt down and prayed words like these: Dear Lord, Christmas is your birthday. I can’t give you any ordinary present. But I am giving you my life for whatever you want to do with me.

That wasn’t the only time I’d offered my life to God, but that Christmas prayer was special. It was answered by new direction, new wisdom, new strength to do what I believed right with the gifts God had given me.

I can’t tell anyone what to pray, but if you know there’s something you should ‘give’ to God this Christmas, that would be wonderful.

May you be greatly blessed at Christmas and throughout the new year.

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An apology: I’m very aware that my posting to Occasionally Wise has been irregular recently. The major reason is that from October I began a new course of full-time university study. So far it’s been both demanding and good. Posts will continue to appear, but I cannot promise what the frequency will be. Please be patient – thank you.